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Yoongi gets like this sometimes.
Gets engulfed in his darkness. Lets his brain convince him of things that aren’t true, has him staring at the ceiling in a pitch-black room. Yoongi is so, so insecure—so terrified to let you see it, even though you know it’s there. So terrified to peel back his skin, let you see his worst parts, so he hides them. Wears a mask and does his best to love you so fiercely there’s no room for anything else. There’s just you and your love and all the love he holds for you.
A love that feels overwhelming sometimes, like if he loses his grip it could swallow him whole and he would let it.
He doesn’t always know how to tell you. Doesn’t always know how to say his darkness is back, that he’s having a bad day, nothing’s coming out right or making sense. But Yoongi knows how to show you.
Sometimes Yoongi fucks you hard, hands wrapped around your neck as he sucks bruises into your skin, claims you. Sometimes he takes his time, unhurried and unconcerned with your begging, your whimpers to please just let you cum, and he just pins your hips down, goes down on you until your cheeks are tear-stained and your body spent. Other times he lays beneath you and lets you take what you want.
But you can always tell when the darkness creeps back in. Yoongi always lays you gently atop the sheets, always holds your hand so tight you think your fingers might break. The lights are always off, a candle always lit, curtains drawn—because when the darkness creeps back in, Yoongi always tries to hide. It’s not a sight for the rest of the world to see. No one except you, because his darkness is your darkness, too, and when he can anchor himself to you, he can always, always see the light on the other side.
Sometimes it takes a while to reach it, but he always does.
And you’re always there, staring up at him with endless adoration and patience he doesn’t deserve as he works through the burdens in his mind. “Talk to me, Yoon,” you always say. Yoongi’s sitting on his haunches, those piano fingers tracing mindless shapes into the smooth skin of your calves.
Yoongi sighs. “Just a bad day, baby.” He leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss to your ribcage. “I’ll be okay. Promise.”
“Tell me about it.”
You feel the vibration of his hum against your skin. “Gonna take these off,” he says, deft fingers moving from your calves to the tops of your thighs. They play along the hem of your underwear before he drags them down your legs. “Thought about you all day.”
A soft exhale as he presses another kiss to the inside of your ankle. “Yeah?” you ask, octave growing higher as he settles between your legs. A small whimper as you feel the press of his clothed erection against your core. “What’d you think about?”
“This,” he answers as he rocks his hips gently. “Thought about how you’re always so good to me.” Yoongi’s lips find the column of your throat and his kisses are wet, insistent. “Thought about how I don’t deserve you.”
A low moan escapes you when he rocks his hips again, when you feel that familiar shock. “You do,” you promise. “You deserve the world, Yoongi.”
You know it’s the darkness that disregards you. His teeth bite at your earlobe, tongue darting out to lave at the sting. Another kiss to your cheek, just below your eye, your dark lashes fanned out against your skin. “Wondered what I’d do if one day you finally realized how much of a bastard I am and left.”
His mouth finds yours, then, because he can’t stomach the response he knows is coming. Doesn’t think he can hear you make more promises in that sweet, convincing tone—the one that’s dragged him back to the light so many times. He licks into your mouth with fervor. Tries to commit the taste of you to memory, because one day he might not have it anymore. Might forget. Sometimes he just needs to talk it through, this morbid fantasy he has of his entire world falling apart. Sometimes he thinks it’s the only way he’ll be able to survive it: acting it out before it happens, steeling himself for the inevitable.
“Wouldn’t,” is all you’re able to get out. His hands are everywhere: in your hair, thumbs pressed against your cheeks, tracing your collarbones, down your chest, pressing bruises into your hips. “Wouldn’t leave you, Yoon.”
His faith in you is immovable when he’s in the light. Trust so solid he could build kingdoms upon it. But in the dark—well, the dark is so, so impenetrable that it hurts his head. “Don’t say that,” he whispers, spit-slick lips moving against yours as he speaks. “Please don’t say that.”
He brings a hand up to your mouth, pushes two fingers inside. “Need to make you cum, baby. Gonna make you cum, I promise,” he babbles, that lazy drawl slurring his words together. “Gonna make you feel good so you won’t leave me.”
“Yoongi,” you moan as those fingers move to your clit. Torturous, slow circles. He needs to hear you, needs to see the way your body reacts to him, needs to know it’s him drawing them out. “Yoon—fuck.”
He just watches. Chest growing tight as your eyes squeeze shut, muscles of your stomach clenching as his fingers move a little faster. “Do you—do you know how much I love you, angel?” He curses as he drags his fingers along your cunt, feels how wet you are. “God—fuck, I love you. I love you so much.”
Your hips nearly leave the bed when he finally presses them inside. Yoongi is always overwhelming, his presence always threatening to consume you. But when he’s like this—so intense, so single-minded—it’s hard to breathe. Impossible to focus on anything that isn’t Yoongi; that isn’t his fingers fucking into you slowly, hooking to find the spot that makes your vision go blank for a moment; that isn’t his soft, breathy whimpers as he ruts against the mattress.
