Hoseok: oh yeah, I have two cats, but I am not going to show them on camera or even tell their names because they deserve privacy-
Yoongi: YO EVERYONE DITCH WHATEVER SHIT YOU WERE DOING AND LOOK AT MY CAT! HIS NAME IS TANG, HE IS 3 YEARS OLD AND NOW I SHALL SPEND THIS ENTIRE LIVESTREAM SMACKING HIS TINY BUTT AND YOU WILL WATCH IT, EVERYONE TYPE HOW BEAUTIFUL HE IS NOW
Once again I am in awe of you're writing h&b is chef's kiss K I am so excited for what the next year of ktown will bring I hope you're enjoying your day!
Marnz, you asked the right... umm ask.
Here's a tiny preview of ktown's 2026 lineup, but this is just between you and me, okay?
From the current fics, of course I have:
Hot & Bothered
Saving Private Jeon
Staring the year with:
Kiss & Tell - my NYE collab fic
Then, I am revisiting our lovely Haneul and Teacher Sarang with:
Love & Lullabies Act 2
LSK Villain Era is about to be in full swing. How’s MC supposed to handle it when HYBE asks Yoongi to lean into the dating rumors?
I also have some new stuff I am working on:
Loud & Clear
Erotica voice over artist!Yoongi x plus size!reader; inspired by an imagine from @tea4sykes and anon request
Borrowed & Blue
Wedding drabble - will let ktownies~ decide which fic through a poll!
Smoke & Mirrors
The angst fic I previously posted about. Idol!Yoongi x choreo!MC; for @glossdebut
Daechwita: The Drama
The k-drama Laboongi is obsessed with. Requested by @angellekookie; suggested by @rottingbedpost
I think it sucks that you have to go to so many different kinds of doctor to take care of yourself. It's the 21st century. I should be able to go to a single office where they scan me with a big xerox machine and tell me what I'm allergic to and why my tummy hurts and if I have any cancer or cavities or if my glasses prescription has changed. And then I should get a sticker.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Situationship, idol!au, ansgt, smut, coworkers, love triangle maybe
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: For months, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end, until someone new makes you wonder if you should.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 250ish
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes : A few months ago I held a mini contest within my fic Nerd & Nerdier which is to guess which MVs I referenced when Yoongi and MC where gossiping about their neighbors. The winner was none other than @glossdebut who picked her genre of choice.
Here’s a tiny preview of the angsty little thing.
TAGLIST IS OPEN | Masterlist
“I’m fucked up,” Yoongi’s voice slurs through the speaker.
You squint at the screen.
3:09 a.m.
Hm. It’s always around this time.
“Where are you?” you ask, voice thick with sleep.
“I’m here.”
The thing about Yoongi is here never means anything certain. With him, you’ve learned here is everywhere and nowhere all at once. An idol’s life. You made peace with it a long time ago — you take him when he shows up, and when he leaves, you pretend you don’t feel the hollow he drags behind.
You’d like to believe in out of sight, out of mind. But that’s a lie you don’t bother telling yourself anymore.
“You want me to call Seokjin?”
“Why? Still tryna sleep with him?”
And there it is, drunk and so, so unfair. Mean in the way only Yoongi can be when he’s hurting or drunk. Or both. You think this time it’s both. Finally.
A response to the text you sent last week. You thought he never read it. Now you know, he has.
You only mention Seokjin because he’s the one person who can come find Yoongi, who always has in his dumbest, darkest decisions.
“Yoongi, please,” you sigh. “Just send me your location.”
“Okay.”
Your phone buzzes. A pin drops.
And it’s your address.
You’re out of bed before you even register it, bare feet hitting the floor with a muted thud.
When you open the door, he’s already there, slouched against the hallway wall, cigarette tucked between his lips, white air curling around him like a watercolor painting.
“You’re not supposed to smoke in the hallway,” you say, more breath than scold, pushing the door wider.
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Then why are you?”
A/N: Ready for more? Drop me a note! <3
Permanent Taglist: (the rest to follow in a reblog)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x plus size female!reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: idol!au, Fluff, Smut, Drama, Whirlwind romance, Love at “second” sight
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Inspired by the events of Dday Phuket Vlog, Yoongi meets you, the island girl of his dreams, and now he can’t stop thinking about you.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Dday rockstar Yoongi, I love this MC I think she a baddie, writing might feel a little too indulgent at times, A world with no language barriers, A relevant time skip, check the dates. Sex on a boat, public sex/slight exhibitionism kink, unprotected sex (be safe!), oral (m&f), spanking, fingering, squirting (in that order lol), slight degradation and dirty talk but MC likes it, sweet pet names, tell me if I missed anything, but yeah… sex on a boat and then some, Yoongi is down atrociously bad for our curvy queen and is desperate to worship her and validate her <3
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 10k!
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Finally!!! Worked on this for months ever since some of y’all plagued me with Phuket vlog Yoongi as honeymoon hubby material and I couldn’t stop the fantasy from unfolding. It did take me a while to bang this out (I blame the Nerds), sorry. Nonetheless I hope y’all enjoy this lil slice of paradise. 💜 Thank you Aqua for betareading.
🗓️ June 2023 - 📍Phuket, Thailand
The air smells like salt and sunlight, a mix you’ve grown so accustomed to that it no longer feels special. Just another Tuesday workday on the Andaman Sea.
It’s nice and calm out today, barely a ripple on the surface. There’s a light breeze from the southwest, nothing too exciting, just enough to keep things cool. No storm on the radar, and the water's warm enough for a good snorkelling sesh. Basically, a perfect day to fall in love (with the sea).
Your usual clients are giddy tourists, high on Tiger beer and oyster omelets. But today seems quieter, more chill somehow, even though your group today is unlike your typical clientele. Today, you were asked to sign an NDA.
The rest of the group has boarded already. Some seven men and women that comprise a group of musicians currently in town for their concert tour. Now, you’re just waiting for the last member to join. The VIP, apparently.
So who’s the diva?
Well, after 15 minutes, he finally decides to grace you with his presence.
“Min Yoongi?” you call tentatively.
He nods, barely glancing up as he steps onto the boat. A quick bow, respectful but distracted. You direct him to a seat near the stern, his cologne lingering in the air as he passes you.
To be fair, he’s not flashy, no monogram logos in sight, no jewelry, or any other loud proclamations of being the proverbial shit. Dressed in a black and white shirt with a plain black rash guard and shorts, a baseball cap tugged low over his eyes, he could’ve been mistaken for anyone. But there seems to be a deliberate nature in how he moves, careful and understated, like he’s trying to avoid notice but not entirely succeeding.
Swag can’t be faked, even if he did walk a little bit like your grandpa. Those New Balance slides? Yeah, you’ve seen it in your halbeoji’s home.
You turn to speak with Soomchai from the coast guard—a moderately cranky but well-meaning old man who’s been doing this for decades. He scratches at his scalp through his faded fisherman’s hat as you hand him the passenger manifest.
“You’re staring too hard,” he quips, licking the pad of his index before flipping the pages.
Huh? “I’m not.” You say.
“So they’re famous, eh?” he reviews the names on the clipboard, surreptitiously glancing over your shoulder.
You look behind you, half of them are already asleep, half basically on their phones.
“One of them, yeah. You know BTS?”
His face remains unchanged as he counts the passengers. “I don’t and I don’t trust the lot of them. Want me to accompany you?”
“Loong Soomchai,” you smile at the man who has taken you under his wing since you moved here last year. “Chill. Besides, I have a black belt in taekwondo, if you already forgot. I can easily toss them overboard, then they’ll really be your problem.”
“Aish,” he waves a dismissive hand at you. “I’m on line 3. Stay safe.”
“Roger, that,” you speak into your hand-held radio, your voice blaring on the receiver tucked into the older man’s cargo shorts.
Soomchai’s slouched frame disappears as the boat pulls away from the dock. You brace your legs and adjust your stance. The boat shifts beneath you—but you don’t. Learning how to move with the water, how to balance your weight just right, was something that came with time.
Before you officially start the tour, you check your rash guard, snug across your chest, and smooth down the high-waisted swim shorts that you are wearing. You’re quite happy with your fashion choice today. It made you feel like a Bond girl—but curvier, tougher, more badass.
Usually, you would take a moment to observe your audience, make eye contact and exchange smiles to open the communication. Your VIP, though, sits with his arms resting on his thighs, gaze fixed on the water as though it holds answers to questions only he knows. You wonder if he’s the type to make small talk or if he’d prefer you stayed silent.
Still, it’s your job to guide, to narrate, to fill the spaces between the silence and the sea. You start with the usual pleasantries and introductions, your go-to joke to break the ice, and you’re off.
“If you look to the right,” you gesture, “you’ll see Koh Tapu. You may have heard of it as James Bond Island, because a scene from The Man with the Golden Gun was filmed there.”
A polite murmur rises from the other guests. Some snap photos. Min Yoongi doesn’t look up.
You let the silence stretch, wondering if you should say more. It’s not often you get guests like him—someone who seems so unbothered, yet weighed down at the same time.
It isn’t until you glance back at him again that you realize he’s watching you now, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his cap. Caught, you quickly look away, focusing instead on the shimmering turquoise of the water.
“How many times have you done this tour before?”
The question surprises you. You’re not sure if you should be offended, but you answer swiftly anyway. “Hundreds of times,” you admit with a shrug. “But the sea changes every day. It’s never exactly the same.”
You smile at him, genuine. “I imagine it’s a bit like your concerts. You practice it a thousand times, but it's still different in every show, every city, every audience… Makes things interesting.”
Something in your words seems to resonate with him. He leans back slightly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “I get that,” he says softly, more to himself than to you.
After that, you noticed Yoongi’s guard begin to lower. He’d nod occasionally at your explanations, even ask a question here and there—about the history of a limestone karst or the kinds of fish they might see while snorkeling. His voice was quiet, with a faint rasp from overuse that made him clear his throat now and then.
“You know this fish?” Yoongi asks, holding out his phone to show you a screenshot.
“Wow, that’s beautiful…” you lean forward slightly.
He coughs a bit, scratching the back of his neck as he leans back. “Yeah, uh, they said it’s native to these parts.”
“I’m not familiar,” you squint. “Can you send me the photo? I can ask one of the other guides—I’m still no expert on marine life, I fear.”
There’s a pause. He gives you a look you can’t quite read, brows slightly raised, lips pressed in something not quite a smile. But it’s not disapproving either. Just...
Oh shit. You just asked for his number. Or to exchange Kakao. Same thing. You basically asked to link up.
Such an idiot. A flush creeps up your neck. Stupid, stupid girl. You weren’t thinking. God, he probably thinks you’re trying to pull a fast one on him—playing the helpful guide when really, you just wanted an excuse.
People don’t just ask for Yoongi’s number. Of course not. Unless they’re someone. You hope he doesn’t file a complaint after this.
