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jjkpls · 5 years

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Mean Yoongi 2 (m)

> genre : smut, light angst, fluff

> pairing : min yoongi x reader (f)

> words : 5.4k

> warnings : explicit sexual content, strong language

> For once, Min Yoongi is not that mean and tries to help you feel better after an umpteenth date fail. (sex in the genius lab basically)

> A/N : Feel free to listen to the inspiration for this :D I hope you enjoy, let me know your thoughts ❤

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“You're here?” Yoongi is standing up from his chair, face scrunched up in a scowl as he glares down at me.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to answer to that.

It's been more than an hour since I've knocked on the door of his studio, entered and installed myself on the sofa, right behind him.

I was not sneaky about it too. He looked at me. He did. When I opened the door, we've glanced at each other. I mouthed something about wanting to hang out since he could probably not hear me with the earphones set on his head. Completely expressionless, he turned around in his chair and proceeded on working again, typing and clicking away on his computers, not minding me anymore.

I'm not sure what it meant. But it's not like I really cared at that point since I wasn't planning on leaving his studio and meeting stupid Taehyung and have a fucking painful time with this idiot.

So I've just remained there, keeping myself occupied on my phone. Eventually, he would finish what he's been doing and pay attention to me -at least, turn around and sneer my way or something. Maybe he wouldn't have been able to handle my presence, too obnoxious somewhere behind his back, and quit working to throw me out. I mean, anything.

But he did not. For more than an hour. And if the hardly raised dark eyebrows of his are anything to go by, he's completely forgotten that I was there.

“Uhm... but you've seen me?” I mumble, confused and slightly embarrassed.

“Why are you not with Taehyung?” I frown, diverting my attention back to the screen of my phone. There's still a little Chimmy asking if I want to “try again!” this level. I hear Yoongi sigh, gravely. He lets himself fall back in his chair, this time facing my lain form on the couch. One of his hand messes with his bleached-white hair. When it falls back down on his lap, he sighs again, asking the same question again this time pressing me with the stressed syllables of my name he's added.

I wonder how upset I must look for him to show so much patience. We haven't talked in quite a few weeks, mostly because of my schedule being suddenly overbooked by a sudden shit load of work being dropped in the office I work at. But from what I remember, he wouldn't have made the effort to ask twice the same question before.

“He's going to annoy me...” I peek at him from the corner of my eyes. He's leaned on his right side, the tip of his fingers pressing against his worn-out eyes. When he's done and the silence of the studio is striking him, he opens them up and stares back, in expective. “It's dumb...” Straightening up, he leans back, elbows setting on the armrests, fingers intertwining on his stomach. His piercing gaze is not leaving me longer than it takes for him to blink and I know I own his whole attention.

I feel kind of silly now. Taehyung would be a pain but Yoongi surely won't be much better. The plan was just to hang out with him, or next to him at least, not to actually have him show interest and concern for my life. Never failing to disappoint.

Laboriously, I get up, getting in the best disposition to tell my little lame tale about the whole Tinder debacle. I tell him, trying to avoid digressing on meaningless details that could earn me time, about this guy I've met. About how he came off weird by sending me a dick pic the day following our very first text exchange but how I gave him a pass for his “momentary lapse of judgement”. There're not many movements on Yoongi's part. His face has never been an opened book but I would expect him to show some reactions. Since he doesn't, I suppose he doesn't think it's that much of a big deal so I keep going, summarizing briefly the beginning of our first (and last) date and more precisely, I tell him about how he didn't look at all like his cousin's pictures he had used on his profile. I can feel fire burning my cheeks both from anger and embarrassment, as I start, mindlessly, counting on my fingers the other lies and other uncharming quirks of this guy as I name them out loud.

I've lost myself in a passionate tornado of complaints, now lashing on how greasy his hands were (and not from being sweaty, actually greasy with a something that I could not pinpoint but definitely fucking gross) when Yoongi starts mumbling something. I shut my mouth right up, all ears for the first comment he's about to give me.

