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Tuesday evenings at the Have Hope Animal Rescue are consistently quiet, and tonight is no exception. Few families browse the kennels on weeknights, drawing sparse yelps and ruckus from the dogs across the hall. In turn, the stainless stacks of cages in the adult cat room are filled with a rare calm. The barking always sets a palpable tension throughout the room, but for now it is absent.
Wandering to the corner of the room, you grab the volunteers’ log and peruse the list of cats to see who has been visited today. With a frown, your eyes dart between the paper and the cages.
“Icky, baby, did they leave you all alone again?” Your feet travel to greet the hefty black cat, tucked into a solid loaf at eye level. Piercing green eyes peer with cautious appraisal from behind thin metal bars. Hooking inside the cage, your digits curl beneath his chin in a strained ‘hello.’ He leans into your fingers, welcoming the contact. “Aw yes, how’s my chonky boy?” Icky meows as you withdraw your hand to open the cage. “You wanna come out, sweetheart?”
All of the other cats take their time, restrained in their trust as they sniff your hand, but Icky is different. Icky welcomes your touch with enthusiasm, eager to offer the same affection he is destined to receive. It takes little effort to lure him into your arms, cradled against your torso. Rubbing his head, you stroll to the hallway, en route to the playroom. He is nervous in your arms, content to be held but agitated by mobility. “It’s okay, baby, we’re almost there,” you coo.
A shrill yelp sounds from across the building, followed in suit by a cacophony of barks, and cages rattling from the press of heavy paws. Frantic, Icky bolts from your arms, fleeing down the hallway and away from the noise.
“No no no,” you whine, taking off after the massive black cat. Your sneakers squeak across the linoleum as you chase after him. Despite his size, Icky scurries quickly, disappearing around the corner and into the supply room with little sign other than the flick of his fluffed tail in the door frame.
Flustered and out of breath, you rush into the supply room, searching for any sign of the cat. “Icky, baby, where did you go?”
“Baby?” A deep voice remarks, amused, from within the room. Peeking around a pallet of dog food, you lock eyes with…hell, what does one even call a stranger this beautiful!? His frame is slight, skin soft and glowing as it contrasts with the natural black of his hair. He offers a shy, gummy smile, rounding his cheeks and molding his dark eyes to crescents. All at once he is there, warm and endearing, and unreasonably handsome for someone wearing ripped black jeans and a soaked t-shirt, covered in questionable, chunky stains. He stands before a set of industrial sinks, towered high with metal pet bowls. The nauseating scent of disinfectant lingers in the air but can hardly be blamed for the somersaults your stomach suddenly practices.
A beat passes, hangs overhead as you survey one another, before you remember what brought you here in the first place. “Uh…did you see a black cat run in here? He’s uh…big.” You roll your hands in a nervous gesture, approximating his heft.
“There’s no way a cat is that big,” he quirks a brow, unconvinced. He removes his pink rubber gloves and drapes them over the sink, craning his neck as he peeks around the maze of cat litter, kibble, and cleaning products.
“Well then, you haven’t met Icky,” you insist with a shrug.
Traipsing through the room, it does not take long to track down the frantic feline.
“Close the doors so he doesn’t run out,” your new acquaintance instructs, and you move briskly to do as told. Dropping to his knees, he pokes his head under the wire shelf that lines the wall, meeting the bright glow of green eyes that stare out from the darkness. “Hey buddy, Icky,” he calls, softening his voice. “Are you gonna come out for us?” He reaches his hand out for the cat to sniff, tentative in his judgement.
To your surprise, Icky offers a congenial mew, followed by the shuffling of his body from under the shelf.
“Yeah, there you go, bud,” the man encourages, coaxing Icky into his arms before he could return to hiding. “Wow, you really are a big guy,” he murmurs in amazement.
“Thank you so much,” you say, drawing the man’s eyes to lock on your own. “I was worried I wouldn’t find him.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “It’s nice to have a little excitement back here.” He laughs, smoothing his hand down Icky’s spine. “I’m Yoongi, by the way,” he introduces himself. His cheeks are alight with joy as Icky nudges his head into his palm.
You offer your name in return, squatting beside Yoongi and rubbing Icky’s head. “You can’t run away like that, baby,” you admonish the cat. Your fingers brush against Yoongi’s and you freeze. His skin is soft, long fingers ending in nails trimmed short.
“I don’t know, it doesn’t seem like it ended too badly to me.” Yoongi faces you, grinning, and heat rises in your cheeks. He is so close you can see the warm brown of his irises peering past the thin line of his lashes. “Were you heading to the playroom?”