You straighten, your voice a little brighter, a bit too eager to salvage what’s left of your professionalism. “But, um, actually, no need. We’ll see a ton of species later when we get near the caverns. I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for that one.”
“Mmh.” He nods. You can’t quite tell if it’s thoughtful or distracted by your word vomit.
But as you turn to walk across the deck, you can feel his eyes burning holes on your back. Low on your back. Maybe lower even.
Should you look? Maybe you’re just imagining it.
You chance a quick glance. And your eyes meet his. Looking at you with an interesting glint. His lips lift slightly. You tilt your head, curious. Pulse racing. Giddy.
Okay, maybe your job is safe after all. But your heart? Eh.
When you serve them a plate of watermelon slices, the group’s energy shifts. One of them jokes about how they should’ve brought soju, while another eagerly reaches for a piece, groaning in satisfaction the moment he tastes it.
You place the tray in front of Yoongi, and he immediately plucks a slice. He bites into it, and for the first time all morning, you see a full-blown smile—pretty enamals and pink gums on show.
“Good?” you asked, unable to stop your own grin from forming.
He nodded, wiping his thumb along the corner of his mouth. “It’s perfect.”
“What’s your favorite fruit?” you throw out a neutral question as you struggle to ignore the stray liquid he’s trying to chase down with his tongue.
“Tangerines,” he replies. “The ones from Jeju Island are the best. Have you ever been?”
“No, unfortunately.”
There was a beat of silence before he adds, almost to himself, “But this… this is nice.”
He pushes the plate towards you. “You should have one.”
“Ah, maybe later.”
“Don’t be shy,” the plate moves another inch closer. You pick up a slice, mumbling a thanks.
Sugar fills your mouth as you sink your teeth on the watermelon, juice dribbling on the side of your lip which you immediately catch with your tongue.
Unlike you though, he’s watching. Openly. Shamelessly. The way his eyes dart from your mouth to your eyes is not lost on you and you can’t help but feel excitement pooling in your belly.
“Sweet.” you remark, before sucking the juice from your thumb. Baiting him.
He smirks, “Looks like it.”
“You always flirt using fruit?”
“You’re the one licking your lips.”
You grin.
As a tour guide, you’re used to the art of the harmless flirt. It comes with the job—tourists with sun-soaked nerves and too much vacation confidence, tossing compliments like loose change. You’ve learned how to play along just enough, to keep things light, fun. A wink here, a tease there. Part of the act. People like feeling charming, and you don’t mind giving them the illusion.
But this feels different.
Right now, it’s just you, the sea, and this idol watching you like he’s the one mesmerized.
And maybe it shouldn’t matter, the way his gaze lingers—not over the places you’ve been taught to hide, but the ones you’ve learned to own. The dip of your waist. The curve of your hip where your swim shorts sit snug.
There’s something about being looked at like this—not with hunger or pity, but with curiosity, appreciation, even. And it makes you want to keep his gaze a little longer.
‘Cause you know who he is. You’d recognized the name when you saw it on the manifest and when you signed the documents. He’s an idol. Part of Bangtan Fuckin’ Sonyeondan. A man with a carefully manicured image, a life guarded by rabid fans, dissected by media men with too many opinions, surrounded by sexy, slender women.
You’d think men like him don’t get to have ‘normal’ moments like this. They don’t make casual conversations about fish or share food with a rando. But here he is, acting like this is real. And god, why does it feel like it might be?
Honestly, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re not the only one who knows the art of the harmless flirt. Maybe he’s not even that interested.
But you’re gonna play along. See where this goes. At least for now.
Later, after anchoring in a secluded cove, you bring out the snorkeling gear. Most of your guests dive in with ease, their laughter echoing as they race toward the reef. Yoongi lingers on the boat, fiddling with the straps of his mask.
“Need help?” you ask, stepping closer.
He looks up, sheepish. “Is it that obvious?”
You laugh softly. “A little. Here, let me.”
He hands you the mask, watching as you adjust the straps. His gaze feels heavier now, like it’s searching for something beyond the simple act of fixing the gear.
You’re used to people skimming past you with their eyes, but when Yoongi looks, you feel like your skin is on fire. His gaze dips, just for a second, on the spot where the zipper of your top sits against your boobs. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t smirk—probably thinks he’s being sly. But you’re on to him.
“You’ve done this before, right?” you check, eyes teasing, as you pass the mask back to him.
He shrugs. “A long time ago. I’m out of practice.”
“Good thing I’m here.” You flash him a reassuring smile and step into the water, gesturing for him to follow.
You surface and nod. He hesitates only briefly before jumping in—but his foot slips slightly on the boat’s edge, and he lands with an ungraceful splash and shriek that echoes across the cove. You can’t stop the laugh that bursts out.
“Grand entrance,” you say, grinning as he surfaces with a shy expression.
“Glad I could entertain you,” he mutters, pushing his wet hair back, and if that isn’t one of the sexiest actions you’ve ever seen done by any human being. God.
“Here.” You take a chance to reach for his hand, and to your mild surprise and relief, he takes it. “Just relax. The water will do most of the work.”
He follows your lead, his fingers tightening slightly around yours as you float together. The reef comes into view below, vibrant and teeming with life. You glance at him, his face half-hidden by the snorkel mask, and find him watching you instead of the reef.
“You’re missing the best part,” you pull your hand away, pointing toward the colorful fish darting between the coral.
“Am I?”
You take your mask off only to roll your eyes. “Are you always this smooth?”
He pulls the mouthpiece out just enough to smirk at you. “Only when it works.”
You couldn’t help the giggle that escapes you.
“Admit it,” he says, leaning closer, his voice low. “You’re having fun.”
You don’t deny it. Instead, you start wading away, gesturing towards the reef. “Come on. The fish are much better company.”
Back on the boat, the atmosphere is lighter. Yoongi is more relaxed now, his earlier distance replaced by a quiet warmth. As you steer toward the island for lunch, you feel his gaze on you again.
When you glance over, he doesn’t look away this time.
“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing,” he says, though his lips twitch into an understated smile.
At the island, the group disembarks for lunch, their excitement palpable. Yoongi lingers by the railing, his gaze flickering between you and the others.
“Come with us,” he says, his voice low enough that the others don’t hear.
You shake your head, smiling apologetically. “I can’t. Protocol.”
He looks as though he wants to argue, because he seems like the type that gets everything he wants, but resignedly nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Next time, then.”
“Next time,” you echo, though you’re not sure if you believe it.
While they eat, you stay behind on the boat, finishing your own lunch, which one of the island ahjummas hands you as soon as you dock. There’s still some leftover watermelon, so you have it for dessert. It’s sweeter than any you have had all summer, but not sweet enough to distract you from the thought spinning in your head: Did the Min Yoongi really just invite you to join their group for lunch?
He was probably just being polite. Right? But then why did he stare at your lips for ten whole seconds when you were exploring the caves?
Fuck. You really need to get Lasik because your eyes cannot be trusted. Maybe a psychiatric evaluation too, while you’re at it.
Who are you kidding? At this point you can only afford the oh-so ahjumma-chic wide-brim hat so your lone brain cell is not fried by the sun.
BUT. Why does it feel like you had a connection?
Him with his kind eyes and that sexy smile. You’re so fucked.
Shaking your head, you grab a beer from the cooler and chug it, the cold brew doing its damnednest to wash down your delusions. For a moment, the only sound is from waves against the boat’s hull.
But then, footsteps.
You glance over your shoulder.
Yoongi is walking into the shaded area of the boat, pushing damp strands of hair with his beautiful fingers.
“Hey,” you say, clocking that he’s coming in alone. Your pulse races.
“Hi.”
“Craving more watermelon?” you ask, smiling as you gesture to the plate.
He leans against the table, his gaze steady, but there’s something else there. “I was,” he says, his voice softer now, “but I think I’m craving something else.”
Your breath stutters. The plate in your hand feels heavier. The tips of his fingers brushes along the edge of the table as he walks closer, and closer.
“There’s, uh, more delicacies on the island,” you try to use your tour guide voice, but you’re faltering. “Thailand has, umm, over 1,000 species of fruit, you know…”
“Mmm.” A faint smirk touches his lips, but his eyes are fixed on you. He’s literally in front of you now, so close that the air is sucked out of your lungs. You notice every macro detail—the faint streaks of sunscreen on his cheek, the fine grains of sand clinging to his hair, the way his scent is a mix of the sun and the ocean and his own musk. And those lips. Goddamn those lips.
“What is it that you like?” you ask, your voice small and shy as he studies you, too.
“I think I prefer,” he murmurs, before leaning in. “This.”
His kiss sparks upon contact against your mouth. His lips are a little chapped, but still soft. A hand slips around the back of your neck, guiding you closer until your lips part, and his tongue slides in. There’s not one second of hesitation, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
You angle your head and kiss him back, a little messy, a little breathless. It’s not the kind of kiss meant for daylight, not while you’re at work, not something that belongs on a boat in open water, but fuck if it ain’t so goddamn good you forget where the hell you are.
His other hand settles on your middle, firm, squeezing against your soft waist. You’re keenly aware of every place your bodies meet—your chest against his damp shirt, your thigh brushing his leg, the faint heat radiating off his skin in the humid air.
You’ve never done this. Nope. Not while working. Not with guests, especially. But Yoongi doesn’t feel like a guest anymore. Doesn’t feel like a fantasy or a celebrity or whatever version of himself the world thinks he is.
He doesn’t feel new–like someone you just met. It sounds crazy that you connected on a level that doesn’t quite match the short amount of time since you’ve exchanged names. You can’t even correct your actions at this point. Not when he tastes like coconut and you’re slipping farther away from clarity.
Your hands move on instinct, sliding up under his shirt, fingers tangling in the sticky strands at the nape of his neck. “Yoongi…” His name escapes you like a plea, like you’re already wrecked—and maybe you are.
His tongue strokes yours, and it’s incredibly filthy how he’s sucking it into his mouth like he wants to own it. Own you. You moan. Your knees weaken. Your brain empties. The only thing you can feel is him—his mouth, his breath, the growing pressure of his body against yours.
Fingers are slipping under the hem of your shorts, gripping you behind with no hesitation.
“This ass,” he mutters, then smacks, and the sound cracks in the air. Your breath catches, a gasp hitching from your throat as slickness floods your bikini bottoms.
“Shit–somebody might see us,”
“Nah, nobody else is gonna come here,” he pauses, smirks. “Except you, twice. Then, me.”
The confidence. “Oh my God.”
“We ‘bout to break protocol.” He squeezes your ass again, groaning into your neck. “You want this?” he rasps. His lips latch onto your throat, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “Tell me.”
“Fuck, yes,” you breathe. “Come…”
You grab his hand and lead him toward the hatch, pulling it open and motioning for him to climb down. He does without question, dropping to the lower deck with a soft thud.
