— leave a light on
anonymous requested → a min yoongi smut where you’re friends with benefits & he comes to your house to confess in the middle of the night.
pairing : reader x min yoongi
themes : smut / angst /
warning! → graphic sexual content
word count : 4.0k
summary : through the murky window pane he spies that familiar golden glow, radiating warmth from the other side of tenebrous street. it is you. you are awake, waiting and you always leave a light on for him.
↳ a/n: thankyou to the beautiful @sugaspen for beta reading (i love u!) as always feedback is always welcome ♥
The first time you lay eyes on Min Yoongi you are eight years old. He is twelve, with willowy limbs and pitch black tresses, a child of secrecy and rotten intentions. You watch, disquieted, from your bedroom window as he plucks every petal off the peachy pink blooms of your parents’ prized rose bush — for absolutely no reason.
The second time you catch a fleeting glimpse he is older, taller and puberty has kindly graced him with a defined jawline and an Adam’s apple to match. In the hours of twilight, he perches pensively on the ledge of his bedroom window, an embodiment of pure tranquility; until he feels the heat of your curious gaze. He draws the shades.
The third time it is raining, a shower with drops thin and weightless, the type that soak your clothes before you have a moment to breathe. The downpour is anything but lenient on his unsheltered body, bleach blonde locks dripping as his stygian eyes burn scorch marks into yours. Don’t look at me. But you do, from the exact same window from all those years ago.
You curse your penchant for good manners and saving lost souls, the moment you invite him and his sopping attire into your home. Up close he is stigma stained, hues of blue and purple decorate his cheekbone like faded war paint. Min Yoongi has destructive tendencies, your brain warns dubiously, everything he touches turns to stone.
But aren’t emeralds and rubies the most beautiful jewels in the world? How you long to be a gemstone, a clear cut diamond. To glitter, gleam and glow and captivate others with your brilliance. Right now, you are nothing more than a dirty pebble but Min Yoongi can change that.
So you let him take what has always been his, a shaky breath knocked out of your lungs the second his mouth crashes into yours. He is heavy, damp, smothering your mouth with the coppery metallic taste of his tongue. Sharp icy chills race down your back when your shoulder blades meet the wall and the tempo speeds up tenfold, overwhelming vertigo taking hold.
You swallow your juvenile uneasiness whole when his lips begin to travel over untouched areas — the curve of your jawbone, the space behind your earlobe. You’re keening, squirming in his enclave when he passes his tongue over the vulnerable skin of your neck, like some kind of ravenous and hungry stray dog. He has you pinned, marking his territory with wet handprints on the cream coloured wall and you hope to God they become indiscernible before the clock hits seven.
His designation slips off your tongue in a split second of clarity but he’s not listening, or at least that’s what you tell yourself. You intend to express your desire again, but you are pacified by those greedy lips, ones that have little concern for romantics and the sensation of both your shorts and your undergarments being yanked downwards crudely, the last remnants of your innocence sliding down your bare legs.
Were you to meet the same sorrowful fate as the pale roses of the past? Was Min Yoongi to pick you apart piece by piece, to deflower you as well? The full exposure of your lower region tied with the inevitable concept of your virtue being stolen has you sinking your teeth into your saliva slick lips, the knots of lust tightening in the depths of your stomach when he drops to one knee.
Min Yoongi is going to treat you with the courtesy commonly afforded to sovereignty, smouldering stare from below indicating his desire for you to spectate, whilst he proves chivalry is far from dead. Leg up. You do as you’re told, miss law-abiding citizen with her thigh resting on his shoulder and you’re rewarded with humid breath tickling your inner thigh, painting an invisible trail northwards to that sacred space.
He’s reminds you of a curious child, eyes strung out in wonderment, tastebuds deeply interested in the slick sweetness you’re presenting just for him. Without breaking eye contact, he closes the void and just like that, he presents you with one singular slow savouring lick, back to front. The second feels even better, deeper, the rough tip of his tongue lingering for a fraction longer against your clit and a pretty but desperate whimper leaps from your oesophagus into the thick atmosphere.