Shaking your head free of lewd thoughts, you nod.
“Can I join you?”
“Yeah. Yes. Yep.”
Yoongi withdraws to stand, one arm carefully cradling Icky, while the other extends to help you up. You take it gratefully, eager for his touch.
“Careful, he’s a runner if he gets startled,” you warn, as if that were not obvious from your encounter. Yoongi nods, adjusting his hold on the cat for security. You grab the doors as you make your way up the hall, with the strangest sensation of being on parade through the sterile white walls and fluorescent lighting of the building.
Once inside the small playroom, you ignore the single chair and sit cross-legged on the floor. Yoongi follows suit, knees brushing as he sets Icky loose.
The black cat gazes around the space, appraising his options, front paw raised in indecision. You grab a plastic ball and shake it, jingling, to catch his attention before rolling it across the floor. Icky’s eyes follow the ball, bored, and he instead strolls to Yoongi, plopping dramatically on his side.
“So much for playing,” you laugh, observing as Yoongi reaches out to run his fingers over the lazing cat. Slender digits smooth over sleek, black fur, fingertips disappearing as they sink to scratch closer to the skin. Each tendon and knuckle rises in tandem, illuminating Yoongi’s golden flesh against the docile feline. Icky purrs, blissful and relaxed. As your eyes follow each simple movement, you wonder if you have ever been so envious of a cat. You reach out, rubbing Icky’s cheeks and longing for another teasing brush against Yoongi’s skin. The subtle encounter of your hands sends anticipatory tingles through your body, goosebumps prickling along your flesh.
There is something hypnotizing in the way his fingers move, the way they disappear and return, the gentle way they tug through Icky’s fur. Your mind wanders, imagines how they would feel sinking to your scalp, tangled in your hair. Would his short nails leave crescents as they dig into your thighs, and would they glisten like honey, coated in your arousal, sinking inside you? Would they curl to find that spot that makes you melt?
“So, do you think you’ll come?”
“Absolutely,” you sigh. Snapping back to reality, you sit up straight, alert. “Wait, come to what?”
Yoongi quirks a brow, amused grin growing as though he can read your mind. “The benefit gala on Saturday for the shelter.” Ah, right. It is no secret that the Have Hope Animal Rescue is struggling. Even with donations, the cost of caring for so many creatures is high. So, to raise money for the shelter, a fundraising gala was proposed. All of the volunteers were helping in their own way, even if that meant stuffing mailers on the weekends.
“Oh. No, I want to go, but I couldn’t get a ticket,” you shrug, embarrassed. With the holiday season rapidly approaching, your funds were completely tied up. That was part of why you volunteered. You may not have had the extra income to spare, but you could still offer your time.
“Come with me,” he insists, and your eyes shoot up to meet his. “I have an extra ticket, since I’m performing.” Yoongi shrugs, sending a hopeful glance in your direction. “And, uh, it would be nice to have a date.”
Rouge flashes across your cheeks, flustered, heart racing. Play it cool, play it cool. “Really?! I’d love to!” Good job.
Yoongi smiles wide. “Yeah? Okay, cool,” he laughs, blushing. “This’ll be fun,” he contends. “I mean, I’ll be tied up a bit, but only for an hour or so…”
“Oh, right. You’re performing?”
“Yeah,” he nods, smile growing ever wider. “I play cello. The director had asked if I would play during the gala, so I convinced a good friend of mine from the conservatory to join me on piano. That’s actually how I wound up here. I’m still kind of new,” he admits.
“Conservatory? Wow, you’re legit, huh?”
Yoongi rubs his neck, suddenly timid. “Uh yeah, I guess you could say that. I’m no Mischa Maisky or Pablo Casals, but people seem to like my music.” He shrugs away the attention.
“I have no idea who those people are, but I’m sure you’re great,” you declare. “I’m excited to hear you play! I don’t know much about the cello,” you admit. “You could be terrible, and I’d be none the wiser.”
“An easy audience,” he chuckles. Oh, he has no idea.
You stay there a while, lost in discussion as he tells you about his music, asks about your life, bonds with you over animals and past pets. Time vanishes, ignored like the plastic ball beside the snoring Icky’s paw. His massive body inflates with each sleepy breath, rising and falling like a caricature of cat instead of the living creature before you.
Sudden and jarring, a knock sounds on the window of the playroom, a reminder that the shelter is closing. Begrudgingly, you stand. Yoongi cradles Icky in his arms and follows you to the adult cat room to return him to his cage. You mark the volunteers’ log, almost embarrassed to jot down his visitation time – hours, rather than the usual quarters.