You grip the ladder, descending slowly, legs already shaky with anticipation. But before you can hit the floor, his hands are on your thick thighs, firm. Squeezes once.
“Stop,” he commands. “Face me.”
Your heart stutters, but you obey, turning to face him as you grip the edge of the floor deck which is now at your eye level.
“What are you—?”
“You keep an eye out,” he says, voice low and dark with intent. “I'm just gonna eat you out real quick.”
Your breath catches—shocked, aroused, completely undone.
He curls his fingers into your waistband, tugging your shorts and bikini bottoms down in one smooth motion. A gust of humid air brushes your exposed skin as your knees nearly give out.
But you don’t get a second to process, because his mouth is already on you, making out with your pussy lips. His tongue licks a long, hot stripe through your folds, and your nearly fucking cum right there.
The metal ladder is cool against your ass as you struggle for balance. Your grip tightens on the deck, knuckles almost white. His hand slides up to part your thighs just a little more, anchoring you open for him. You feel his hot breath, before his tongue dives back in—savoring, circling, sucking.
You panic—just briefly. You spent hours in the ocean. You probably taste like—
“Mmm,” he hums against you, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. His grip on your thigh is a bit harsh as if he could read your mind that you wanted to squirm out of his grasp.
There is something so incredibly arousing about feeling him, but not seeing him. Hearing him, but not touching him. As if the sensations are heightened. Every feeling more palpable because of sense deprivation.
Next thing you know his fingers are teasing your entrance, collecting the slick from your pussy.
You feel a wet tap against the side of your mouth and words aren't needed as you suck his digits in. You’re drunk of your own taste and heady scent, the feel of his bony knuckles massaging your tongue tipping you closer to the edge.
But then his fingers are gone and you almost want to bite it down but then he slides it into your cunt and Christ alive.
He is moving in and out of you so shallowly, just knuckle-deep, the pads of his fingers barely scraping your inner walls. You move your arms to grip the ladder behind you, giving you the leverage to rock forward, coaxing it inner, deeper.
Fuck is he laughing right now?!
You halt your movements as you hear a throaty chuckle from underneath you.
“Why’d you stop,” he teases, kissing up the softness on the inside of your thighs.
“Hook your thigh over my shoulder,” he mumbles against your soaked heat, voice low and so filthy it makes your whole body tense.
You do as he says. Your leg lifts shakily, your body is burning with the exertion but his hand is already there, steadying you, guiding you, draping it over the curve of his shoulder like you don’t weigh nothing.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, just before his tongue dives back in.
It’s messier now. His fingers pump deeper, faster, the pace almost punishing as they curl inside you, finding that spongey spot that makes your thighs seize. His tongue flicks over your clit in short, relentless strokes, matching the rhythm of his fingers.
You cry out—loud, desperate, your hand gripping the ladder like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. Your hips jerk, trying to escape, but he growls and tightens his hold, tongue moving even faster.
“Fuck, Yoongi—I’m gonna—”
And then it hits. A blinding, body-shaking orgasm that tears through you so violently your vision goes white. You scream as your legs almost gives out, but his arm braces your hips as you fuckin’ squirt, soaking his chin, his neck, the tops of his shoulders.
He lets out a surprised, delighted laugh, breath hot and sticky as he looks up at you.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes glazed, chin glistening. “You squirted all over me, you dirty girl.”
You whimper, half-mortified, half-high, your body still twitching. “Sorry…” you squeak.
His tongue darts out to taste the corner of his mouth, and he grins—smirks, really. Completely pleased with himself. “Don’t. Sexiest thing I’ve seen in a while.”
You’re trembling so hard you can barely stay upright, your leg slipping from his shoulder. He catches it, presses a final kiss to your inner thigh, then plants your foot down on a step.
“Come here. Be careful,” he says, voice gentler now. He guides you by the waist, helping you down the last few steps until your feet hit the floor.
Your body collapses into his chest on instinct, and he chuckles again, arms wrapping around your middle.
“You okay?” he asks softly, nose nudging yours.
You nod, breath still catching in your throat. “More than okay.”
He pulls back just enough to flash that lazy grin. “Good. ’Cause I’m not done with you yet.”
He spins you back around, pressing you against the ladder. You gasp as his hand flattens between your shoulder blades, your palms bracing the handles above you as his hips roll into yours from behind—slow and grinding, just to let you feel what he’s working with.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice low, gravel edged with need, his hard cock moulding itself against your plush ass cheeks.
You push your hips back into him. “Yes. God, yes.”
There’s a frantic shuffle of clothes, from his end, his swim trunks dropped and kicked away, and then… He slides in with one rapid thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your mouth drops open, lungs pierced, your breath knocked right out of you.
“Fuck—shit,” you choke, forehead pressing against your arm.
“F-fuck,” he groans, fingers tightening on your hips. “You’re so fucking tight.”
He starts to move, hips snapping forward sharply. Each thrust drives you against the ladder, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny space, the scent of the ocean mixing with the thick heat of your bodies.
Yoongi rocks against you desperately like he’s been holding back all damn day. Like he’s finally been let off the leash. Mercifully he slows down, but he is pulling you up by your hair so your back is resting against his chest.
“Yoongi,” you say his name breathlessly, and he releases his ponytail grip as you struggle to stay upright. He licks the skin by your ear, whispering dirty things you’ve never heard of in your entire life, twitches against your walls.
“You like that, huh, you little slut?”
Fuck. You didn’t expect to like the name so much. An involuntary clench of your pussy and you know he got the idea. It’s not just the name, but it’s the way he is literally manhandling you, fulfilling all your small girl fantasies.
“Mmh.”
“Yeah, you love it.” His fingers find the zipper of your rash guard top sliding it down just enough for his large hands to slip inside and grab a fistful of your breasts.
“Your tits are so soft, shit. Wan’ suck on them so bad.” He growls.
“Want it,” you mewl, pushing your chest forward for him to grasp.
“I bet you do, huh. Maybe later, if you’re a good girl I can suck on these. Make you cum just licking at your nipples—want that?”
“Uh-huh, please,” You sound so whiny, fucking back into him as he fondles and tugs and pulls at your sensitive nubs.
“Spit,” he instructs, his palm out. “Let’s get these nice and slick.”
A wet glob from your mouth lands on his palm and he slaps it against your tits. You whimper at the sting, but it’s quickly relieved by the soft massage against your breasts.
“Feel good?”
“So good. Ah–” your words are cut off as he folds you again to his liking.
Yoongi fucks like he is used to being watched, but right now? There’s no audience. No stage. Just you, bent over, body shuddering with every thrust, moaning like you don’t care who hears it.
Your hands scramble for grip, nails digging into your own skin as his rhythm gets rougher. His fingers trail up your spine, tracing the dip at the small of your back before curling into your hair and yanking just hard enough to make you gasp as he continues to rail you from behind.
“Harder, please, Yoongi…”
“So desperate,” he pants, breathing hot against your neck. “So fucking good like this. You feel—” a groan breaks his sentence, “—so goddamn perfect. A pretty little— cocksleeve just for me.”
You’re trembling now, thighs shaking as pleasure coils low and tight in your belly. You feel everything—his cock, thick, hot, hitting just right with every snap of his hips and your body is unraveling fast.
“Ahhh. Right there, fuckin there. That’s it…” You glance over your shoulder, and fuck he’s so fucking hot and he’s fucking you so good and…
“You gonna come for me again?” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs. “Shit. Give it to me, you dirty fuckin’ girl.”
You cry out as your orgasm slams into you, body clenching tight around his cock, eyes squeezing shut as white heat galvanizes every nerve. Yoongi curses behind you, hips stuttering once, twice—and then he’s coming too, spilling deep inside you with a growl that sounds more animal than human.
You both stay there, shaking and sticky and utterly breathless. The only sound is the ocean lapping against the hull and your heart pounding in your ears.
Yoongi’s hand doesn’t leave your waist, his fingers sink against your soft skin a bit firmer, though somehow gentler, too. Then, his lips press once, twice, thrice, softly, against your shoulder blades. You don’t understand what’s happening. It feels intimate, too intimate.
“Umm…”
“Is there a bathroom here?”
“A tiny one, yeah. Over there.”
You wince as he pulls his cock out, walls pulsing once as if you wanna keep him inside you if you can.
“C’mon,” he taps your ass playfully, lightening up the moment. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
By the time the group is back on the boat, skin sun-warmed and bellies full from lunch, the mood is mellow. No one makes any comment as to why you and Yoongi are already on the boat, or why you both have different tops on. You’re slightly relieved. But it also makes questions swirl in your brain that you don’t really want answers to. You shove it in the recesses of your mind and focus on getting back to work. You’re still on duty after all.
You check on the other guests, making small talk about the yummy lunch spread. You know they had grilled squid, pad thai, mango sticky rice… like every other group you’ve toured, and it’s always a dopamine rush to see everyone so satisfied.
Someone puts on music through a Bluetooth speaker, the kind of acoustic guitar track that feels like the end of a movie. The boat sways gently as it begins to head back toward the mainland.
You pretend not to notice when Yoongi lingers near the bow, waiting until the others have found their seats before sliding into the open spot beside you.
He doesn’t say anything. Just sits close enough that your arms brush when the boat dips slightly with the tide.
You glance at him once. Twice. On the third time, you catch him already looking at you.
Neither of you smiles. He just reaches for the beer you hand him and takes a long sip, throat bobbing.
The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s in limbo. Like neither of you wants to name what happened, not while you’re still in it. Still riding the aftershocks of something way too fucking good to put into words.
At one point, he rests his arm along the back of the bench behind you. His fingers graze your shoulder. And you know it’s not by accident.
Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for a stray towel. Not by accident, either.
The sun dips lower as the coastline comes into view, and a knot begins to form in your chest. The same one he must feel, if the way his hand keeps tightening around his bottle is any sign.
Eventually, the boat eases into the dock. The group starts gathering their things—bags, towels, sun hats, laughter loud again as people gear up to head back to city life.
You move to help untie the mooring lines, and when you return to the deck, he’s standing by the edge, a small bag slung over one arm.
The others are already walking off. Bowing to you and thanking you for the tour. He’s the last one to leave just as he was the first to arrive.
“This is where I’m supposed to say thank you for the tour,” he murmurs, eyes still on the sea.
You nod. “This is where I say, come back anytime.”
He turns to you then. And for a second, the tiredness in his eyes softens.
“Will you be here, if I come back?”
You don’t answer right away. Just offer a small smile. “Maybe.”
He nods like that’s fair. Steps forward like he might hug you, or say something more. Maybe he considered it. But instead, he slips past you with a final glance.
The dock creaks under his steps. He doesn’t look back.
You watch him walk away until he disappears into the crowd.
Your chest aches with something unnameable.
You know how this goes. Men like him probably have groupies all the time, in every tour stop. You were Phuket. And that’s fine. It’s fine.