When he pulls away, the evidence of your arousal is stark, his bottom lip glistening under the dim luminesce of the hallway chandelier. Deeply focused, he stares at your soaked sex possessively for what feels like an eternity, seemingly entranced by your engorged folds. You wish he would voice his thoughts, tell you how you tasted, how much he loved having you spread out for him, but of course, that’s not in his modus operandi.
Roughly, he pushes his shoulder back into your thigh signalling the seriousness of the actions you were already awaiting. He’d sampled the entree, now it was time for the main course and you’re eager to oblige, manoeuvring your hips forward to meet his expecting mouth, swiftly coating his lips in your juices once more.
Your eyelids flutter shut as his hot tongue dips back between your slit, nuzzling deep and exploring your tight entrance properly. Tugging frantically as his locks, your fingers trip over one another, lips uttering a string of curses so lewd you would need to rinse later with soap. Such dirty comments do good to spur him onwards however, attention is now diverted to mouthing that tiny sweet spot made purely for physical contact.
And he does it with no social graces, messy and overzealous as if he has been deprived of the taste of a female for too long. It’s getting harder for you to keep still, back arching off the wall like a marionette being tugged by an imaginary string. In an act of uncharacteristic mastery, you force his head inward into your core, your centre urgently requiring more stimulation.
Some kind of lustful squeal mixed with a weak moan comes next and lucky for you, Yoongi is fluent in your sexual language; latching hard onto the bud that is so sensitive and swollen, sucking hard and obscenely loud, the sounds of him swallowing and devouring your wet arousal hungrily invading your eardrums.
It wouldn’t be long until your legs give way completely, the speed Yoongi was working you over at too much for your inexperienced and innocent body to handle. Something is building inside you, a red-hot tingly sensation you haven’t experienced before. Out of uncertainty, you tremor attempting push his head away but your bundle of nerves is trapped in between his plush lips.
You cry out, throwing your head back as he continues his relentless onslaught, your clit fully at the mercy of his tongue as it traces round and round, followed by a harsh suck every now and again. You’re seeing showers of stars in full technicolour, panting and making a poor effort to toss and turn out of his vice like grip.
Like he knows you’re teetering on the edge, he finally relinquishes your bud to your relief but grants you no intermission, stripping you bare and turning your t-shirt into a white puddle beside your feet. You’re his personal rag doll, spun so your breasts and palms press up against the cool plasterboard. Fingertips ghost down your ribs to the final destination — your hips, yanking them back so your spine curves and you’re exposed and open for him.
There’s rustling and the piercing clink of a belt buckle into the quiet and you know he’s stripping himself of the last restriction. In the time of physical separation, you’ve forgotten how to breathe until you feel his palms back on your outer thighs, sliding up to the curve of your hips. His mere touch is heavenly, exquisite and you wonder if it can get any better; it can and it’s his lips brushing, running up your backbone combined with the head of his cock brushing against your folds. He wants to coat his member generously in your arousal, slipping it back and forth like his tongue had done only minutes ago, bumping against your exposed clit deliberately.
A mewl of appreciation surfaces, your footing shifting to widen the space between your legs, a silent indication of your readiness for all of him. Trapped in your throat is an exhale and it isn’t able to reach the surface until he questions your desire.
“Do you want this?”
Surprisingly, you manage to utter out a stable and straightforward yes without adding on any explosive expletives and he complies to your wishes, the first inch of his member pushing into you with little restraint. Unconsciously, you tense up and Yoongi gets the message, easing your apprehension with a open-mouthed kiss to the crossroad where your shoulder meets the base of your neck.
He needs no guide or direction, understanding your need for alleviation and delivering with more passionate nips, showering the nape of your neck and caressing your abdomen lightly with his hands. Of your own volition, your head lolls back to rest on his shoulder, cheeks flushed a pastel shade of rose from the rush of hormones and the make-out session the sensitive skin along your neck was currently receiving.