“Okay. Why are you here? Isn't it Taehyung's job to list-”

“Min Yoongi.” I don't mean to but I whine. Because all the pent up frustration from this terrible day has been awoken by my telling and I don't feel like dealing with Mean Yoongi right now. He looks at me, eyes dark but oddly soft. I note how the light blond hair makes wonder for his naturally sharp glare. Smacking his lips, sighing again, Yoongi tilts his head to the side. “Actually, Tae told me not to go meet him because of the whole dick pic thingy but I didn't listen. We fought a bit about that. Now he's going to be oh-so-happy to have this whole shit to rub in my face,” Taking a stupid voice and twisting my face in an even stupider expression, I mimic, “'I told you so, dumbass! You should listen to-'”

“Tae's your friend. He's not gonna be happy that you had a miserable date.” It's my turn to sigh. Deep and hard, for it to resonates in the whole studio and Yoongi to hear it well. He is so disagreeable. He doesn't know anything about the proper friend etiquette. Yet he's right. And he's talking with me instead of throwing me out, and cursing at me for making him waste his time which I am sure, he strongly feels the need to.

“It's not the first time, right?”

“What is?”

“Tinder fail.”

“Oh.”

No, it's not. I've decided to stop counting when I realized that I was about to miss fingers to tally them on.

I can’t say that I’m starting to lose hope in my dating abilities because I’ve never really thought I was made for it. Which might be the reason why it all went down to shit. That’s what my mom would say. If I start with that attitude I shouldn’t feel struck by the result. In the end, there’s one common factor to all these equations.

That being said, why would falsely cute catfishes be so good at texting, I don’t get it? I meet them and they fucking suck balls, but at some point, they were nice and charming and normal. Well, most of them anyway if we put aside the one from today. Yes, it was in this very case a lapse of judgement on my part but the dick pic, not that I condone it or even liked it, intrigued me. It was a good one. Not his -also his cousin’s from my understanding, don’t ask me how he got that. But a nicely shot one, by clearly a professional, and I thought vaguely that maybe a guy that knew what he wanted, was so confident in his own attributes, might be a good option for my slow prude ass.

A mistake.

“Why are you so desperate to date?” Yoongi’s nose bridge scrunches up so tight, the round tip of his nose seems to try to meet the low frown of his dark eyebrows. I almost wish out loud for his stupid face to stay stuck in that position. He wouldn’t be any less irritating but at least, slightly cuter. And he hates cute.

“Desperate? I- Yoongi, do you know for how long I haven’t dated? I’m human, I get lonely!” I can’t help my voice to raise a few octaves. If I hold in more of my frustration, I’m sure I’ll end up doing something terrible and impossible to undo like crying, for example. “Don’t you?”

He shrugs. His expression has softened back into his regular blank one as he just contemplates in front of him. Not really me, not really the small coffee table or the carpet. I’m about to pry a word from him when his phone starts vibrating furiously on his desk. Turning hardly enough to check from over his shoulder, he looks then presses the screen turning it back to black.

Maybe I should leave now. I’m more upset than I thought myself to be. Which is so stupid. I couldn’t care less about that Bamboum guy or whatever his real name was. I still feel pretty stupid except more stupid than pretty and kind of helpless. Taehyung was going to be annoying as fuck if I had chosen to go seek him, but it was a mistake to even think Yoongi would, in any way, make me feel better. I should have clung to someone else like Jungkook or something. “How’s your ass?” I can’t even attempt to hide the startle his low voice, erupting after such a long painfully silent moment, provokes me along with the mention of the incident. Because it has to be what he is referring to.

Yoongi, still sitting in his chair, knees spread wide like he is trying to prove he owns the whole place as if I don’t already know from the multiple apparitions of his stage name all over the walls and shelves, ponders me, awaiting patiently for an answer. He has the faint shadow of a growing smirk painting his pink lips. He looks at me like he knows he’ll get an answer. He’s decided he’ll have one. Squeezing my fists tight to try and conceal the tension in my voice, I start, “Why are you mentioning this now?”

“I haven’t seen you since. Just inquiring.”

His voice is strained by a faint amusement. It’s lighthearted, I’m pretty sure. I, therefore, decide to just ignore it. Because what the hell does he want me to say anyway? That it felt alright on the way home but the sting was almost unbearable when I woke the next day and that I couldn’t even spend a minute without being reminded of his ministrations for the following three days as any movement, any brush of material against my skin, awoke the burn.

Yeah, sure.