At least, you tell yourself, he was a really good fuck and you finished twice, which is more generous than any other one night stand or quickie you’ve had. A great story to tell your future grandkids that you once fucked a very famous idol. Okay, maybe not your grandkids. Maybe not a story to tell, actually. (You signed an NDA!) But something to shove in your heart, let every ventricle lock it tight there. But the taste of him is still on your lips, and the way your heart stutters in your chest says otherwise, like the memory is already struggling to be freed.
You’ve just stepped out of the shower when the knock comes. You freeze.
It’s late—well past when anyone should be dropping by. You don’t get visitors out here. Not unannounced. Not at this hour. Wrapped in your towel, you tiptoe barefoot to the door, heart thudding.
Another knock. Slower this time. Softer.
You squint through the peephole and nearly forget how to breathe.
It’s him.
Yoongi.
You open the door, towel clutched tight, words lodged in your throat.
It’s really him. Hood pulled low.
His eyes sweep over your form, too. Wet, barely covered… but he recovers enough to explain what is going on.
“I know this is crazy,” he says, before you can even speak. “But I had to see you again.”
He stands there, blinking at you under the harsh hallway lighting in your apartment building, like he’s afraid you’ll shut the door in his face.
“How did you even—?”
“I went back to the pier. Found the old guy? Practically begged him. And he gave me your address.” He exhales, shaking his head with a laugh. “I think he only did it because he felt sorry for me.”
You’re still standing there, stunned, the scent of body wash clinging to your skin.
“Can I come in?” he asks, quieter now. Like he’s unsure of the answer. “You’re in your towel.”
You nod, even though you’re still in shock, stepping aside. You adjust the towel on your chest.
“Make yourself at home. Let me just put clothes on.”
Yoongi slips off his shoes and steps into your little house like he’s done it a hundred times before.
He looks around. It’s nothing special—worn tile floors, mismatched furniture, an abandoned oatmeal bar on the coffee table—but he doesn’t look disappointed. He looks like he’s breathing for the first time all day.
You grab a shirt and sleep shorts, quickly changing in the bedroom. When you return, he’s leaning against your kitchen counter, eyes scanning the fridge magnets, the little details of your life like they mean something.
You glance up at the clock, 8:30 p.m.
“I was gonna eat ramen,” you say, trying to play it cool.
His lips twitch. “You got enough for two?”
You both end up cooking together. He cuts vegetables with a precision that is completely uncalled for for a cheap pack of instant noodles. You make a comment and he huffs his chest with pride, his knife skills now in full show as he chops the onions in record speed.
You laugh at how he makes a face and complains about being in tears afterwards.
The kitchen fills with steam and the smell of broth. You sit on the counter while it simmers, beers in hand. He stands in front of you, and your legs part instinctively, letting him through. Like he belongs there.
It’s oddly domestic. Ridiculously comfortable. Why? You still don’t get it.
You’re talking about nothing—favorite childhood snacks, weird airport food, your least favorite sea creatures—when the silence slips in between you.
He’s watching you now, the way you laugh, the way you push your hair behind your ear. His beer forgotten on the table.
You meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, but unlike in the boat, they’re not unreadable. In fact, they’re very much readable and you don’t hesitate to call him out for it.
“You’re gonna kiss me again, aren’t you?” you raise a brow.
“Been thinking about it since you opened the door in that towel.”
So he does.
He kisses you slower this time. More careful. Not rushed, not frantic like it was in the boat. He cradles the back of your neck, the other slides beneath your shirt to rest against your waist.
You’re kissing each other like you’re trying to remember. Like you’re trying to make it last. His mouth moves with so much purpose, almost like he’s writing over the hurried, hungry moment from before and replacing it with this—reverence, sureness, clarity.
When he pulls away to breathe, you whisper, “This is crazy.”
He nods. “I know…”
At least you can agree on that.
Later, he’s between your thighs on the couch, and this time, he doesn’t tear at your shorts like he’s chasing a high. This time, he touches you with all the time in the world, so you feel it all. When he slides your shorts down, he pauses, eyes locked on your center, pupils blown.
“I wanted this before,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “But I didn’t take my time. I didn’t show you.”
“Show me what?” you ask, breathless.
He presses another kiss to your other thigh, then another, closer and closer to your mound.
“That you deserve to be worshipped,” he says. He drags his tongue along your puffy folds, slow and tender. You arch into his mouth with a gasp, already so close just from kissing in the kitchen. But maybe it’s also the rasp of his voice, and the refreshing honesty, the way he seems to be convinced that you were special.
So this isn’t like the boat. You, suspended against the ladder. It’s not messy or wild. It’s not just lust, or tension exploding in secret.
This is something else. You, suspended in a different reality. Yoongi, telling a different story with his mouth.
He eats you out with care, overwriting that animalistic fuck at sea. His hands cradle your supple thighs as he buries his face deeper. His tongue works in slow, deliberate circles, building towards your peak.
“Watch…” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear between breaths. He puts his index and middle fingers in his mouth, dragging it across his sinful tongue. Teases it against your hole before pushing it in agonizingly slow, relishing the way your body is writhing in pleasure.
When he pushes the length all the way in, you fist the cushions. “Yoongi—oh god—”
His mouth envelops your clit in a gentle suction as his fingers go in and out of you.
“Ahh, so close…”
He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re shaking again, voice breaking on his name, thighs trembling on either side of his face.
He stays between them even after. Kissing. Calming. Worshiping.
You’re still breathless when he pulls back, lips slick, hair mussed, cheeks flushed with heat and pride. He looks up at you like he’s just done something holy—and maybe he has.
You’re still dazed by the time he pulls back, lips glossy, hair wild from all your pulling but his eyes, soft, focused completely on you. He rises slowly, kissing your stomach, bunching up the fabric as he goes, and you can’t even bring yourself to feel a little embarrassed like you sometimes do, with every cover that’s shed, every piece of you revealed, because he is treating you with the kind of reverence you’ve never felt before. Blind to the flaws, he’s not about to leave any part of you untouched by the pink petals of his lips, helping you out of your cotton tee.
When his face meets yours again, you’re already reaching for him, pulling him close, needing his mouth, his breath, the low rasp of his voice in your ear. You’re so high on this feeling. Of being wanted–no–worshipped, for who you are. He kisses you like a man obsessed, hands sliding under your thighs as he coaxes you onto him, settling you over the hardness pressed tight beneath his sweats.
You’re straddling him now, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side, your body still trembling from the orgasm he pulled out of you. And then—you pause.
You hesitate. Just for a second.
The reality of it creeps in and your saboteur whispers the insecurities you’ve worked so hard to hide. You’re heavier than him. Curvier, fuller. And even though he just made you fall apart on his tongue, there’s a flicker of doubt when you feel your weight settle onto him.
He notices instantly.
“Hey,” he murmurs like he knows, threading his fingers on your hair to pull you towards him, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. His other hand grip your hips, sliding back to your ass where he gives it a soft squeeze. “Don’t do that.”
He lets out the softest fucking laugh, breath hot against your throat. “Baby, sit on me.”
His grip tightens, pulling your hips flush against him. You feel all of him—thick and very solid right against your slit and you can’t help the moan that escapes you, mixing with his own with the slightest friction.
You whine when he thrusts up just once, just enough to make your clit drag against the bulge in his boxers.
“Shit. You’re so sexy…” he breathes, hands sliding from your hips to your thighs, then your asscheeks, cupping them with both palms. “You feel what you’re doing to me right now?”
You nod, dazed, as you roll your hips, slow and testing. He groans like it’s killing him—in the best way.
“Wanna see you ride me… wanna feel you come on my cock. You think you can take it?”
“Shit, yeah…” You respond with a shameless grind.
“I think I’m addicted to you,” he smiles, ogling your tits, the way they jiggle for him.
“Yeah?”
He licks his bottom lip, nodding.
“Off,” you gesture to his clothes, his tee tossed haphazardly on the floor. You lift your hips slightly to give him room to shimmy his bottoms down.
His cock flops against his tummy, heavy and reddened. Your mouth wants it too but your hands are already guiding him to your slick entrance on its own accord like it knows better. You finally sink down onto him and his head drops back against the couch, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut.
“Fuck. You feel like heaven.”
You gasp, reveling in the fullness of him, the stretch. You ride him slowly at first. Letting him feel all of you. Letting him watch.
And he does. Watches the way your body moves over his, the way your breasts bounce with every roll, the way you take him so deep he can barely speak.
“Look at you,” he pants, hands moving everywhere—your waist, your ass, your thighs, back to your breasts.
“Shit…” he pants, eyes moving to where you’re riding him. “You’re so fuckin’ hot… fuckin’ perfect.”
He palms your breasts, groaning low in his throat. “Can’t get enough of these.”
He leans forward, licking the valley of your chest before closing his mouth around your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you cry out. Your walls flutter around him in response, and he lets out a low, wrecked groan, before smacking your ass.
“Fuck!”
“Bounce for me, baby,” he gruffs hungrily against your skin, and he delivers another spank. “Come on…”
You do—riding him harder, feeling him twitch inside you. His mouth stays latched, teeth grazing sensitive skin. He’s relentless, filthy, utterly focused on unraveling you.
When he finally pulls back, he finds your mouth again, devouring your moans between kisses as you both hurtle toward the edge.
“Gonna cum, Yoongi—” you gasp.
“With me, baby,” he pants. “Fuckin’ cum with me.”
He bucks into you harder, faster, harsher and finally you cum together—this time with his name sobbed into his neck—he holds you there, pulsing inside you as he paints your walls white, whispering things he probably shouldn’t say, things you ache to hear.
His head is fully tipped back on the couch, breathing heavy, body a little glossy from his sweat and yours. The aftermath clings to your skin, but the fire hasn’t burned out. Not even close. You’re not done.
He worshipped you, called you a goddess. But, aren’t you his dirty girl? His slut? And when he looks like the hottest man alive—
He looks up when you shift beside him, his brows pulling just slightly. “Wait. What’re you—”
You don’t answer. Just move lower, letting your hands glide down his chest. His abs twitch under your palms.
“I wanna taste you,” you whisper. “Suck you dry….”
He groans—low and hoarse—as you move between his legs, your mouth ghosting over the crease of his thigh. He spreads them automatically, lazy and loose, cock already half-hard and still wet with your juices. A drop of cum beads at the tip, glistening.
“Shit,” he breathes, pushing a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You hum in amusement, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock—slow and soft, just enough to make him twitch. Then again. Firmer this time. And when you wrap your lips around the head and suck, you feel the ripple it sends through his entire body.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he hisses.
You take your time. Lap him up, your cum and his combined. Lick up the length of him again, then back down to the base, tongue swirling as he expands in your mouth. The weight of him is perfect against your tongue, the way his girth stretches your lips obscene but delicious.
