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Summary
He thinks with a level of introspection that has no business existing at this particular moment, clean and simple: the cock plunging into him like it's trying to find the exit to his throat belongs to the person he is going to love for the rest of his life. Not for the duration of the tour, not for whatever stretch of years their arrangement holds, not contingently or conditionally.
The rest of his life.
Which sounds, he acknowledges dimly, extremely bleak when stated that plainly.
It doesn't feel bleak right now.
Right now it feels like kindling, feeding the heat in his stomach, feeding the fuse. His thighs are shaking properly now, his back arching off the car, Yoongi’s hand on his cock hasn’t stopped, hasn’t slowed, and the fuse burns down just as Jimin thinks, helplessly: the rest of his life.
And he tips over the edge.
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