The first moan of many pours from your self-bitten lips but is transformed into a yelp of both surprise and agony as Yoongi fills you to the hilt at last, your back arching further, muscles twitching and clamping from being stretched to their limit.
The relief of finally being sheathed inside you causes Yoongi to emit a guttural groan, grip tightening on your flesh of your hips in gratification. He commences a gentle rhythm, languid and shallow, allowing you to adjust to the sensation and feel every contour and vein of his cock.
You feel achingly full, the dull soreness fading with each stroke so you encourage him with another lustful whine, a noise that signals the abandonment of your self-restraint. He alters the speed as a result, a little faster, rocking his hips back and forth, burying himself deeper inside your velvety core.
The slow, sensual motions have you exulting, a waterfall of wanton cries spill freely from your mouth as he moves in and out, your clit continuously stimulated by the base of his shaft whilst your soft, sensitive folds relish in the repeated contact.
But it doesn’t take long for the urgency and intensity to build, Yoongi’s interest in honeyed passion replaced with blind lust and the burning impulse to let go of his inhibitions. His pumping becomes rougher, each stroke setting your nerve endings on fire, the walls of your innermost place tensing with need. It’s dizzying and overwhelming and your lover ensures to hit that divine responsive spot deep within you, blessing you with a jolt of electric pleasure that shoots up your spine.
The sounds your bodies both produce as your hips mesh together over and over leave nothing to the imagination, an erotic hymn that sounds like heaven mixed with hints of hell. With nerves ablaze, firing shot after shot of euphoric ecstasy to your brain, your moaning shoots up a few decibels to a shrill cry. You’re close to release, rapture escalating and Yoongi is too, his digits kneading more forcefully into your behind as he pushes upward and into your pleasure centre.
He’s getting sluggish, lessening the amount of effort and bringing the tempo down to prolong your act of copulation. Excruciatingly slow, he withdraws inch by inch until the head of his member is all that’s left within you and he waits, teasing you with the feeling of hollowness and departure. You mewl, pushing your hips back, desperate for your dripping heat to be filled once more and you swear you hear a hoarse chuckle before he gives in and plunging back into your waiting center.
The pair of you luxuriate in the unhurried friction until he can’t resist any longer, soothing movements morphing into the hasty and chaotic pounding of your tightness. Such a change reignites your pending orgasm, your rosebud aching and consumed with indescribable pleasure. His hands find the taper of your waist, thrusting harder and deeper than previous and you’re milliseconds away from crashing down and falling into euphoria.
You’re whimpering, thighs trembling in his grasp and with a final intense snap, your core convulses around his length, contracting as the ripples of white heat rush through your bloodstream, your pelvis shaking and spasming, the heavenly warmth leaving you groaning and gasping for air. Yoongi’s climax isn’t far behind and he lets it overtake, his manhood jerking frenziedly into your opening before he pulls out with a strangled moan, shooting a hot, thick stream of his seed onto the mounds of your rear.
It is silent besides the chorus of pants you both expel, the pair of you letting the realisation of your indelicate actions sink into your weary bones.
And thus, it continues for five long months.
As monsoon season departs and warmer weather delivers it’s signature crystal blue skies and crisp vibrant flora; Yoongi gifts you with the pleasure of no inch of your body left untouched, no space in your house unchristened and a fitting and extensive understanding of the birds and the bees, just in time for spring.
The linen curtains dance a gentle, uncomplicated waltz in the dusk breeze. The sun is fading, slipping beneath the horizon, painting the walls of your bedroom with a balmy golden glow. Wrapped up in comfort of the Egyptian cotton sheets lay you and your secret lover. The sunset softens the intensity of his jawline and blurs his creamy skin into a shade of subdued gold. Time has been brought to a standstill and the only evidence of life are the reverberations of inhaling and exhaling and the tip of your finger tracing lazy circles into his chest. The fruitless sketches you’ve drawn seem to please him, your forehead rewarded with a affectionate peck which has you smiling into the crook of his neck and humming out a sweet utterance.