“So, can I get your number? And, um, we can make plans for the gala,” Yoongi asks as you wander to the parking lot, hands shoved deep into coat pockets.
Excited, you fish your phone from your pocket, opening a new message and passing the device to Yoongi to enter his digits.
“Aaaand sent,” he confirms, the phantom buzzing of his own phone audible through his jacket. Returning the gadget to your palm, his grip lingers, tentative like the breathy clouds that hang in the air, begging to be more.
“Good. You better message me,” you poke, fumbling against his fingers.
“Or else what?” He prods in return, thumb stroking the back of your hand.
Holding your breath, you tease the gentlest of threats. “Or else I’ll be sad.”
Yoongi’s features turn suddenly serious, tone tender as he speaks. “Well, I’d never want to risk that.”
“Good,” you say, voice uncharacteristically small as you meet his eyes.
“Good,” he mirrors. A beat of silence passes as you will yourself to leave, dare yourself to ignore the flitting of his gaze as it surveys the glow of your cheeks against the cold night air, the pout of your lips, the casual twining of your fingers where they rest between your bodies.
Your lungs ache as you breathe out a sigh. “Well, I guess I should be getting home.”
Yoongi nods, accepting forlornly that the time has come to part ways. With one last press of his fingers, he releases his grip. “Yeah…yeah.” He pauses in his retreat across the lot, your name rolling off his tongue with soft inflection. “I’m glad I met you tonight.”
Turning to face him once more, keys clutched in your clammy palm, you feel an unnamable warmth flood your chest, and a wistful smile bloom through your cheeks. “Me too. Get home safe, Yoongi.”
--
Min Yoongi: I wish I had kissed you earlier. (21:37)
Your heart races when you see his message. Back pressed to your bedroom door, you wonder at what his lips would feel like, slotted against your own, wish you had dared to close that space yourself. You felt a pull to him, magnetic, a cocktail of lust and something more. That something sparked your soul and whispered to you that caution was an exercise to be ignored.
Type. Overthink. Erase. Type, overthink, erase. Type.
You: Guess you better kiss me Saturday then. (21:53)
Thus begins a week of anticipation, a flurry of messages tense with promise and surging with need. There is no subtlety, no guessing. Late night calls with raspy voices leave you aching for more, coming unwound with each forlorn farewell. You curse adult responsibility, never wanting to say goodnight.
When Saturday arrives, you wait in your best dress – the one nice, black dress you own, reserved for any and every classy occasion. You sit on the edge of the sofa, then stand, smoothing the fabric over your thighs and pacing the room. Rinse, repeat. Is this dress nice enough for the gala? What does one even wear to a gala? Your roommate has had her fill, retreating to her room stating, “you’re so nervous you’re making ME nervous!”
The bell rings as you strut once more before the mirror, checking that your curls remain intact. You startle, scramble to slip into your heels and rush to the door. Swinging it open, you are met with Yoongi, dressed in a slim black suit, with a standard white dress shirt and a black silk bowtie, discretely embellished in a textured floral print. His leather shoes click together as he bounces on his heels, hands wringing nervously. His smile is eager as he greets you, makes your stomach flutter.
“Hi,” you say, timid and at loss for words as you take in the sight before you.
“Wow,” he breathes. “You look beautiful.” You blush at the attention, muttering thanks. You grab your nicest coat from the rack beside the door, taking his offered arm and stepping into the brisk winter air. It is still early, the sun having just barely set the evening sky to a pale navy.
You relish in the press of his body against your own as he leads you to his car, holds the passenger door as you settle inside. He rambles in silly apologies as he dotes on you – sorry for having to head to the gala so early, sorry that the seat is moved forward to make room for the cello, sorry that he will be preoccupied and unable to spend the entire evening with you, sorry that-
“Stop,” you say with a laugh. “You have nothing to be sorry for…I’m just happy to spend time with you.” He relaxes his grip against the steering wheel and sends a relieved glance in your direction. It is as though each late-night call has given you a new insight to his character but has done nothing to ease the physical tension that lingers, palpable, between you.
“So…” You begin, tapping your knees as Yoongi drives. “How many tickets did they sell for this thing, anyway?”
Yoongi chews his lip in thought. “They capped it at three hundred, I think. Word is it sold out pretty quick, went viral or something,” his tone trails into a questioning lilt.
“Viral how?” You ask, and Yoongi responds with a shrug.
