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breadbabe · 4 years ago

Text

cigarette sex

pairing. yoongi x reader

genre. smut. angst.

word count. 1k

warnings. penetrative sex. mention of foreplay and oral sex. smoking. nicotine addiction. forced nicotine intake. cheating. implied abuse. mention of alcohol. bruises. commitment issues. i know i said i would post fluff but i had to repost this first 🗿

it starts off like this: you arrive, he opens the door, and you walk in.

at least, it should start like that, it should be quick, easy, simple. but right now, it’s everything but. your hesitant knuckles hit the door so softly that it comes off as a hesitant stroke, and you let your hand fall back to the skin of your shorts. every passing second of nothing gives you enough time to think: should you be doing this? should you be at his door, dead of the night, when he could be out, busy with someone else? no, he wouldn’t go out today, not on a wednesday night (you know that much about him; everything else is a mystery). but two minutes later, you’re unsure. you think about forgetting — forgetting about him, forgetting about the fight with your boyfriend, forgetting about everything — before the door finally creaks.

he opens it, seeing that it’s you and he leans on the frame with an apathetic look in his eyes. there’s a cigarette in his hands (when is there not?), but no lighter. it’s as if he expected that you would interrupt.

you fiddle with the hem of your crewneck, feeling pathetic as he stares down at you. then, he talks. “you’re here.” it’s a statement, not a question or invitation.

“yeah.”

“again.”

“i can leave if you want,” you say, unable to hide the strain.

he watches you, his lips unmoving in a permanent frown. “no,” he makes way for you, “you haven’t even come in yet.”

you enter and take off your shoes, then move through the studio apartment and take a seat on the undone bed, almost wincing at the familiarity of it. it’s a small place, bearing only a few pieces of furniture. the walls are a little tattered, but still clean of holes. it’s dark, too, and there’s only an old lamp and the hazy light up signs outside to help you see him walk back in after closing the entrance with a lock.

there’s no exchange of words, not even a “how are you?”, or a “what happened?”, because yoongi doesn’t care. the only sound is the soft rustle of his shirt being pulled over his head as he makes his way before you. he looks good with just jeans on, with his pale skin illuminating almost unhealthily. his hand holds your nape as he leans in to kiss you, and it starts off strong with a lot of tongue and a couple of heavy breaths. your back touches the mattress and he’s on top, the two of you never breaking apart.

“yoongi,” you gasp, but he doesn’t respond. instead, he puts his lip on the corner of your mouth, then mouths down to your neck. “yoongi, stop,” you push against his chest. when he pulls up on his knees, you can see a tinge of impatience and irritation in the way he chews on the inside of his right cheek. “i… i actually came to tell you that… that i don’t wanna do this with you anymore.”

he’s not listening; he’s putting the cigarette in his mouth and lowering himself close to you again. “light it for me.”

“... i don’t carry it anymore.”

you feel his cold fingers press against the stomach under your crewneck before they move to the pockets of your jean shorts. they come back up holding the sleek lighter, causing you to gnaw at your lip with a downcast of your eyes. old habits die hard.

“don’t try to lie to yourself, _____” he says as he puts the item in your grasp, holding your hand for a second with a lazy, deadbeat grin, “you know what you came for.”

you’re the one not responding this time, but yoongi doesn’t care, he never cares. he only cares that he gets his dose of nicotine, and the annoyance in him dissipates when you flick the lighter and let it kiss the end of the stick. he takes a deep breath in, then exhales the smoke in your face.

there’s no more kissing until after a slow blowjob, after a touch of foreplay, and while you’re lying, naked, under the shifting headboard as his cock rocks into you.

sex with yoongi is quiet, the only sounds consisting of your whimpers, a few curses from his lips, and the subtle slaps of skin on skin contact. you might even hear the crash of a beer bottle back at your place. here with yoongi, it’s quiet; lonely, almost, despite the supposedly romantic view of both your clothes intertwined with one another on the floor. his left hand grips your waist as his right one takes the cigarette from his mouth after an inhale, then reaches to twist its end on the ashtray sitting upon the nightstand, all while grinding into you. your eyes, previously shut tightly with the deepening of his thrusts, waver open when he holds your cheek. he leans close and kisses you with a closed mouth, and you kiss back.

but you stop.

there’s a sickening heat that flows into your mouth, causing you to try to pull away. his grip tightens on the outline of your jaw and restrains you in place. you let out a muffled cry against his mouth as the nicotine enters, and you feel your senses blur. but yoongi doesn’t stop kissing, nor does he stop his hips; he doesn’t care. he lets go after a few seconds pass and watches the smoke rise between your lips, smirking when you cough with teary eyes.

sex with yoongi ends with you orgasming first, and him following shortly after. it ends with a couple of pants, the separation of your touch, and yet another grab of a cigarette. but this time, you’re the one holding the stick, and it’s his fingers that flick the lighter ablaze. as you take a long puff, you think about forgetting — forgetting about your boyfriend, forgetting about the fight, forgetting about the purple on your skin — before you realize that you can’t.

forgetting means giving a reason for yoongi to commit, and you know he won’t do that; he can’t do that. forgetting means never coming back to this dark studio apartment, and back to the bed that seems to grow colder and colder.

you’re sitting up on the bed as you let yoongi silently tend to your bruises with ice and bandages; they’ve gotten darker compared to a few hours ago when you first showed up at yoongi’s door. once he’s done, he lies on the bed, seeming to be lost in his own thoughts. your palm presses against the pillow below you and you give him the cigarette to take a drag. you watch him, and he watches you, but there’s no exchange of words, again.

forgetting means quieter than this, and a little more lonely.

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