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You glanced over at the head of tussled dark hair on the pillow next to yours. The soft, serene features. The lips in a gentle pout. The hands curled into unclenched fists resting just beneath his chin. You smiled affectionately as you reached over to delicately push a tendril of hair out of his face and back up into the soft mop of waves. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing and his brows drawing quickly together before his features melted again into reflecting the placidity of slumber. You thought back to three hours ago.
Yoongi had charged off the stage, the sweat beaded on his forehead running down his neck and into his black tour shirt, his head thrown back so that that his hair, streaked and damp, fell away from his face. Staff members rushed around him, pressing a water bottle into his hands, dabbing his skin, undoing his secondary mic system from under his shirt. His arms hung at his sides, his chest rose and fell rapidly with his labored breaths, the adrenaline of the stage clearly still rushing through his every vein. And his face - even after the bombardment of cordis and wardrobe personnel - was a vision. He wasn't standing there, being dabbed and disrobed, he was somewhere else entirely. His brows were drawn slightly together, his dark eyes unfocused but gloriously bright. His mouth had slipped open to pant heavily but his jaw was set, giving him a look of breathtaking intensity. He looked like a king. He looked like a conqueror. And he fucking was. The screams behind him had not seemingly ebbed by even the margin of one voice since the heavy black curtain had swung closed behind him. The roar of the crowd had been deafening all night. For him. All for him. And he had earned every decibel. Suddenly his eyes had flicked over to where you stood. You had done nothing to hide the enthrallment and hunger in your gaze. He seemed to have grown suddenly impatient with the attending swarm about him and had pushed through them, moving forward until he could take your hand in his own. You had stumbled, together and with urgency, into his dressing room. He had barely had time to press the lock into the handle of the door before your tongue was on his cock. This had become the ritual after each show. He deserved it, you thought. He deserved to buck into a worshipping mouth. He deserved to cum, head thrown back and eyes pressed shut in ecstasy, trembling and panting, as you swallowed every drop of what his cock could give. There was no one like him. No one.
You blinked as you looked at him now, barefaced and vulnerable in his white tee. He would take the stage again tomorrow, but for now, he rested. The great dragon of Daegu slept like a kitten...and you would keep the night watch over his dreams.
-Fin-