His hand finds the back of your head, not forcing—just resting there. “God, baby… that dirty mouth…”
You bob your head, eyes flicking up to meet his. He looks fucking ruined already, jaw slack, stomach trembling with every flick of your tongue. You clench your throat against his tip and feel him jolt. You love the way his body reacts, the little tremors in his thighs, the tension in his neck.
“Don’t stop,” he pants. “Just like that—fuck, you’re acting like a real slut right now.”
Yes, fuck. You choke involuntarily, swallowing against his tip. He groans, lips lining up into a smirk. You take him deeper, popping him off first to admire your handiwork, cock swollen and red. Let spit drip down your chin. Let your throat work around him as your hand pumps what you can’t take. You can feel him losing it—his moans getting louder, filthier, raspier. He swears under his breath, head thrown back against the pillows.
“Shit, shit—I’m gonna cum,” he warns, eyes fluttering open to find yours again. “Swallow for me, baby. Be my good fuckin—fuuuuck—”
You take him in faster, tongue firmly pressed against that vein as you slide up and down keeping your lips vacuum sealed, and finally—
He comes with a choked-off groan, hips jerking, both hands tangled in your hair now as his cock pulses on your tongue. You take it all. Every filthy, salty, slimy drop. You swallow without breaking eye contact. Brandish your tongue with pride.
He blinks down at you, stars in his eyes as he releases the grip on your scalp to move to your chin. “Shit. You’re unreal.”
You smile.
You wish this was real.
Somehow he convinces you to move to the bed so he can clean you up. He emerges from your tiny toilet with a warm washcloth, damping it against your leaking cunt.
“C’mere,” he lays on his side, gesturing you to move into him. Alarm bells sound in your head but you can’t bring yourself to stay away when your lips are already towards each other like magnets.
Yoongi’s hand is splayed across your lower back, fingers idly tracing soft, lazy shapes into your skin. His other arm is tucked behind his head, smug and relaxed and still looking thoroughly fucked out.
The night goes on like that. You kiss, cuddle. Talk about small things—more favorites, random things—the suspicious little mole by his arm, scary things—his upcoming military service. And you share with him your own—favorites, why you sleep with an alien plushie, your uncertain future with your job and the economy going to shit.
Hours after, your heart is unrecognizable, suddenly morphing into the shape of someone you just met. It should feel wrong. You’re still not sure why it doesn’t.
“You’ve ruined me for anyone else, I fear,” he says, voice rough, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.
Go away, butterflies! You snort into his shoulder. “Pshh don’t lie.”
“Why would I do that?”
You lift your head slightly, looking at him. “Okay.”
There’s a beat of silence—comfortable, but loaded. His thumb still circles lazily over your spine.
“You should give me your number.”
You consider him for just a moment. But decide to shake your head. Not because you wanna see him sweat, but because you resolve not to.
His brow shoots up to his forehead like he didn’t expect that response.
“If you’re still thinking about me after two years…” you say, not quite looking at him, “Then find me. Just like you did today.”
He huffs, repeating his request. “Or you could just give me your number.”
You meet his gaze now, seriousness in your eyes. “I’m not gonna do that.”
“Why? You were hustling me for it in the boat…” he teases with a sly grin.
“Shut up, I just wanted to help you find your fish.”
He pokes his tongue in the inside of his cheek, still waiting on you, deciphering that look.
“Look. I don’t want to wait around for your text or your call. I’m not that girl.”
“Then don’t,” he says simply. “I mean, you won’t have to. I do plan to call. And I’m a pretty good texter, actually.”
You roll your eyes, tracing a slow line over his chest with your fingertip. “Be for real. You look like the type who won’t charge their phone for days.”
He gasps dramatically. “You’re… super wrong. And I have a fucking cool library of cat memes. You’ll be missing out.”
“I think I’ll live.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
There’s a moment. He tilts his head toward you, so adorable, so boyfriend, like you’re an old couple bickering about something mundane, like who’s gonna check the front door if it’s locked. Certainly not a conversation that basically dictated if you will ever see each other again.
Then before you know it, you jut your lip, unable to stop yourself from acting cutely.
“Kiss me?”
He grins, cat-like. “I’ll do you one better. I can also give you tongue.”
You groan. “God, you’re cringe. You sure you have fans?”
“A fucking lot of em.” He hovers above you, his inky bangs tickling your forehead. “Shut up and take it.”
Tongue teasing against the seam of your lips, he kisses you breathless for the hundredth time tonight. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck as he pulls you closer, deepening it just enough, with a lot of tongue, as promised.
It’s that feeling.
You could stay here forever.
And that’s the problem.
For now, you let it be what it is. Just a moment where your body fits perfectly against his, your laugh harmonizes with his, and it feels like—just maybe—you were really meant to find each other in the middle of the sea.
You’re both hovering by the door, breaking every rule in the one night stand playbook. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this..
But it fucking does.
He’s dressed the same way he came in last night—cap tugged low over damp hair that smells faintly of your shampoo. You’re in your oversized T-shirt and sleep shorts, bare feet brushing the cold floor. It makes the contrast feel starker somehow—him stepping back into the world, you still rooted in this little bubble of what the night became.
“You think we'll see each other again?” he mumbles, leaning his shoulder beside the door. It’s a quiet question, almost tossed out like it’s nothing.
“You’re you,” you say simply. “You have the world in your hands. It really just depends on one thing.”
His brows lift, a flicker of interest breaking through the fatigue in his face. “And what’s that?”
“How bad you want this.”
That makes him pause.
His eyes dip down your body like he can’t help it. Then his teeth sink into his bottom lip.
“Don’t make this harder,” he huffs.
“I’m not,” you whisper back. “I’m just being honest.”
“I don’t want to leave,” he says, barely audible.
You shrug, trying for casual even though your chest feels like it’s about to collapse. “But you have to.”
And that’s all there is to it.
He turns, opens the door.
But he doesn’t leave. Not immediately. He stands there, hoodie sleeves too long around his hands, looking back at you one last time.
His gaze doesn’t wander. It lands right on your face, and stays.
“Maybe next time,” he says, just like he did in the island.
You nod, barely. “Maybe.” You try a small smile.
He hesitates for a second more. Tries that small smile to mirror your own.
Then he leaves. And this time, it’s goodbye.
The door closes with a soft click, and the room is too quiet all over again, everything intact like he was never even there. Except he left with maybe just a tiny piece of you and replaced it with a bit of sparkle that you don’t notice immediately until you step back in your room.
That morning, you fire off a text to Soomchai asking why he gave a stranger your address and demand he send you a generous portion of his seafood pad thai as a peace offering. He obliges.
🗓️ June 2025 -📍 Phuket, Thailand
Life goes on. You didn’t have much choice in that.
The tours picked up again after the rainy season, but not in the way they used to. Fewer tourists, more locals. The occasional influencer. You learned to smile a little brighter. Talk a little faster.
But when things got tight—and God, they got tight—you picked up a second job teaching English online. What started as survival became something sustainable. Eventually, something yours. Your own business, your own pace, your own students across time zones who asked if Thailand really was that beautiful. You always smiled when they did. You tell them how sugary sweet the watermelons are.
And then there was the bracelet.
The one Yoongi left on the nightstand without a word. Understated but expensive in a way you only noticed when you turned it over in your hand and saw the brand pressed into the clasp. You kept it for months. Until the rent was due and the electricity bill was on its last notice and your fridge was nothing but leftover rice, soy sauce packets, and a bottle of beer.
The pawnshop paid you enough to stay afloat for four months.
And then last week—after months of hard work, after finding your footing again, you walked back into that same pawnshop and bought it back. The bracelet.
Not that he’d ever come looking for it. But it felt right having it again. Like you were reclaiming something. Maybe not him, but you.
You think of Yoongi sometimes. Not in the hopeful, aching, delulu way you used to.
He’s no longer in headlines. Gone stone cold on socials. Even ARMY wants to do a recon mission to find him. But he’s doing his bid to serve his country so the absence must have been necessary for him. At least you hope so.
You play his music when you’re cooking, or on the rare evenings you chill on your balcony with a cold one and the humid breeze and his husky voice and the sweet piano melody lulls you to sleep.
It wasn’t clear then, but it is now. He simply was a blip on your timeline. An unforgettable 24 hours that changed the pace of your heartbeat. And you don’t hold it against him anymore.
If anything, he reminds you of your favorite line from one of his songs: “Future’s gonna be okay.”
And deep down, you really believe that.
It was one of those nights. Adele was blaring through your bluetooth speaker. And you’re out singing the shit outta her in the kitchen, lyrics be damned, crooning in your frilly little apron with a wooden spatula being used as your mic.
“Never mind I’ll find, someone like youuuuu…
I wish nothing but the best for youuuuuuu toooooo
Bla bla bla I bet I remember what you said
La la la sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead…”
It’s probably the onions but you’re now crying and it feels phenomenal and oddly cathartic.
Your phone chimes with a text.
Soomchai: Hey. Sorry I know it’s late. Stopping by to drop off dessert.
Strange, but okay. Everyone likes a freebie. Especially when it’s sugar.
You’re rinsing dishes when the doorbell comes.
You wipe your hands, heart racing for a reason you can’t name. You open the door.
And he’s there.
Not Soomchai.
Min Yoongi.
Wearing a hoodie just like when you last saw him. His hair is a bit shorter, face slightly more gaunt and just as guarded. There’s a weariness behind his eyes—one you recognize instantly.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t step forward.
Says one thing as you struggle to regulate the thumping of your heart.
“Dessert?”
You stand there, barefoot and blinking at him, stunned into silence. You want to ask why now. You want to ask what changed. But instead, you step aside. Quietly.
He walks in, a plastic bag with dessert in tow. Takes off his shoes. Looks around like the space is familiar and foreign all at once.
And then—
“I tried to forget you,” he says, voice a bit raw. “Turns out I can’t.”
You swallow hard, emotion clawing up your throat.
“Me too,” you say softly, lifting your wrist so he can see the glimmer of his bracelet. You haven't removed it since you got it back.
He nods, walking closer. He hesitates just long enough to make your pulse quicken.
You stare at him, waiting.
“Wanna try this again,” he says. “If you still want to.”
You don’t answer right away. You just step forward and wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face in the warm cotton of his hoodie. He exhales, slow and shaky, like he wasn’t sure you'd say yes. How could you not? He walks in with a pretty face, and even prettier words.
“I missed you,” you whisper.
“I missed you too,” he replies.
And that night, he proves how much.
“Butterflyfish,” you whisper.
“Hm?” His voice is drowsy, the sound vibrating softly against your forehead.
You tilt your head back, just enough to glance up at him—but his eyes are already closed, lids heavy, expression peaceful in that half-dream state right before sleep.
“The fish you were looking for,” you say quietly. “Back then.”
There’s a small pause. A breath. Then a soft, sleepy grunt of remembrance.
“Ah.”