“My parents are having this big dinner thing tomorrow night… it would be great if you could come.”
Unsettling your paradise, an weak grunt arrives, low and muffled as if his throat is trying to restrain the sound from being voiced. His eyelids twitch and those ebony eyelashes catch your attention, a deep contrast to the rest of the yellow hues that surround his facial features.
“Was that a yes?” you purr, words overcome by a playful spirit.
There they are, pupils so dark you can feel yourself somehow slipping and falling into the deadly darkness they present. At first, you had loved to jump into them with reckless abandon, the wickedness he exhibited so enticing to your naive nature; but they only give off feelings of vacancy and ephemerality now. As well as coldness much like his demeanour and you long hopelessly for something warmer.
“Please,” you whisper, misery present in the cracks in your voice.
“I want them to know about us, I don’t want to keep it a secret any longer.”
He clearly doesn’t like that statement and like a swarm of fire ants are crawling up his skinny limbs, he sits up on his elbows breaking apart your embrace and the calm and solace you’d shared only moments before.
“There is no us,” he huffs, annoyed, tossing the sheet off his lower half and swinging his legs off your bed.
All you can do is gape at the vertical lines of crimson you’d left on his back whilst he hastily rummages the carpet for his clothes, discarded from the act of love making you both indulged in almost every weekend. It was your shared ritual but also a damaging weakness, your feelings deepening and blossoming with each passion-fused kiss and each time he made you come apart under his touch. As months passed, your emotions refused to let your brain assume control and it had gotten to the worst possible point where Yoongi practically owned the right side of your bed and unfortunately your heart.
“What do you call this then?”
You clutch your grey sheet to your chest tightly, attempting to hide all sights of naked skin. You were, in your opinion, less intimidating when you wore nothing and revealing your love-bitten chest would only strengthen his power and hold over you.
“I don’t want just sex anymore Yoongi.”
“That’s not how it works _____.”
You had done it — crossed that fine line between casual and serious and now he would morph into the most volatile and turbulent person you knew, a striking resemblance to a volcano on the verge of erupting. The disclosure of true feelings was nonexistent in your relationship, that was a fact, and perhaps that is why you choose to confess, your heart yearning for a chance to solidify and label whatever the hell this was between the two of you.
“I love you.”
“You don’t love me,” he huffs back almost instantly, snatching his khaki jacket with considerable force off the back of your desk chair.
“You love how I make you feel about yourself, you love what you can take from me. You love the idea of me, but not me.”
Each and every word is the equivalent of him severing every delicate cord you’ve tied to anchor yourself to him. When he is done, your tattered and rejected sentiments finally match the title of your relationship; no strings attached.
“That’s not true,” you protest, flaring up in a last ditch attempt to win back his affection.
“You don’t get to decide how I feel.”
Your passionate defiance creates an irritated scowl over his mouth, upper lip twitching on one side, molten lava threatening to spill past the ivory barrier that is his teeth.
“Then it’s over, you knew when we started this what the arrangement was,” he states without warning, dipping under your bedroom window and out onto the tiled roof, his anger less harsh and unforgiving under the dimming dusk sun illuminating his face.
“I’m not coming back.”
And he doesn’t.
So you’re left to ponder the should’ve, would’ve, could’ve whilst the lustre of the Milky Way above watches over you, offering little to no sympathy. Days turn to weeks and you never find a definite explanation to why Yoongi had held you when he was afraid of warmth, of comfort, of a place to call home. How could your relationship have ever been no strings attached when you had tangled yourselves together in intricate knots, too tight to undo by with good grace?
The nineteenth time you see Min Yoongi, it is past two in the morning, and he is sitting outside your bedroom window uninvited and bathed in patches of moonlight. His attire matches how you envision him when he is absent — the personification of a gloomy, overcast day, bringer of your misery but even so, you had still left a light on for him.