Yoongi chuckles. He sees me looking down at my hands, turning mortified and embarrassed, and he decides it’s enough teasing. He grabs his phone, checking the time quickly.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes, we ate at a restaurant.” I grumble, eyes still not raised enough to have to acknowledge his upsetting face.

“You ate with the guy? What's wrong with you?”

And here I realize why, maybe, I'm blessed by his usual lack of responses. Maybe I should try and actually cry in front of the guy, I know him to have something of a soft heart hidden somewhere. The one that winks when he expects it the less, when he lets his guard down. I could try and trigger it. Maybe he'll be less of an ass then.

“I'm not- what was I supposed to do? I'm not a bitch.”

“It's not about you being a bitch, it's about raising your standards a bit, damn...”

“D'you remember me explaining you, like 5 seconds ago, why I didn't want to see Tae right now?” He's rendered speechless. I don't know if it's from my doing or his own but he just stays there, exchanging a knowing look with me. I think he's giving in. He realizes that maybe he's being too much of an ass for what I can take.

Yoongi then swirls around on his chair. I start gathering my few belongings, assuming I'm being dismissed since he's starting to type away on his computer again but he startles me when he grabs the little stool, hidden under his desk, to drag it on the floor and set it next to his own chair. His other arm reaches out to unplug his headphones, while he throws out in the air, “Wanna listen what I've been working on?”

I gasp aloud, voice squealing a bit, as my heart is seized by a shock wave of excitement. YES, I DO. Anything else, any concern or growing grudges just annihilate all together when I jump on the little stool, unable to contain my grin and watching with wide eager eyes the screen displaying a music editing software I’ve seen him used multiple time before.

His lips are stretched by a tiny smile when he clicks a few times until the first notes drop. While I’m appreciating, mouth agape, all attention on the sample, Min Yoongi lays back in his chair, the back of his head leaning impossibly far to stare at the ceiling, his long milky neck exposed. It lasts about 30 seconds but those are the wildest seconds I’ve ever experienced. The sample is a bop. It’s that mix between heavy languish bass and a light melody alike an oriental traditional instrument, added to intricacies faint, subtle that my ignorant and so impressionable dumb brain can’t but feel without really deciphering. It’s different from what the band makes. More mature and hefty in a way. Something Agust D would manage well but then again, it has a delicacy to it that doesn’t really fit to his dark, raw character.

And here again I’m astonished by the extent of his talent as an artist, being able to surprise and reinvent himself while still producing something -and I know it’s just a snippet of a song that is far from actually existing yet but damn it is- that phenomenal. 30 seconds is very short of a time to convince someone your song will be a hit. But it’s enough there to fucking blow me away. I’d ask him to save this on an hour loop for me to take home if only he were not looking at me with this expression.

That’s so Yoongi. His mouth shut won’t say a thing but his eyes are very talkative except I’m missing a lot of words. He’s put his hat on, swiping his hair backwards, exposing his dark set of straight eyebrows so that his eyes are back to being sharp and dark, soft in the fineness of their upper line’s course but raw and assertive in expression.

“Yoongi, it’s-“ There’s a sudden drilling sound cutting me off and making me jump on my stool. It’s his phone again. Sliding on his chair to get closer, he reaches over me to check it quickly and shut it off under my curious eyes. When he leans back, leaving a breeze of a too common yet nice male cologne on his path, his attention doesn’t waver from my face as if trying to make it out into something or figure something out of it.

“You were saying?” He mutters, his knee lightly bumping into my thigh. What was I saying? Is it happening again? Is his studio cursed or something? Maybe for someone who wouldn’t know him he’d look cold, almost mean from how uninterested his facial expression is looking. But to me, who’s had my fair share of Yoongi's not-so-wide spectrum of different attitudes, he’s being exceptionally present.

The way his whole attention is silently driven to me, how he actually asks me to speak, and the proximity -my legs pulled tight together so they don’t dare brush against his, squaring them- he doesn’t hint to wanting to pull away from. It feels nice but awfully intimidating. I could spend a whole afternoon annoying the crap out of him, stuck to his backside like a piece of gum to a shoe, if he barely acknowledges me enough to make me feel like we're still making progress in this friendship, we’re getting somewhere. But this I'm not used to, and it feels like it's too much.