You glance out the window, taking in the lights and signs as you drive into the city. A billboard catches your attention, requires a double take between the illuminated image and the man seated beside you. In crisp red letters, it announces the upcoming concert series at the National Opera House…beside it, Min Yoongi, dressed much as he is now, seated and smiling, knees spread around his instrument.
“That…that’s you!” You squeal excitedly. “Yoongi, what the hell?! I had no idea you were such a big deal. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Yoongi fusses with his collar, modest to the praise. “It’s not that big a deal – I mean, yeah, it is a big deal, but I’m not that special. It’s just good luck and a lot of practice,” he brushes it off, flustered. There is so much you want to ask, but you table it for another time and change the topic. Perhaps once you hear him play, you will understand.
Flurries flutter before the headlights as Yoongi pulls into the hotel garage. Once parked, he makes quick work of retrieving his cello and strapping the heavy case to his back. He turns to you, waiting patiently beside him, and fumbles. All at once he offers his arm, tries to hold your hand, steps back to give you space, and stumbles into a hearty, laughing apology. “Sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits.
“Hey,” you call to him, voice clear through the echoing acoustics of the parking garage. “Come here,” you coax, gripping his lapels to draw him closer. Toe to toe, you lean into his lips. “You worry too much,” you say, and pull him into a gentle but confident kiss. His lips are tender as they mold against yours, and you feel him relax against your frame.
Breathing a sigh, he rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I saw you.”
“I want to do it again,” you mumble, and he does not hesitate this time. His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, slips into your mouth to tangle against your own wet muscle. Yoongi moves with practiced determination, discarding all hints of the reticence he had previously carried. Pleased, you hum into the kiss, pressing your body, your pelvis, to his. His fingers curl around the base of your skull, teasing the nape of your neck, send goosebumps down your spine. But then the approaching lights of an oncoming car pull you from your reverie prematurely and you separate.
Wordlessly, Yoongi intertwines your fingers and leads you towards the hotel entrance. You bask in the simple pleasure of his touch. The previous tension has disappeared, but a new sense of yearning has bloomed in its place, and a devious part of you is determined to watch it blossom completely.
The hotel lobby is aglow with warm decorations, illuminated in white lights and flowing red embellishments for the holiday season. Yoongi is recognized immediately upon entering, and together you are ushered away to the banquet hall. You claim seats at a large, round table covered in cream cloth, while Yoongi is whisked off to prepare for his performance. He shoots an apologetic glance over his shoulder, and you offer an encouraging smile.
It is still early, the gala not technically starting for another half hour, and thus rather empty of guests. You discover the coat room, deposit your jacket, and proceed to meander about the banquet hall. Circular tables spread around the room, cutting away from a wooden dance floor. The back and side walls are lined with long tables, arranged with items for bid in a silent auction. You examine the donations: baskets of artisan goods, works of local artists, packages for local amusements, and the like. At the end of the table rests a tablet which draws your eye, where the top bidders can name rooms within the shelter. To encourage competitive donations, this auction was opened to online bidders as well as those attending the gala, and a sizable register of bids is already listed on the screen.
Having explored the auction items, you shuffle towards the front of the room, observing the sleek black piano that sits unattended. As if on cue, Yoongi strolls towards you, accompanied by a lithe blonde woman with a folder tucked beneath her arm. She is tall, hair pinned back into a sleek half-ponytail. Her nose and jawline are sharp, but her blue eyes shine with a friendliness which contrasts the severity of her features.
Yoongi calls out to you, gummy grin on full display. “I want you to meet Julianne. This is my friend from the conservatory I told you about,” he introduces.
Julianne wraps both hands around yours in a warm-hearted grasp. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says with an accent you cannot place, and though the words are common, they feel genuine as they fall from her lips. “I have not seen my friend so relaxed before a performance. You must bring luck.” She sends you a knowing smile, releasing your hands and excusing herself to sit upon the piano bench and arrange her sheet music.
As Julianne begins to play, Yoongi slips his hand into your fist, strolling around the room and making commentary on the auction items. When he reaches the tablet, he snorts.
“Oh no.”
You raise a brow, turning to face him. “Oh no what?”
“I think I know why this went viral…”
Your eyes widen in understanding. “You don’t think?”
Yoongi turns to you, far too stoic for the sentence he proceeds to utter. “Do you remember Boaty McBoatface?”
Squeezing your eyes tight, you try to suppress laughter. “But, like, how bad can it be?”
Yoongi pulls you into his chest, patting your head. “Oh, you sweet, naïve little girl.”