Because, when Yoongi’s like this, it’s all about you. You don’t touch him when he’s like this. He never lets you, just needs to worship your body as he gives voice to all those intrusive thoughts, all his transgressions. Uses your body like a balm to heal all the gaping, gruesome wounds he carries in his heart. Because, when Yoongi’s like this, this is the only way he knows how to talk about it.
“Yoongi, I—” Your words taper off as you choke on a sob, your orgasm creeping up on you lightning quick. “I’m so close—fuck.”
Yoongi groans, too, enraptured by the sight of your writhing, the way your fingers fist the sheets, the rhythmic, desperate way your hips rock against his hand. “Shit, yeah. Wanna feel it. Wanna see you come undone. You look so beautiful when you cum, baby. Could watch you forever.”
He nearly cries when your release finally hits you, walls clenching hard around his fingers. The feeling anchors him, brings him back to the present, reminds him this is real. “Fuck, look at you,” he moans, gathering you in his arms immediately, holding you so close you can’t decipher his frenzied heartbeat from your own. “So perfect,” he hums, nails tracing reassuring lines up and down your back. “Always so perfect for me, angel.”
It takes a few minutes for the fog to clear. “Love you,” you say once you’re back to reality, eyes heavy and limbs useless, but you always have enough strength to remind him of that.
Yoongi lays you back down, lips hovering over yours, eyes searching. “Can you give me another one, baby?” When you nod, he presses one more kiss to your lips before he’s trailing down your body. Stops to suck a purple bruise into your cleavage. Finds your hands and intertwines them with his own. “Gonna marry you one day, angel,” he says, words a sharpened vow, mouth so close to your cunt you can feel his breath against your slit. “Fuck, I don’t know what I did to get so lucky, but I’m gonna fucking marry you.”
Each pass of his tongue over your core sends your eyes rolling back in your head. “Want that,” you reply. “Want that so bad, Yoon.”
“Yeah?” He sucks your clit between his lips and your moan is lewd, back arching off the bed. “You’d let me have that?” he asks, hand leaving yours to move your leg over his shoulder, opening you to him more. “You’d let me ruin you like that, baby?”
(Ruin you.
Because he knows he’s too much. Has so much darkness in him that drags you down, too, and you never complain. You have so much good, enough light for the two of you, and you share it so selflessly. Just hand it over without Yoongi having to ask because you know he won’t—so content and ready to wallow in his pain, his insecurity. Needs so much convincing that he’s worthy of it.
Because you’re always there. Always a comfort he indulges in too often, takes and takes and takes and sometimes forgets to give. Always seeing through him—through the dark that doesn’t reflect any light, just selfishly absorbs it, all-consuming. Always whispering praise into his hair, the top of his head, his brow when you’re pressing soft kisses to his eyelids. Always so accepting of him that it strangles his heart in his chest, sometimes.
Because you never complain when needs to hide away in a dark room; when it’s all he can do some days to simply stand in the shower as you wash his hair, scrub the dirt and anxiety and shame from his skin; when he has to fuck you with a shirt on because he can’t stand the sight of himself. You just accept all these disgusting parts of him and turn them into something beautiful, something Yoongi can be proud of and accept in return.
And he’s working on it. Fuck, he swears he’s working on it. Wants to be better for you, is better because of you. But on the days he’s not, he knows you’re there. Knows you always will be, because he’s not easy to love but you do it so easily anyway.)
Words won’t come. Yoongi’s always been good with his mouth but his tongue moves like the devil when you’re overstimulated like this, when he’s in the midst of his darkness and so desperate to prove a point. All you can do is grip his hand tighter, roll your hips against his face, so slick from you already. There’s a possessive streak in Yoongi that loves marking you, but you mark him just as much, so subtle—the taste of you in his mouth, on his skin; your smell on his fingers. Parts of you that are meant only for him.
“Only you,” you iterate, words fractured, stuttered in between moans. “No one else, Yoongi. Only you.”
He whines, doubles his efforts as your words sink in, ease some of the darkness. “Gonna do it,” he says. “Gonna give you everything you want. Anything. It’s yours.”
“Want you to make me cum. Please, please—”
God, you’re so dangerous. So easy for him to get lost in, treat like an addiction. He’d do anything you asked, carve out any piece of himself you wanted and hand it over without a second thought. Especially when you’re like this. When the room is full of the sounds of your pleasure—Yoongi’s mouth working against you, your shameless moaning, guttural whimpers when he slows down, drags it out. When he’s drunk on the tang of your skin. When all his thoughts are consumed by you, you, you, no room for anything else.
One more harsh suck to your clit and you’re coming undone again, legs trembling under Yoongi’s solid body. You’re a dream. One he never wants to wake up from, and he never knows how to tell you this, just hopes you know it from the way he showers you in praise, covers every inch of your skin with his hands, his mouth.
Yoongi has so much darkness.
But he has you, too.