“I- I think it's incredible...” His fingers reach behind his head, scratching the hair there, while a locked-lips smile draws itself on his face.

“There's a lot of things left to do. It won't do like that...” He's the genius artist and producer. And I don't know shit about music. So no matter how bad I want to express my adoration for this sample, how bad I want him to not change anything except if it's to add his low, charismatic voice, I decide not to get into it. I've observed him from beginning to almost end of making and editing a piece, a few times, and it's not the first time a very early version seems like the one to me. He wouldn't really listen, though. And that's probably the main reason for him being such a good artist. He's confident, resolute, and incredibly talented.

“Are you still feeling lonely?” I feel better. Him sharing something as meaningful as his music with me sure cured my mood immensely. That being said, the feeling of unsatisfaction and the creeping hopelessness in regards to the future of my dating life, are just hovering in the back of my head, shadowing like a pre-thunder cloud.

It seems like I caught his bad habit of expressing only crumbles of the full extent of my thoughts and emotions. I shrug. Nod, fidget a bit. “What does that mean? What do you need?” The tip of his forefinger is teasing the pink of his bottom lip, smoothing the skin out, while he just ponders me and probably his own questions.

Blushing furiously, I'm quick to stutter, “I don't need anything...” Because I think I know what he's implying. There was no warning but I think I recognize the switch, subtle and so sudden, just like last time. The difference here is that, instead of having me on all fours, unable to see his ominous expression, he is facing me full-on with his demand and his intonation, lower, lazier, more languorous, he's perspiring this odd feeling coming straight from the curious place his mind has taken him. And once again, he's taking me there and while it's tempting, it's also terrifying. Maybe too scary for me to indulge in.

“You don't?” Yoongi's eyebrows raise high. He pouts, tilting his head to the side, eyes diverting away breaking all of the heavy tension streaming between us, “Alright...” And as soon as his burning gaze leaves me, the cold hits me like a harsh winter breeze.

“Actually I do! Sorry, I do.”

There’s a silent agreement passing between us. I’m not sure if it’s him being so loud and opinionated about what he wants that make it so I understand him, as opposed as us just getting each other now, but it feels so pleasing.

Yoongi raises from his chair, sharp eyes glowing like a wolf's gaze in a kid's nightmare. He’s so scary in a way. He’s like the terrifying werewolf with no hidden agenda, bloody quest exposed right in the open, except I want to fall right in between his pointy canines.

Yoongi throws a quick glance to the closed door of his studio before his incisive eyes find me again. He looks so intimidating from up there, I want to ask him to at least take his stupid hat off.

When he grabs my chin in between his fingers, I’m sweating bullets, heart losing it in a feast of tachycardia, wondering how the big wolf is going to eat me up, and why the hell did I think for a second it was a good idea. Yoongi simply kisses me. Simply being the keyword. Softly, he presses his lips against mine, adding enough pressure to turn the butterfly switch on but nothing more just yet.

Parting away to look for something in my eyes, I catch a glimpse of his pink tongue swiping over his lips before they stretch into a pretty smile. Is that what Yoongi needs to smile? Intimacy?

But then he’s grabbing me by the hand, lifting me to my feet, meeting my mouth again more roughly, more insistent, dragging tiny whines from deep within, carving his fingerprints in the flesh of my waist. I’m impossibly close to him, feeling the hard edges of his belt digging into my stomach, and I’m turned a little crazy.

I’m flushed to the tip of my hair. Wavering eyes watery, hardly making out my surroundings. My head is spinning. Maybe I’m too sensitive for this shit. It’s been some time since the last time I’ve been any close to intimate with someone, nevertheless, I’m pretty certain it has more to do with him than with the period of my inactivity. I don’t think anyone has ever made kissing so breathtaking. Those nice but rather plain and awkward kisses from before are put to shame. And who would have thought Mean Yoongi would be the one to do so?

“Is this what you need?” It’s like there’s only greed and eagerness filling me up now. I nod furiously while he cackles and I’d be annoyed if it were not for his cold hands still holding my waist. He leans in, nibbles gently on my bottom lip, “More?”

“Yes please.” He chuckles against my face and gives in to me. It's strange how different yet recognizable he feels. His body, as he crashes me against it by his grip on my ass, feels sturdy, still like a statue. It's so Yoongi. As opposed to his mouth, scorching, wet and sultry.