“Hey,” you squirm, giggling. “I’m not so naïve!”
“Oh no,” Yoongi continues, wistful, staring off into the distance. “Alas, her heart was just too big, and she had so much hope for the good in this world.”
“Hey! Now you’re just mocking me!” You wrinkle your nose despite your laughter, burying your face in Yoongi’s chest. His arms encircle you, holding you close as he sways from side to side.
“Never,” Yoongi murmurs into your hair, resting his chin atop your head. It occurs to you, suddenly, how natural this all feels, as though you have developed an intimacy that takes months in a matter of days. “I feel like I’ve known you for a long time,” Yoongi remarks, and you squeeze him a little tighter.
--
For all the stars in the world, you cannot help but marvel at the resounding din that carries through the banquet hall. Hundreds of bodies, hundreds of conversations pausing to clamor in claps, hundreds of heads turning to watch as Min Yoongi strides towards the piano. In one hand he carries his bow, while the other wraps around the neck of his cello. He pauses before the piano, gestures to Julianne where she has stood in intermission. They sit in unison. Yoongi spreads his knees around the full body of his instrument, settling into a position of comfort. He runs his bow across the open strings, makes a fine adjustment to his tuning. Satisfied, he turns to Julianne, nodding, and she begins to play.
A few moments in, Yoongi joins, his fingers gliding over the strings in a mesmerizing dance. The fluidity of his motions is entrancing, and the immeasurable warmth of each note sings inside your chest. Each gentle slur of his bow whispers verses of his subtlety, while the tremble of his fingers in their steady vibrato makes bold declarations of his dexterity.
Yoongi’s head lolls back as he plays, brows furrowed, and lips parted. He is a man possessed by the soul of his music, held hostage in a state of euphoria. It is so beautiful – HE – is so beautiful, that a tightness forms in your throat, a prickle at the corners of your eyes threatening to spring with overwhelming emotion. Never had you been so moved by sight or sound.
When the final notes vibrate from his strings, resounding through the room, Yoongi’s eyes open in wonder, as though waking gently to the morning sun. Blinkingly, his pupils slowly roaming the room until they settle upon yours. He gazes at you with fondness, settling all the clapping of the audience to background buzz.
You draw a sharp breath, a stark reminder that you are still living. As Yoongi and Julianne continue into their next piece, a different feeling washes over you: one you felt in the shelter that Tuesday, through your numerous calls, as your hips pressed together in the parking garage. Deep tremolos surge through the room, settle in your belly, burn with a dark exhilaration.
Your gaze falls upon his left hand, the slender digits pressing the strings to the neck of his instrument, wrist shaking as he rolls his touch. Veins run prominent through the back of his hand. Each boney knuckle and tendon is highlighted by his shifting movements, swift and dexterous.
Through the thrumming pace of the music, your imagination runs wild. You want to experience those fingers in new ways, dream of how they would feel pumping inside of you, circling your clit, teasing at your breasts. Would they dare to curl around your throat in the throes of ecstasy? Sear their glowing imprint on the bare globe of your ass?
A flush rushes to your chest and cheeks as the music crescendos and then gently wanes. The thin fabric of your underwear is already sticky against your sex, gliding as you rub together your thighs. Reaching for your wine, you swill the glass and take a deep gulp to drown your lust, as though the liquid could possibly dull your need. It does not.
When once again the music lulls and Yoongi’s eyes seek you out, you send him your most desperate gaze, wet lips silently forming the words you wish to speak. “I want you.” Your heart pounds against your chest, begging him to understand, to recognize the wanton rouge of your cheeks and know that it is for him.
He smirks, discretely, before turning his eyes to Julianne, a silent acknowledgment that he is ready for the next piece. Through each remaining song of their performance, you are further swept away, lost at sea. When, at last, they stand and bow, the shelter director makes his way to the front, shaking their hands and thanking them for the performance. He unfolds his notes, launching into a speech while the musicians collect their sparse belongings and exit to the side.
The director’s words are lost on you, attention firmly fixed to Yoongi as he carries his cello out into the hallway. Moving as discretely as you can, you excuse yourself from the table and follow after your date.
It does not take long to find him, mere strides ahead of you in the hallway. He turns through a door beside the coat room, and you sneak behind him. You shut the door with an audible latch, catching Yoongi’s attention immediately. He has set the cello on its side as he loosens the tension on his bow. His gaze rakes over your body appreciatively. “Hi,” he says, lips curling in a feline manner.
