372

bristle//min yoongi

30 day writing challenge
005 : bristle
min yoongi // 372 words // implied sexual themes
a/n : im slowly getting back into being fake-deep… im doing it guys.. !!!! 

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Originally posted by sugagifs

Burying your fingers into the plush purple carpet covering Yoongi’s windowsill, you let out a prompt sigh upon seeing snowflakes trickle onto the ground, sometimes in clumps, sometimes single, and yeah, maybe this is just you being fake deep, but the sight, it reminds you of people. Everyone is unique, of course, but how many lose their specialty in an effort to shape themselves into the molds of others?

Maybe you’re just thinking too much, looking into things too deeply. Your mom always tells you how indecisive you are, how you’re too stuck on the ‘maybes’ to truly love. You’d like to tell her you never wanted to be this uptight, but she’s your mom, so you hold back.

“Get back into bed.” You hear Yoongi drawl, voice still heavy and studded from being asleep for so long.

“I’ll be right there.” By now, you’re sure he’s picked up that there’s something wrong. He’s Yoongi; being found out is inevitable.

Letting a breath leave his body, he props himself up on an elbow, collarbones coming into view along with his chest.

“What’s bugging you?”

You can’t hide anything from him, huh?

“Nothing, I’m just.. being me.” With a weak smile, you stand, starting to gather up your clothes.

It’s a game you play, Yoongi and you, this whole ‘feelings’ thing. Neither of you feel anything for each other-unless pity counts, that is. You’re both rejects, deviants who find solace in one another’s sadness.

That’s what you like to think, at least.

“What’s wrong, hm? Tell me.” He says, lips at the nape of your neck, intending to kiss the problems away, sip them like they’re honey or water or something that’ll quench his thirst for acceptance.

“I’m okay, Yoongi. Really…” Noses brushing, you close your eyes and let him smother you in between sheets, let him stroke you till you’re beyond perfection, let him drink away your worries so that you’re once again bare, once again ready for corruption.

“Stay the night.” He says, an arm around your waist. You should go, should leave before this becomes anything more than ‘this’.

But you don’t, and when he whispers those three dense words, you’re not sure whether you made a mistake or not.