Where does it even come from? Was he always this way? I know, well know, that Yoongi is made of thousands of layers. More or less hidden, more or less guarded. Yet, I had no idea that he had one like this one. The way his hands knead my ass, my sides, my thighs, the way his mouth cherish mine with so much confidence and natural -when did that antisocial hermit learn to melt with someone else like so? It's like he's taken me in a hazy half-conscious-slumber, I end up waking up from once I'm straddling his lap, on the sofa.

Yoongi looks into my eyes, his even more squinted than usual. “Is this okay?” His fingers, now torrid, are teasing the hem of my shirt, not yet daring wandering under the tissue.

“Yes, touch me.” Something in his eyes clicks. I'm sure he's about to comment on my almost order but for some reasons, probably the same for my dripping panties, decides to ignore it.

It feels so strange. I was there for the whole thing, my sticky panties and flushed skin witnesses of it, yet it feels so sudden when I'm lain there, my tee thrown away, and his hands undoing my pants. It's the cold from the leather couch, shocking my naked back, the view of the ceiling I've never thought about ackowledging, I almost feel like it's too much, too weird and it shouldn't be happening. Because who is Yoongi, who am I, what are we -even though I like to slip and impose my existence into his life, and I'm sure he doesn't mind as he is one to express himself pretty well. If there is one thing that I can admire about his rudeness, it's that it doesn't come from a bad place. It comes from one of love and respect and consideration for his own person, and that's respectable. Therefore I know he would have worded it out if he really wanted me out of his way, strictly in Taehyung's hair and not bleeding on him. I guess we're friends. Sort of. Not the most intimate of friends but close enough to count on each other -if plants need watering. That's pretty big. Isn't it pretty big? Namjoon said so anyway, but it might just be because he is peculiarly serious about his own green friends.

So, as our friendship is just blooming I'd say, it still holds a dear place in my heart and I'm confused as to this whole thing being a good idea or not. Just lying there, in the cold, it feels horrible.

But then he's purring. His eyes are grazing my body, blessing every single inch of it with his attention, pink tongue poking at the side of his half-opened mouth, and he's purring. It's that other very Yoongi thing: a mix between a hum and a moan, coming right through his pretty crimson lips like a big cat's purr. He does it all the time, unconscious of it, and hearing it warms my heart with a blanket of reassurance. I could not say if it's the familiarity or his heated gaze, either way, I know I want it. The consequences will have to be dealt with later on.

(“Beautiful.” It's so quiet. Not meant for me to hear but I can make it out from the way his lips wrap around the word.)

Yoongi is not a douche. A little bit, but certainly far from enough to break my heart. Why do I even bother worrying?

I jump off of the couch, my hands joining his on my jeans to get me ridden off the now offensive clothing quicker. He feels the switch. His eyes bore into mine with a glint, eyebrows slightly raised and a smirk showing off his cute turtle teeth. Jumping back on his lap, I kiss his mouth, wanting to catch his pretty smile.

How lucky I am. How wonderful it feels to have this man dive his whole precious attention on me.

“I really want you, Yoongi.” I say because he needs to know, especially when he's lowering his head slightly to avoid meeting my intense eyes directly. I'm sure if Yoongi was one to blush, his soft cheeks would be covered in crimson. He can't handle the compliment, I can tell. Maybe I should make fun of him but I don't want to when I look down at his beautiful hands, white as snow, streaked with large veins, looking so nice on me. Therefore, I don't say anything and he deems it's time to start again.

His thumb falls over my panties, pressing nicely right on my buddle of nerve. I exhale, loudly, as he circles over it. My hands titillate at the hem of his black tee, hoping he'll hint at taking it off. Of course, he doesn't, even makes me forget about it by slipping his whole hand in my panties, his mouth eagerly attaching back to my gaping lips. It feels delectable, my clit sitting perfectly in the pit of his warm palm while his fingers dip in between my wet folds, teasing my entry. And when he finally indulges in it, my craving hole sucks his bony fingers in. I gasp messing up my breathing, he smiles in the kiss, already adding a second finger. It's a tight fit. His fingers are not that large, quite long and angular, but it's been some time and I can't help my walls from clamping around him each time the thought of Min Yoongi having his fingers buried deep in my cunt floats in my messy consciousness.