“Hi,” you return, coy as you rest your back against the door. “That was beautiful,” you tell him, watching the apples of his cheeks rise, full, to his eyes, uttering a heart-felt thanks. He stashes his bow inside of his case, moving next to his cello, fussing with the endpin.
You gaze about the small space as Yoongi packs his instrument. The walls are a pale cream, floral wallpaper, with a thick chair rail that descends into solid beige. The far wall is lined with a granite countertop and mirror. An armchair resides the corner, astride a simple clothes rack. It appears as some form of changing room.
Yoongi latches the case, and you watch as his hands move in tandem, spaced out in your own daydream once more. It is his hands waving before your eyes that draws you back to reality, laughing as he dissolves your reverie. Mindlessly, you reach for his hand, still in the air. You take in each detail of his digits, the short trim of his nails, the nervous bites of the skin around his cuticles, the softness of his skin and the firm callus of his fingertips. You press each one to your lips in praise.
Your eyes flit upward, suddenly nervous. Is this weird? But the tenderness in his gaze reassures that your actions are welcome. Your fingers twine together, and you wrap your free hand around his neck, drawing him closer. He dips to meet your lips, slotted together in a passionate reunion. There is hunger here, restrained far too long. It is all tongue and teeth, soft pouted breaths rushed from swollen lips that dare not separate.
Yoongi clings to you, fingers bunching in the fabric of your dress. Leaning back against the counter, he pulls you along, slotting his knee between your thighs and pressing you to grind against him. He cups your breast, and you fumble with his bowtie.
Voices in the hallway compel you to quiet, exchanging a nervous glance. What if you are caught? Yoongi clasps a hand over your mouth, daring you to silence. In an act of defiance, you lick at his digits, grip softening as you suck them into your mouth.
“Fuck,” he hisses as your lips encapsulate his index and middle fingers, tongue curling around them as you hollow your cheeks. Yoongi takes a deep breath, resolute, and shifts you from his lap to sit upon the counter. “You have to be quiet for me, babe,” he whispers into your ear, brushing your curls over your shoulder.
You nod in understanding. He pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop and runs them up your leg. They reach the apex of your thigh, beneath your dress. You squirm in his touch, impatient. He concedes to your silent plea for more, rubbing his thumb over the wet fabric of your lingerie, digits moving in calculated circles around your clit.
In an attempt to keep quiet, you remain latched to Yoongi’s lips, kissing harder as he builds you up. Slipping past the soaked fabric, he runs a line through your folds, thumb brushing over your clit as he slips inside you. Pumping and curling his digits all at once, his ministrations are determined, powerful in a way you had only ever imagined. He is on a mission to learn your body, and he is a quick study.
Quivering in Yoongi’s hold, you whimper into his mouth. Your legs shake, whole body trembling as you clench around his fingers. One last brush over that bundle of nerves pushes you over the edge, knees drawn tight. You fight back a cry, smothering the noise of your pending orgasm in Yoongi’s shoulder, arms wrapped suffocatingly tight around his neck. His free hand wraps around your skull, stroking soothing patterns over your hair. “Good girl,” he whispers his hushed praise. “That’s it, babe, cum for me.” He curls his fingers once more, hammering against that soft spot that has you seeing stars. You squeeze your eyes shut as the full wave of your orgasm crashes over you.
Vision is spotty when you finally pry your lids open. Chest heaving and suddenly exhausted, you slacken your hold to gelatin. The small room is quiet, save for the sound of heavy breathing, exalted lungs. You nuzzle your nose against Yoongi’s cheek, pressing a trail of tired kisses to his mouth. He hums against your lips, satisfied.
“Thank you,” you murmur, clasping his cheeks. His fingers are still inside your fluttering walls, sensitive as he withdraws. “Can I…return the favor?” You offer. “I want to make you feel good too.”
Yoongi shakes his head. “I’m too anxious here,” he says. “This was enough for me.” His gaze travels to his fingers, spread and sticky with your arousal. He draws them to his lips, sucking them clean, eyes closed in ecstasy.
Grateful for the mirror, you straighten your outfits and right your hair, marvel at the ease with which Yoongi fixes his bowtie. In a parting kiss, you can still taste yourself on his lips, with an eagerness to explore this pastime indefinitely. He pokes his head through the door first, ensuring the hallway is clear, and takes your hand, sneaking back to the banquet hall just in time for dinner.
--
“Hey babe, what are you up to?” Yoongi’s voice rasps through the receiver. The signal cuts in and out as you walk through the bright halls of the Have Hope Animal Rescue. Cell service is always finicky here.