His arms tighten around you, warm and sure, like he’s tethering himself to this moment. To you.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
You feel it more than hear it—his lips brushing your hair, the words settling between your ribs.
“For helping me find what I was looking for.”
The End :)
A/N: … and now we know deez fish. 🤭
I hope this story was like a brief vacay in the tropics just like in Yoongi’s vlog, and made you feel like you were there in the moment with him.
Well—tell me what you think! Favorite parts? Please leave me a note and reblog if you enjoyed this story! 🙏🏼😘
Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human. xo
Check out my masterlist if you want more Yoongi.
Permanent Taglist: (the rest to follow in a reblog)
seeing straight men be disgusted by booktok smut recommenders has actually radicalized me to the side of booktok smut recommenders. girls your taste may be atrocious but i will never disparage you for exposing mainstream discourse to the concept of soaking through your underwear. spent my whole life listening to men talk about penises it’s about time they get jumpscared by women talking about pussy in crude detail on social media. go forth and goon my warriors
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Meet-cute coffee shop!au, to be confirmed if Yoongi is an idol or not
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: You haaate your job, but at least there’s this sexy eye-candy at your favorite cafe to distract you from your miserable 9 to forever grind. Your simple, casual nods with him, turn into a silent caffeine war when, after his small act of kindness, you buy him his coffee—and he refuses to let the favor go unanswered. Suddenly, you’re locked in a daily battle of who pays first, and just when you think you’ve reached a stalemate, fate (and a very nosy barista) throws in a twist you never saw coming.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: None
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 1.6k
✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 13, 2025
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Welcome to another unplanned story. Just a little something I whipped up for the boss babes and corporate girlies working in their city's business districts, desperate to find a semblance of happiness in their robotic working days–did I mention this was really self-indulgent? I am not sure if this stays as a one-shot or a series of drabbles? Idk. Anyways, enjoy!~
More Yoongi stories this way > Masterlist
There’s a rhythm to your mornings. The kind that makes life feel like a well-oiled machine—predictable, efficient, sharp. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway, as you sidestep a finance bro barking into his phone to push open the door to Honey & Citrus cafe.
Not Coffee Bean. Never Starbucks. Not even Compose—even though Kim Taehyung’s face could certainly make you wanna come (in).
But you don’t need the soulless corporate grind in your caffeine routine when you already live it from 9 to god-knows-when. Honey & Citrus has the good beans, the real baristas who actually know your order and don’t try to be fake-friendly with you, and the quiet that lets you inhale a moment of peace before stepping into the battlefield of bullshit board meetings.
And then there’s him.
“Iced Americano for Yoongi…”
He’s always there at the same time as you. Every. Single. Day.
A handsome stranger with sharp, feline eyes and an ever-present air of quiet confidence. The very first time you see him, he was wearing a suit. A medium gray set with an interesting burgundy tie. He held a small suitcase, fit for a macbook air, maybe a thin stack of paperwork. Definitely some VC vulture or hedge fund guy, gifted with the face of a luxury brand model.
But then one day he was wearing… a hoodie and black slacks with headphones slung around his neck, the expensive kind audiophiles swear by.
Hmm. With this look, your previous assumptions did not add up. Now, you couldn’t quite place his profession.
Since then, it becomes some sort of game you play in your mind. To discover what this dude’s job is.
One day, he holds a notebook filled with messy, poetic scrawls—you catch a glimpse as he flips the pages, and your mind spins wild theories. Another morning, he reads a printout of a Shareholder Meeting report as he awaits his coffee. Then the next day, you spot a vinyl tucked under his arm, and something about that sends your curiosity spiraling further.
Music Executive? Writer? Producer? Who is this mysterious artsy type in a sea of wolves? But maybe is a wolf. Lawyer, City Prosecutor, some Start-Up Founder… who likes to dabble in poetry?
You’re fascinated. Man has aura. And on top of that, he sure looks like he can fuck.
Unlucky for you, your interactions so far are limited to polite nods, the occasional small smile exchanged as you both wait for your respective coffees. Maybe the universe has a sense of humor, slotting you into the same ten-minute window every day with a stranger who intrigues you far more than your own coworkers do. But of course, he is not interested in you.
You wake up with a migraine, and instantly, you know—it’s a morning from hell.
Your alarm didn’t go off. Your inbox is already on fire. Your boss sends a cryptic “let’s talk” email before you’ve even left your apartment, which is never a good sign. You forgot about the afternoon presentation you’re supposed to give, and your deck isn’t even half-finished.
The thought of quitting—of walking into that glass tower and tossing your resignation onto your boss’s desk like a dramatic K-drama lead—has never been more tempting.
This morning has no rhythm. More out of tune than drunk-you in a Coin Karaoke.
By the time you drag yourself into Honey & Citrus, it’s already a god-forsaken Friday. You’re barely holding it together, probably leaving a trail of smoke in your wake. Your hair is frizzy, your face frazzled—it’s just a fucked-up day all around. And it’s barely 8 a.m.
You’re so deep in your own misery that you don’t even clock the fact that your favorite stranger has been looking at you since you walked in.
Not until—
“Fighting~”
You blink.
He’s looking right at you, his dark eyes warm with quiet amusement as he mouths the word again, this time with double closed fists, like a cartoon character summoning energy. And then, just for good measure, he smiles.
A real one.
The disbelief must be all over your face because suddenly, you’re giggling—actually giggling, something you didn’t think you were capable of before noon.
Yoongi—the mysterious, unreadable stranger you’ve been quietly fascinated with for weeks—just gave you the world’s softest pep talk.
And then, as if realizing what he’s done, he quickly looks away, pulling a face mask over his mouth, his pink-tinged cheeks disappearing behind black fabric.
A second later, he’s heading for the door, stepping out into the cold like he didn’t just single-handedly save your morning.
Your eyes follow him until he disappears around the corner, but the warmth he left behind lingers in your chest.
Maybe because you needed to hear it. Maybe because no one’s said it to you in a long time. Maybe because he said it.
You take a deep breath, square your shoulders. And somehow—somehow—you make it through the day.
You survive. Without handing over your resignation letter.
Small wins.
The next Monday, you get to Honey & Citrus first. You don’t even think about it—you just do it. You buy his coffee.
And then you sprint out before he can react, because suddenly, the idea of watching his expression feels too embarrassing to bear. You tell yourself it’s just a small gesture. A thank-you for a kindness he probably doesn’t even think much of.
The next day, though, he beats you to it.
You walk in, and the barista just hands you your usual order with a knowing smile. “It’s covered.”
You blink, turn, and find him already at his usual spot, sipping his drink like he didn’t just declare war.
Because it is so obvious he did this just to one-up you.
You narrow your eyes. He lifts his cup in a silent toast, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement.
And so it begins.
For a week, you play the game.
One morning, you bribe the barista to let you pay first. The next, he somehow convinces them to refuse your card.
You show up earlier to get ahead, but the next day he shows up even earlier.
Your schedule is screwed. You’re suddenly up way earlier than you like, but you like it.
It’s ridiculous. It’s fun. It’s completely unlike anything else in your day.
Until, finally, one morning, you both arrive at the exact same time.
You grab the door handle—he does, too. His palm brushes against your knuckles. Both of you freeze, eyes locking, realizing at the same time:
Shit. No winner today.
You swear you see his lips twitch, like he’s holding back a real smile. And then—before you can overthink it—you finally, actually, talk to him.
“You know,” you say, tilting your head, “we could just both buy our own coffee like normal people.”
“But where’s the fun in that?” His voice is deep, lazy, laced with amusement.
“Are you always this competitive?”
“Are you?”
You huff, trying to suppress the warmth creeping up your neck. He leans in slightly, and it’s the first time you’ve really, truly studied him up close—the sharp cut of his jaw, the quiet intensity behind his eyes, the scent of something subtly musky clinging to his coat.
“Since we’re doing introductions before the next round,” he says, “I’m Yoongi.”
Of course, you already know it. You give yours in return, and he nods like it makes sense. Like he already knew it as well. Which makes sense.
As you walk in, the barista snickers, clearly entertained by whatever weird silent war you and Yoongi have been waging for the past week. You’re about to step back, let him go first when the barista clears her throat.
“Actually,” she says, way too pleased with herself. “It’s on the house today.”
Both you and Yoongi blink in unison.
“What?” you ask.
“Why?” Yoongi adds, looking just as skeptical.
The barista leans on the counter, grinning like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Valentine’s Day promo.”
Your stomach drops. Your brain stalls. You look around and Honey & Citrus has little cherubs hanging from the ceiling.
“First couple to walk in together gets free drinks,” she further explains.
You feel the heat crawl up your neck, your face burning so hot it could brew the damn espresso yourself. Beside you, Yoongi makes a tiny sound—like an exhale caught in his throat—and when you turn your head ever so slightly, you see it.
His ears are bright red.
The barista just smirks. You are going to die here.
You should correct her, actually. You should explain. But words? Language? Coherent thought? We don’t know her.
But that’s when Yoongi does something absolutely insane.
He clears his throat, thanks the barista, and then—looking at one of the booths of the cafe, still not looking at you—he says, casually, like this isn’t the most absurd moment of your life,
“How about we have that first date right now?”
Your head snaps toward him, and he finally meets your gaze, and oh, he’s serious.
Your heart stumbles over itself, but you manage a tiny, shy smile, and a quip, “…you mean this coffee? Here?” Because that’s all your pea brain can compute.
His lips twitch. “Mm. Unless you wanna go somewhere else?”
Huh.
You hate that he’s smooth about this. You hate that you kind of really, really like it.
You swallow hard, shifting on your feet. “This place is fine.”
His smile curves, small but victorious. “Good.”
The barista practically vibrates behind the counter as she hands over your drinks, joyful even though two drinks are getting docked from her pay that week.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!”
With Yoongi, it feels like it's definitely going to be...
:)
A/N: To you, my dearest reader. I hope your heart is filled with joy today and forever. You deserve it!
Want more for our coffee shop couple? Let me know if you’re interested in me turning this into series of drabbles?? Look at me adding more stuff into my WIP list.
Thank you for reading this you lovely, beautiful human! xo
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re just fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility. (Thank god you’re there to help him.)
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie
✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!) That’s it.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter warnings: Sex. Minors DNI. Also, barely proofread, sorry for any mistakes!
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 3.8k
✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 1, 2025
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Sorry it has taken me a while to get this part out. But I think you’ll like it. *fingers crossed* FULL TAGLIST TO FOLLOW. Sorry, I'm in a rush today. This is inspired by an ask/prompt sent by @yoongznme.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part 4.5 | Part Five | Masterlist
A fancy hotel takeout sits untouched on your kitchen counter, the smell of roasted garlic filling the small space. You glance at the clock—6:47 PM.
Yoongi promised to take you to dinner, but given the circumstances, a quiet night in felt more appropriate. Safer for him. After all, the media has been relentless since the Dispatch scandal dropped close to midnight like Cinderella’s kitten heel at the ball.