The sting of cool evening air instantly bites your bare cheeks when you push your creaky window skyward, removing the clear, soundproof barrier that separates you from him. He’s motionless, inky orbs transfixed on the shimmering sea of stars that surround the moon.
“What happened to ‘I’m not coming back’?” you begin, feeling oddly brave enough to take on the darkness himself.
“I wanted to see you, is that a crime?” he deflects, refusing to be taunted or reminded of his prior aggressive comments.
It’s two sharp words spoken purely to create a reaction but Yoongi is unfazed, on account of the years spent meticulously crafting his blank, impassive facade. The glittering diamonds that paint the sky may still possess his visual attention, but that doesn’t stop him from voicing a blunt and poignant honesty.
“When something is going well for me, I like to destroy it before the other person has the chance.”
Tongue like sandpaper, you know that admission has scraped and grated his throat on the way up, his timbre has never sounded so foreign and raspy. It dawns on you that Yoongi isn’t rusty in the practice of confessing, he’s completely inept. You can’t bear the thought of him descending down the oak tree, leaving you again, so you bravely clamber out onto the roof tiles to join him — a show of devotion.
“I wasn’t trying to destroy us, I just wanted you to know how I feel,” you explain in a soft, warm tone once you’re shoulder to shoulder.
“But I know now, you weren’t ready for that.”
Your watchful eye waits for a physical response, a facial twitch, a shift of his broad shoulders, anything to know that your choice of comments haven’t caused the discussion to be cancelled. But it’s not over because Yoongi is braver, bolder than that and has come to you with a one specific purpose.
To tell the truth.
“I don’t like being… vulnerable and the way I feel about you makes me feel vulnerable…”
Suddenly, your heart is a ten tonne anchor, heavy from the weights of vagueness and ambiguity. What was that supposed to mean? Regardless, watching him wrestle with the exigencies of his own soul is painful, so you skim your fingertips along the tense biceps hidden under the woven softness of his black t-shirt.
You had always loved touching him; when you made contact you were an explorer wandering a desert with an endless landscape, always finding expanses of skin you were yet to feel, a constellation of freckles you hadn’t discovered or a faded scar turned milk-white in an obscure place. Every imperfection told a tale, the winding story of a boy who liked to play with fire just for the burn and you had a deep-seated weakness for imagining where and how he had acquired the blemishes that littered his body; filling in the gaps by yourself to the darker parts of his existence he hadn’t been so willing to share.
Breathe Yoongi, you think as you gaze at his shoulders a constant cycle of rise and fall, you can bloom, I will never pick off your petals.
“I just— I mean— fuck,” he mutters, digging his fingernails into his scalp, tufts of blonde peeking out the gaps between his thin fingers.
“I want you,” he settles for finally, releasing his lemon coloured locks and bestowing his deep, ebony optics onto yours and though the sentence is mildly cryptic, the glint in his eyes is anything but.
“I want us.”
A silent firework of pure elation detonates within the confines of your ribcage, colouring your bones a vivid shade of ruby red — the colour of love. The happy virus has spread and it helps you find the courage to initiate a kiss, the first one after twenty two grueling days apart, not that you were counting or anything and Yoongi doesn’t resist your boldness, reciprocating, wild and fierce, devouring your mouth with his. He’d always been more suited to anatomy than vocables, a master of explanation with merely pressure, lips encompassing yours in a heated tango until you’re compelled by your insecurities to break apart.
“Stay the night,” you whisper dewy-eyed and breathless against his chapped lips and he gives a solemn nod, settling a sincere kiss on your lips to seal your agreement.
And so the duo that is now fittingly known as ‘us’ scramble inside, hands clasped together to conserve warmth. Saying goodbye to the sparkling spray of stars, the luminous moon and the crisp wind that nipped at your bare skin relentlessly had never been easier; because tonight Min Yoongi was staying;
and tonight, you turn the light off.