“Just taking a trip to Pound Town,” you laugh, stepping into the adult cat room. “The placards are finally up. Did you see they named the dog kennels the Bone Zone? I can’t believe they actually went through with it.”
Yoongi snorts on the other end. “I told you, you give people too much credit. All bets are off when things like this hit 4chan.” You bob your head, admitting he is correct even though he cannot see you. To be fair, they did raise twenty grand for the shelter with their trolling. “I can’t hear you nod, babe.” You chuckle at how well he knows you.
“So, how’s unpacking coming along? I can swing by to help when I’m done here.”
“The bed’s up,” he says nonchalantly. “If you feel like taking a second trip to Pound Town…”
“I could be swayed,” you lilt, playing coy. Wandering to check the volunteers’ log, you bid farewell. Stuffing your phone in your back pocket, you peruse the list. But something is missing. Flipping the pages back and forth, you search for Icky’s name, but it is nowhere to be found. Rushing to his cage, you find not Icky, but Cinnamon, in his place. The petite calico bats at the bars of her cage, desperate for freedom. You return to the list, a mixture of glee and disappointment washing over you. Icky is gone. Icky has found a home.
“Well, Cinnamon,” you say, grabbing a cat carrier from the corner. “Let’s see if you prefer the laser pointer or shoestrings.”
--
The sun is just setting over the horizon as you leave the shelter, summer heat still radiating off the pavement despite the late hour. The drive to Yoongi’s new apartment is quick, much closer than his old place. You had both eagerly awaited the move. Your respective roommates had had their fill of your noisy shenanigans, and though it was only Yoongi moving to domestic independence, there was the promise that later, with the formality of time, you would join him.
Entering the keycode, the lock beeps as it disengages. You step over the threshold to the new apartment, discarding your shoes at the door. Boxes line the hall in various stages of disarray. You find Yoongi in the kitchen, grumbling as he tries to fit a utensil tray into a drawer that is far too narrow. Resigned, he sets it on the counter.
“This is an act of terrorism,” he deadpans, gesturing to the drawer. “It’s the twenty-first century! This should be standardized.”
Chuckling, you hug him from behind, agreeing. “They should know better.” You grimace, noting the fur you have transferred to the back of Yoongi’s shirt. “I’m all catty. Mind if I wash up?”
“Uh…yeah. Just close the bedroom door behind you.”
“Huh?” You raise a brow.
“It’s for privacy?” Yoongi shrugs unconvincingly.
“Privacy? You live alone now.” Traipsing towards the bedroom, you pause, calling down the hall. “Hey, do you still have that box with some of my clothes?”
“Yeah, it’s by the bed,” his voice returns, closer than you expected. “Don’t mind me, I’m just here for the show,” he teases from behind you, wiggling his brows.
“Such a gentleman,” you joke, turning the handle for the bedroom door, where the en suite bath awaits. Yoongi follows, latching the door cautiously. Without pause, you tear your grimy t-shirt over your head, tossing it aside and sifting through the cardboard box in your bra and shorts. Collecting clean wares, you move towards the bathroom. Yoongi sits on the edge of the bed, hawkish in his attention. “Why are you being so weird?” You ask. “You really wanna watch that bad?”
“Always,” he says, resting his elbows on his knees, grinning as you swivel your hips, slowly sliding down your shorts. You bend, unhurried and teasing, peeling them from your legs, swaying with your plump cheeks on full display. “Get over here,” Yoongi growls, grabbing your wrists and tugging you to stand between his knees.
He takes a firm grip of your rear, pressing his lips to your navel, and biting a trail of kisses to your hips, to your mound. He runs his tongue over the seam of your underwear, plastering the fabric to your lips. You open your mouth, ready with a quip, when the tip of his nose nudges against your clit. The remark dissipates instantly. Your fingers thread endearingly through his hair, wavy and disheveled, and you gaze at him with fond appreciation.
Yoongi’s thumbs hook through the waistband of your underwear, tugging the sodden garment down your hips. His tongue, broad and flat, laves over your sex, teasing as it traces a line between your folds, flicking upwards over that sensitive button. Your grip on his hair tightens with each brush against your pearl. He groans as you tug, buries his face into your abyss with hungry determination.
Laying back on the bed, he drags you by the hips, urges you to spread your knees above his shoulders. His nails dig into your buttocks, leave tiny crescents in their wake, as he draws your cunt to his eager lips. A moan, unrestrained, sings from your lungs. You surge forward, chasing his tongue, and he drops his grip to your rolling hips, guiding you to grind against his chin. He lays his tongue flat and still, urging you to use him, to ride him to euphoria. Reclining over his chest, you grant him access to your core, fixated as he dips his digits inside. The butt of his hand rests against his chin as his fingers stutter within you. With lips latched around your clit, he sucks with pressure, his tongue dancing over the swollen bud.