You’re kind of pissed, actually. Scratch that—you’re furious. Just when it felt like you finally had Yoongi—finally had the chance to explore whatever this was between you—this bullshit had to rear its ugly head. A photo of his kind of ex leaving his building was enough to set the internet on fire, and now it felt like the flames were creeping dangerously close to your life.
You’ve talked to him once today, and even that conversation was clipped. A text from him at 5 let you know he was about to leave HYBE and swing by his place first. “Be there by 7,” he’d said.
You stare at the pristine takeout containers, willing yourself not to spiral. You’re not that person anymore. You’re not the insecure girl who lets her emotions run wild over things she can’t control. You’ve done too much good work to let this unravel you.
“You’re fine. You’re fucking fine,” you mutter under your breath, pacing the kitchen.
Your phone vibrates on the counter. Namjoon. Always coming to your rescue at the right time.
“Hello?”
“You doin’ okay?” Namjoon asks, his voice calm but laced with concern.
“Define okay,” you quip, though your voice wavers slightly. “It’s been a lot.”
“I figured,” Namjoon says gently. “That’s why I’m calling. Just wanted to check in. Yoongi’s been swamped today, and I know how this stuff can mess with your head.”
You exhale slowly, grateful for the concern but also acutely aware of the simmering emotions just beneath the surface. “I’m trying, Joon. Really, I am. It’s just… exhausting. The waiting, the overthinking, the noise. I just want to know where I stand with him, you know?”
“He’ll tell you,” Namjoon assures you, his voice steady. “Just… don’t let the noise get to you.”
You swallow hard, his words striking a chord. “Thanks, Joon. Really.”
“Anytime,” he says warmly. “And hey, take it easy on him tonight, okay? He’s under a lot of pressure, but trust me, you’re his priority.”
“Will do, dad,” you tease, and for the first time all day, you feel a flicker of lightness.
“Bye.”
You set the phone down, Namjoon’s words lingering in your mind as you glance at the clock again.
You think about Yoongi and the kind of pressure he must be feeling now. You can take care of him tonight. He deserves it.
You’re rearranging the pillows on the couch, trying not to glance at the clock again for the hundredth time. It’s not even about tidying the place anymore. It’s about occupying your hands, distracting yourself from the swirling mix of emotions in your chest.
Then, the doorbell rings.
7:01pm.
You take a breath, smoothing your sweater. Calm. Casual. You’re fine.
You open the door.
And there he is. Yoongi stands in the dim light of the hallway, a dark jacket zipped up to his collarbone, a black mask shading his face, somehow directing the focus on the exhaustion in his eyes. But what caught your attention is his hair—slicked back with a little sprout of inky locks on top.
He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking bashful at the heat in your gaze.
Christ. He looks good. Criminally.
He steps in. “Hi,” he says softly, his voice carrying that calm rasp you’ve missed.
Your heart clenches. “Hi,” you reply, your tone quieter than intended. You clear your throat, stepping back to let him in. “Come in.”
He steps inside, pausing in the entryway as he glances around.
You then notice the bouquet in his hand—gorgeous white roses and baby’s breath wrapped in brown paper.
He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes flick over your face. Something in your expression must’ve softened, because he quickly averts his gaze.
“I brought these,” he says, holding them out a little awkwardly.
Your chest tightens, a strange warmth spreading through you. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
When you reach out to take the bouquet, your fingers graze his, and the contact lingers for just a second too long. Impulsively, your free hand rises to cup his cheek. Maybe it’s too much for whatever the hell this is between you, but the moment feels too honest to stop yourself.
“Are you okay?” you ask softly.
Yoongi freezes under your touch, his dark eyes widening ever so slightly. Then, as if the tension in his shoulders breaks all at once, he leans into your palm, just a fraction, and the smallest, most heartbreaking smile tugs at his lips as his eyes flutter close.
“I am now.”
You head to the kitchen, busying yourself with a vase to give the flowers the best chance to survive. You do not have a green thumb, so you pray to the gods the beautiful arrangement does not wither overnight.
“Hungry?” you ask, not turning around. “I bought chicken, shrimp fried rice, and some random banchan.”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Yoongi replies, his voice closer than you expect. You glance back to find him leaning against the counter, watching you with an unreadable expression.
You place the vase on the counter and fold your arms. “So,” you start, forcing lightness into your tone. “Survived the day?”
“Barely,” he admits, a tired smirk tugging at his lips. “Had to dodge more cameras than usual. Sat in meetings for a couple of hours. Si-hyuk personally called Sung Kyung’s agency. They assured me that they will investigate thoroughly. I couldn’t eat. I get home and there’s still press camping out. So yeah, shit day and I almost didn’t make it out alive.”
“That’s the longest response I’ve ever gotten from you.” You tease. “You really must be stressed out.”
Yoongi chuckles and for a moment, it feels like the tension that’s been hanging over you both all day melts away.
You go around the counter and stand facing him where he’s sitting on your bar stool. He parts his legs and you immediately take that space, crowding him a bit more by placing your hands tentatively on his shoulder.
His eyes, warm like molten chocolate, meet yours. “How about you?”
You hesitate, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “I’m fine,” you say, though the tightness in your chest betrays you. “I mean, it’s not like this is new territory for you, right?”
“Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” Yoongi says quietly. “And I don’t like that you’re sort of affected by it.”
“I can handle it,” you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel, projecting strength since he looks a little broken right now.
Yoongi’s lips press into a thin line, like he’s not entirely convinced.
“I kinda knew what I was getting into when I knocked in your studio yesterday,” you say softly. “And I’d do it again. For you.”
His eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face at your admission before it softens into something else. Something deeper. “For me?”
You nod, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “Yeah. For you.”
For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Then he straightens up from his slouch, taking one of your hands from his shoulder, pressing his lips softly against your pulse point.
“Dinner first,” he says.
“Then what?” you challenge.
Yoongi just grins, eyes crinkling at the corners.
As you sip the last of your drink, you steel yourself to ask the question that’s been bugging you all day. “So,” you say finally, broaching the topic. “Sung Kyung.”
Yoongi pauses mid-bite, his eyes flicking to yours. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, leaning back in his chair. “What about her?”
You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. “Namjoon told me you’re co-parenting. But I need to hear where you two… stand?”
Yoongi exhales slowly. “Yeah, we’re co-parenting. That’s it. I don’t have any intention of getting back together with her. At all.” His voice is calm but firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I want Haneul to know his biological mom, but she and I—we’re done. That’s been over.”
Relief washes over you, but before you can fully settle into it, you notice the shift in his expression. His jaw tightens, and his eyes dart briefly to the table before returning to yours.
“There’s something else,” he says quietly, the words heavy with hesitation.
Fuck. You don’t like the sound of it, but you ask anyway. “What is it?”
Yoongi sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “A few weeks ago… she kissed me.”
Your stomach twists, and the room feels suddenly colder. “What?”
“I put a stop to it immediately,” he says quickly, his tone insistent. “I told her it couldn’t happen again, that if she wanted to keep seeing Han, she had to respect that boundary. And she has. She knows where we stand.”
You don’t respond right away, staring down at your plate as you try to process his words.
Oh my god. This is so fucked up. You knew Sung Kyung’s reappearance wasn’t as harmless as it seemed, but hearing it confirmed still stings.
“I just thought…” you start, but the words trail off.
Yoongi’s voice is soft but steady. “You have every right to be upset.”
“Do I?” You think out loud. “We’re not…” You nod slowly, pushing your chair back. “I… need a minute.”
When you get to your bathroom, you release a long steadying breath. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, hands gripping the counter tightly. Fuck. You’re okay. This is–
A knock sounds at the door, startling you.
Yoongi’s voice is muffled as he says your name, but it’s gentle as can be. “Can I come in?”
You glance at the lock and realize, too late, that you forgot to turn it. The door creaks open, and there he is, standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and something softer.
He steps inside, closing the door behind him and his arms immediately slide around your waist. The warmth of his touch seeps into you, and you meet his gaze through the mirror.
“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
You lean back against him, the tension in your shoulders easing but just slightly. “I just… I don’t know how to feel about it.”
“That’s fair,” he presses his lips to your temple.
“But I need you to know–” presses another on your cheek.
“That I don’t want anyone else–” presses the last where your neck and shoulders meet.
“Just you.”
Your heart clenches at the sincerity in his voice, and when your eyes meet again in the mirror, the tenderness there leaves you so breathless.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you turn in his arms, your hands sliding up to his face as you pull him down for a kiss. His fingers tighten on your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him.
You walk back to your bed, lips fused with his, your fingers tangled in the soft strands of his hair. The urgency between you grows as you push him down onto the mattress, his back hitting the sheets with a quiet thud. You follow immediately, straddling him, your body molding against his as you capture his lips again. The kiss is deep, consuming, his hands gripping your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.
You stay like that for a while, tongues teasing, breaths mingling, drunk in the taste of each other. Then, a sharp pull of his lower lip between your teeth has him groaning into your mouth.
You’re driven by lust, and something else. A possessive demon seems to be overriding your better judgment, thinking you’ve been timid with your feelings for long enough. No woman, not Sung Kyung, even if he is Han’s mom, can take what you and Yoongi have been building up to for so damn long.
“You’re in your head,” Yoongi says, nudging his nose against yours.
“Did she kiss you like this, huh?” The words leave you before you can stop them. Your lips return to his, sucking greedily, staking your claim.
Yoongi’s breath shudders as you pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “No, baby.” His voice is rough, lips pink and swollen.
Your fingers slide under his shirt, pushing the fabric up and over his head, tossing it aside before your hands explore the newly exposed skin. He’s warm, toned beneath your touch, and the way his muscles tense under your fingertips only spurs you further. You lean down, lips dragging along his jawline, open-mouthed kisses trailing down his throat. He tastes sweet, salty, and entirely intoxicating.
“Did you fuck anyone else when I left?” you mumble against his skin, your teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath his ear.
His breath hitches, “No, shit. No.”
“Good boy.” You hum in satisfaction, your lips venturing lower, your tongue flicking against the hollow of his throat. He groans, head pressing back into the pillow.
“Baby, you’re making me lose my shit right now,” he grits out, his voice strained, desperate. His hands now get braver, sliding underneath your top to fondle your tits.
Maybe you’re delirious. Maybe you’re too turned on to think straight. Or maybe—maybe this is exactly what you’ve wanted since the moment you saw him again.
Your hand drifts down, fingers tracing the outline of his hard length through his trousers, feeling the way he twitches under your palm.
“You’re mine, okay?” you whisper, nipping at his bottom plush as your fingers give his dick a squeeze.
He exhales a shaky laugh, his lips curving under yours. “Yours.”
He lets you revel in your greed for a few moments, allowing you to do whatever you pleased as you lose yourself in the heat building between you.