“Yoongi, I really want you.”

“I know.” He mumbles, lips pressed against the corner of my mouth. He doesn't understand though.

I'm humping on his lap now, helping his fingers fucking me by riding them but the slow, lazy course along my neck hint at something I don't want. He wants to take his time. I'm not up for it though. Taking off his hat without thinking it over, my hands reach to smooth his bleached hair down. He's watching me with big curious eyes while I arrange them on his forehead. Yoongi looks soft again. His white gold locks are falling low under his eyebrows. Hard to be intimidated by this look, so I demand, “I mean now, please.”

Yoongi slips his hand out of my panties -my mouth falls into a pout on reflex, thinking he's going to be mean again-, and grabs his belt to tear it open. Holding me by his free arm wrapped around my back, he raises up enough to free himself from his jeans. I land back, flushed as ever, my heart burning in my chest from how hard and fast it beats. His cock, snow white except for the tip, flushed and shiny with precum, appears to me. The way his hand slides along it, firm and harsh, hints at how hard he is. It feels indecent, this moment, him stroking himself so close to me, a hand on my hip, his eyes deep in mines. “Do you have a condom?” I stutter.

He reaches for the little drawer of the coffee table, catching one and proceeding to put him on. Why would he have condoms in his studio? In the coffee table?

“Aren't you glad I do?” Yoongi asks, a smug smirk painting his face. His pointer slips under the crotch of my panties, dragging to the side to uncover my sex. He gives me a soft kiss. “Sure?”

I have to literally violent myself into not rolling my eyes to the back of my head. I do a bad job apparently, as he groans something I'm pretty sure to be a cuss, lifting me up to have me sink down on him in one go.

I'm glad to see he's as affected as me. He's pressing his lips compressed together, frowned eyebrows peeking out through his fringe. And I wonder what words, maybe insanities, he'd be saying if he wasn't trying so hard to conceal any sound from leaving his mouth. It takes me what feels like an eternity before I feel safe enough to start moving, sliding slowly up and down his shaft. From the way his grip on my hips had getting mordacious, he was not ready to have me slide on him which I kind of love to think about. I'm quite impatient, greedy on the edges. But the stimulation is vivid. Overwhelming. He's not only buried deep in my cunt, but he's also clouding my mind, making my brain lag, burning my heart in a bitter-sweet fire at each wet kisses to my face, each purr in my ear.

“Come on...” He groans, one of his hand befalling hard on my ass cheek. “Fuck me-”

“Yoongi-” I ride him harder, meeting his thrusts, helping him graze that triggering spot, blending my moans with his. He tries to stay quiet, I can tell, but fails miserably. His face is hidden in my hair, his mouth attached to my ear, I can hear the full extent of the erratic breathing and his groans and his purrs. Fisting his sweat-soaked tee, I whine shamelessly, “I'm almost-”

“Come- come for me.” My fingers hardly touch my clit before I'm exploding around him. He lashes our mouths, catching my cry and swallowing it in, before he growls from the back of his throat, teeth accidentally biting hard on my lip. “Shit.”

It takes a little while for us to come down from the high. I can't help but keep languishingly riding, caressing the back of his hair and placing thankful kisses on his cheeks and jaw. His rough hands smooth my skin out, from my shoulders to my thighs, he's so gentle, refusing to slip out of my warmth and my cheeks flush from the thought alone.

“You're not gonna say thanks?”

“Min Yoongi!”

“You look way less miserable than you did earlier.” He comments, observing me slipping my tee back on, crimson abused lips stretching on his turtle grin. “Should say thanks.”

“You sleeping here?” Sleeping here? I can't even imagine the discussion over logistics. Sleeping in his studio? In his bed? On the living room couch? What about the fucking morning? I furiously shake my head no. “Hm. Text me when you get home.” He says as he or another one of the 6 other young men living in the dorm says each time I leave this place relatively late in the evening.

So it should be it. I don't know if I'm disappointed or not. I am waiting for something else, yet without really knowing what I have to admit. As I open the door to leave, waving my hand awkwardly his way, he grabs it, brings me to him to place a sweet peck on my mouth. “Text me.” I wish he'd say more but that's Mean Yoongi. It’s fine because this time I’m sure he means more.

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