Eyes closed in pure bliss, his chin glistens with a cocktail of his spit and your arousal. You gush over his fingers, juices dripping down his wrist as he sends you careening into ecstasy. Your cries of pleasure crescendo, bounce off the bare walls as you cum.
Chest heaving, you squirm to free yourself from Yoongi’s hold, rigid and unyielding as he feasts upon the fruit of his labor. Wriggling, he holds you tighter, denying your escape. Lost to oversensitivity, your legs tremble. You know this game, now, stretch your hand behind you to soothe over the stiff bulge in his pants. He stutters, loosens his hold just enough for you to slip away.
Scooting down the bed, you fumble with button and zipper, desperate to shuck Yoongi’s jeans to an unexplored corner of the room. Pushing them past his hips, you take him in your hand, pressing kisses to the soft skin of his member in frantic appreciation. He is glistening, dribbling with precum which you hasten to swallow, wrapping your lips, your tongue, around his stiff cock. You let the saliva pool in your mouth, drip down his length as you pump your fist. Hollowing your cheeks, you lave your tongue over his frenulum, press his head to that precipice where the roof of your mouth suddenly dives.
He is the most selfless lover you have ever known, and you wish for even a moment to return his unwavering fanaticism, to bestow upon him the same tender enthusiasm he so dotingly offers. And so, you choke on his cock, swallow him whole until your eyes prickle with tears and your throat burns.
Your fingers glide over his testicles, slip beyond to massage at his puckered rim, slick with your drool. Wriggling your finger inside to the first knuckle, he draws a sharp breath. You take your time, letting him relax into the sensation while your other hand busies with pumping him into your swollen pout.
His grip around your digit loosens as he loses himself in your mouth, and you take the opportunity to sink in deeper, curl inward. You relish in the deep groan that soars from his chest, the way he bucks into your lips, craving more, craving anything and everything he can get. And you want to give it to him.
Your lips plunge and tongue swirl as your grip slides across his shaft, pumping harder as his breathing quickens. All at once, Yoongi lets out a guttural cry, fingers tangling in your hair, fucking into your mouth. Hollowing your cheeks once more, you brace yourself, excited, for what is to come. Hips stuttering, he floods your mouth with the warm gush of his orgasm, bittersweet as it coats your tongue and sputters against the back of your throat.
Pulling back from his weeping cock, you climb astride him on the bed.
“Show me,” Yoongi demands through the rise and fall of his chest. With a Cheshire grin you display your tongue, thick and heavy with his seed. “Fuck, you’re so fucking hot,” he groans in praise, fingers curling around the base of your skull, weaving through your hair as he pulls your lips to his. He slips into your mouth, licks the cum that pools on your tongue, entwined in your kiss. He steals it all, shoving you back onto the mattress.
Yoongi shifts between your thighs, hooking a leg over his shoulder, and spits the thick cocktail of cum of saliva onto your bare pussy. Without warning, his fingers plunge into your depth, pumping you with his seed. One hand presses firm on your lower belly while the other surges into your core, dribbling an indistinguishable puddle of your passions onto the bed.
“Fuck! Fuck, I’m gonna –” you cry, squirming as pressure blooms in your abdomen. With a glint of determination in his eyes and a bead of sweat rolling down his brow, he pummels, deep and unrelenting, fingers fluttering as they hook within you. With a scream, you feel the telltale spray against your thighs, the instant release of pressure as you drench the sheets.
Satisfied at last, Yoongi withdraws, flicking his dripping fingers in amusement. Catching your breath, you both sink into the mattress, spent. “I’m never going to get tired of that,” Yoongi grins, reveling in the sated flush of your cheeks. Turning to face him, you press a tired kiss to his shoulder.
“I think we could both use that shower now,” you laugh, sitting upright and unhooking your bra. It drops to the carpet as you stand.
“You go ahead of me,” Yoongi insists. “I’ll join you in a sec.”
You send a playful pout in his direction, imploring him to hurry, and grip the handle of the bathroom door. Making your way inside, your foot kicks something light, sending it rolling across the tile floor with a jingle. As your eyes follow the colorful object, a massive black form dashes across the bathroom in pursuit, pausing mere inches from the toy and flopping onto its side.
A sharp gasp catches in your throat. “Icky, baby!”