He ruts up towards your hand, grunting slightly. Honestly, he’s so hard, it’d be a mercy to release him from the confines of his jeans. So you do, helping him unbutton, unzip, and undress, until his cock springs free and flops on his stomach.
What a pretty dick. Literally lickable—solid, girthy, veiny, a bead of white pooling at the slit. You take him in your mouth, tracing the tip with your tongue, the taste of pre-cum coating your throat. You let drool cascade down his length, slick fingers pumping his shaft while your mouth suctions his mushroom head.
His hand goes to the back of your neck, guiding you in a bit more. “Mmm… that’s it, baby.”
Yoongi moans your name as you go faster. You feel him twitching inside your mouth. He’s so hard but you don’t want him to cum yet. You pop him off to lap at the base, before your tongue travels upward to trace the thick veins on the underside of his cock.
Jaw slack, his eyes are dark, dark as he observes you while propped up on his elbows. “Come up,” he says when you reluctantly pull away. “Wanna eat you out.”
Your clothes are yanked off your body as you take his place on the cushions, not a single piece of fabric now separating your skin. He takes you by the hip and adjusts your position so he can get his face close to your mound. Before you can mentally prepare yourself, he shoves his hot tongue against your folds, locating your clit in 0.001 seconds and you know you’ll be careening off a cliff in no time.
“I—Yoongi, that’s… shit that’s nice.” You can’t help it. It does feel nice.
You reach for the little ponytail on his head, gripping it for dear life. He hums against your bud when you pull, the vibrations only driving you more insane.
“You taste so good baby,” he mumbles.
“Yeah?”
“I can eat you out for days, make you cum,” he vows, delirious just like you are. “Over and over… my favorite fuckin’ snack.”
“Oh my god, Yoongi…”
He feasts, and feasts, and soon enough, you’re shuddering in ecstasy, hips bucking in the process, as he slurps all you give him. He wears your cum like a gloss as he comes up for air, a lazy but proud smile on his face.
You reach for the drawer on your nightstand and pull out a new, sealed, and unopened box of condoms shoving it on his chest. He holds it in one hand, nose scrunching as he suppresses a laugh.
“Someone prepared…”
You shrug as he plucks one and unwraps it quickly, “What?”
“Nothing. You’re too cute for me.”
“Shut uppp.”
He rolls the condom on his dick, propping one hand by the side of your face as he uses the other to rub his blunt tip against your entrance. Your pussy is drenched and he slips right in and bottoms out with a grunt against your ear. He’s thick and big against your walls.
A smack against your ass cheeks makes you clench. “Ah, shit.” And another one lands before he soothes it with a gentle massage.
You’re going crazy but you need him deeper. Sensing your needs, Yoongi pushes the back of your knees higher and snaps his hips with more force, pounding your pussy as your bed creaks against the wall. Your lids are heavy but you keep your eyes open long enough to see how fucked out he looks, cheeks flushed pink with a coat of sheen on his forehead, teeth caging his lower lip.
“You’re so hot. I wanna ride you,” you declare, stuttering a bit from his thrusts.
“Yeah?” He pants, slows the roll of his hips, waiting for your confirmation.
When you nod, he slips off with a wince and you feel your juices trickle down your skin. You reverse positions, mattress dipping as you shift your knees on each side of his hips.
“Do your thing, baby,” he urges, lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows bent outward in a relaxed pose.
Your smile is watery as you use his tip to prod against your clit one or twice before you sink him inside your wet heat. You moan in unison when you're fully seated, the feeling of him snug and warm and so full inside you driving you mad.
You tip your head back, palms planted against his chest as you swivel your hips in a slow dance.
You look down on him, hair cascading over your shoulder, and you think how much you like this view. And how you won't mind this view everyday, actually. Seems the possessive streak from earlier still has not satiated.
“Shit—you’re so hot like this.”
You rock against him, clit stimulated deliciously as you ride his cock. He’s got a cocky little grin as you use him. You throw your ass back, and he has a front row seat and VIP access to your bouncing tits, his tongue slack on the side of his lips. He cups your tits with both hands, the wet pads of his thumbs rubbing against your nipples.
“My turn,” he grabs hold of your waist and thrusts upward so roughly your eyes roll back in pleasure.
He pistons into you, finger digging on your skin to keep you in place and a long moan rips from your throat when he jerks up particularly hard.
Your hands slip to his shoulder as your body bounces by the force of his movements, tits sliding against his chest. His thighs must be burning and when he slightly lets up, you dip your head, shamelessly to lick the side of his face, moaning his name against his ear.
“Baby—” you beg, not really saying what you need, but he knows.
He uses a sweaty hand to guide a tit in his mouth, suckling at it with a bit of teeth.
Not a moment later, he’s fucking you again from below, deeper, faster, and when rapidly presses into your sweet spot, you’re a goner.
“I’m close, Yoongi. So close…”
“Me too, baby,” his voice is rough as he lets go of your bruised nipple, brows furrowed in concentration like he is fully intent to give you the orgasm of your life. He pushes into your depth relentlessly,
White hot heat is blooming inside you, and you feel his cock throb, abs tightening, before he spills his seed in the condom, groaning with his eyes shut to savor the intensity of his release. It’s the pure unadulterated pleasure painted on his face and his deep delicious moan that tips you over the edge, too, clenching against his solidness as you slip into the sinful pleasure of your orgasm.
Chest to chest, you rest your full weight against him, softening dick still nestled inside you. You press your lips against his neck, feeling the vibrations of his throaty chuckle. Then he asks, “Was it good?”
“So good.”
“Mm.” He hums, nosing the side of your face so you’d look at him. “Did you really mean what you said earlier?”
“Which one?”
“That you, uh, despite everything, you’d do it again, for me.”
You start to feel a bit shy, but then you remember you’re literally naked. On top of him. And he is still inside you. The point of bashfulness is long past. It’s time for the truth. “Yeah.”
“Bold of you, no?”
“Dumb, too.”
He pushes an errant hair behind your ear, eyes still glazed from the sex, but fond. “You know I really like you, right? If it isn’t painfully obvious.”
“Me too, Yoongi. Since Stan. Maybe even earlier.”
“Will you be my girl, then?”
Yoongi watches you carefully, waiting for your response. The earnest curve of his lips, the slight scrunch of his nose, the way his fingers still rest on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away—it’s all so achingly real.
You study him for a moment, letting yourself take it in. Everything about him—his caring nature, his tenderness, his immense love for Han, his ability to drive you absolutely insane and still make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.
The outside world is still in chaos. The scandal, the noise, the questions that neither of you have all the answers to yet. But here, in your little apartment, wrapped in the warmth of him, none of that feels as important as this.
“I will,” you finally say, voice steady.
His breath catches, just for a second. Then, his lips spread into the softest, gummiest smile you’ve ever seen.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, almost like he’s making sure he heard you right.
You nod, “Yeah.”
Your lips meet for a gentle kiss that feels like a promise and the rest of the world falls away. For now, no matter what comes next, it’s the two of you—finally honest, finally sure, and finally together.
:]
A/N: YASSSS. Our babies have finally figured it out. How do you feel right now? Would love to hear your comments!
Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human! Xo
P.S. Am gunning for 1,000 followers before Yoongi’s birthday. :) I think I’ll get there with your help. Feel free to reblog the story if you like, and that can help more people find our lovely L&L couple.
I think about Azula shooters often and their common refrain of "if Azula hadn't had a mental breakdown, she would've won" and I'm here to tell you that no, she wouldn't have.
There is no universe in which Azula was winning that fight with Zuko (or Katara, for that matter).
Azula spent so much of Book 2 being built up as this deadly terrifying force against whom the heroes are badly outmatched that it can be difficult to catch exactly how quickly Zuko is advancing.
Back up a bit to Book One. For the fearsome exiled crown prince of the Fire Nation, Zuko's not that impressive a firebender. He's not bad by any stretch, and he's able to lay the untrained Sokka and Katara flat pretty easily. Then he gets in the ring with Aang, who is an airbending master, and the difference between a regular bender and a master becomes apparent when Aang literally puts his ass to bed:
People have attributed this to the fact that no one's fought an airbender in 100 years, but I think it's also worth noting that Aang (a 12 year old from a pacifist nation) has probably never fought anyone before. Like, ever. And yet the second Aang thinks "okay, I'll attack back", the fight's over.
Zuko's got the same genetic predisposition for firebending talent that Azula does, yet it never seems to manifest because of his mental blocks. At the beginning of the series, he's already so beat down that all he really has is conviction, pride, and anger, so even with training from Iroh (the firebending master, thank you very much), he struggles. Yet throughout Book 2, when he has no time to train because he's on the run, he actually seems to advance faster. The fact that his bending is literally tied to his character arc (as his morals become tangled and he has to fight off aforementioned mental blocks) is pretty brilliant. Like, by the time of the Crossroads of Destiny, Zuko getting his ass handed to him by Aang is a pretty consistent feature of the show--he just can't match wits with him.
Hell, at the beginning of the series, he and Iroh (again: the actual firebending master) launch a combined power surface-to-air attack...which Aang casually swats away into a nearby ice wall. Come the Crossroads of Destiny, however, and Zuko by himself launches this bigass fireball that blows through Aang's defenses.
Zuko advances so quickly that it's scary. That prodigious talent is in him even if it doesn't come through as cleanly as with Azula. Who, by the way, was busy about to get flattened by Katara some few dozen feet away, until Zuko took over and then effectively stalemated her himself.
All of this in retrospect makes it abundantly clear why Zuko's firebending seemed to skyrocket so much when he learned true firebending from the Sun Warriors: it was really the only thing left. He's hard a hard road learning how to fight waterbenders, earthbenders, and airbenders, and even if unconsciously, he's applying the philosophy Iroh taught him about augmenting his bending style with aspects of other styles (see also, the waterbending-like fire whips he uses in the above gif). Once he actually understands fire and how it works, he's got it mastered. Hence why any gap between him and Azula effectively disappears as soon as their next fight--before her friends have betrayed her and her stability goes out the window. There's no real sense of urgency to their fight at the Boiling Rock prison. True, Sokka's presence with the sword helps, but Zuko doesn't look remotely worried and he counters Azula's every attack perfectly.
All her life, Azula only ever learned fire. She was taught by the best people the fire nation can employ, so she knows all the cool tricks, but she's still poisoned by the corrupted firebending practiced in the modern ATLA timeline. Unlike Zuko, who managed to get the basics if nothing else from Iroh (fire comes from the breath, and can be used to survive as much as to kill), Azula has always used fire as a weapon and a means to hurt others. She has no true knowledge of the craft, meaning she's got the same weaknesses as Zhao, she's just better disciplined to the point she can make up for it.
Zuko's victory was a given considering Azula's complete loss of control by the time of Sozin's comet, but even had she been in a perfect mental state, she'd have lost, because in many ways Zuko is simply the better firebender.
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