Just here to read fanfic 😅😅

‘88 liner 💍 w/ plenty kids 💜ARMY💜 BL addict 🌈 Anime enthusiast Language connoisseur

[namchyoon]

🫶

[focusonkayjay]

Trust me, missing my own deadlines breaks me more than anyone else. It genuinely weighs on my heart because it feels like I’ve let you all down, and that’s the last thing I ever want to do.

I care about this, about the people who read what I write. I'm constantly pushing myself, even when it's hard. So believe me when I say, I’m really trying.

The least anyone can be in return… is kind.

[mother2monsters]

I’m working on updating. Still have a lot that I need to edit. I’m headed to Japan rn.

[ktownshizzle]

Watermelon & Suga | myg

✎ 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.”

“I just…” you look away, voice small. “You sure you’re comfortable?”

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.

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[infinitelibrary]

K!!!!!!!! oh my GODDDDDDD

I needed a day or two to process and really soak this all in before I provide you with my analytical dissertation / dissection of your work of art. And I DO mean WORK. OF. ART. The details and the way you set the scene for us is truly a thing of beauty. For those of us that have been to this incredible destination, you’ve transported us back to that magical place.  And for those of us that HAVEN’T been - you’ve painted SUCH a vivid picture of what it’s like that we can practically smell the ocean and feel that warm breeze caressing our skin. - we FEEL like we are there with MC.  There were moments where I had to stop and sit back and just be like "wtf did I just read"..."no way she captured that the way she did"...just...

BUT...let me go in order...

The “you know BTS?” line cracked me up

That comment about the boat moving with the waves, but MC's ability to remain rooted to the ground.  That one little detail spoke volumes about MC’s expertise and skill at her craft and is a true testament to how long she’s been working there.  Even if Yoongi hadn’t asked…we would’ve known she’d been doing this a long long time.

Yassss to the Bond girl reference…I love it!!

Also why can I absolutely hear him saying “you know this fish” in his adorable English lilt.  Kinda like the “You like these chains?” moment from his early days.😂 

MC being totally oblivious to the fact that she asked for his number / to exchange contacts so that he could send her the fish pic is TOTALLY something I would do.  I can be a bit obtuse like that (I’ve had friends point it out to me AFTER the fact) so to have this happen to her and the realization dawn on her was just hilarious and very very relatable! I loved that moment

That whole first watermelon scene.  Min Yoongi you SLY DOG you.  But MC is not innocent in all this either…both of them basically eyefucking each other at that point. 

The way his foot slipped when he was jumping in….SUCH a yoongi thing to do.  I can practically hear his little yelp.  

Her rambling when she gets nervous was ADORABLE

The "macro details" when Yoongi leans in for that first kiss got me because - the visuals??? Oh my GOD when I tell you, I had to go back and re-read that paragraph like three times because my mind just couldn’t comprehend how vividly you managed to capture every fucking detail of that moment.  The smell, the taste, the TEXTURE…good GOD. It’s like I was THERE.  It’s like I was living that moment, seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling, tasting ALL those things. That was the moment I was like 'wtf did I just read'. I literally had to sit back and look around me to essentially pinch myself back into my reality.

Like oh my GOD you guys just LOOK at this paragraph and tell me you can't picture yourself RIGHT THERE in her place.

that detail??? I mean come ON!!!

“We bout to break protocol” DAMN RIGHT YOU ARE you HORNY BASTARD (also please add ladder sex to the list of things I would like to do with Mr. Min Yoongi)🤐

Seriously tho - your words are like POETRY. The little touches on the boat after that first time, once everyone else had gotten back on board.  But also - the mentions of the food - again, a lovely little detail that made us feel like we were right there. 

The domesticity of that first visit to her place.  Cooking together (that would be the actual DREAM) and then just talking.  Like, I know on first glance it may seem like just lust and unbridled physical attraction and while that’s part of it, I love that they had conversations together as well.  About anything and everything and the most random of things.  

I love that even after that first real night at her place, MC still refused to give him her number.  Part of me wonders what if.  But I think it’s also so that she could be sure that it was in fact really real.  She basically said as much.  And they both feel it’s real in the moment - especially Yoongi, no doubt, is convinced it’s real but she also knows the gravity and weight of everything that his career and life path have in store for him…and that things are not at all certain.  She’s in a whole other country, he has professional and patriotic obligations he has to fulfill and who knows what could happen in that time.  This gives them both time to live their lives, get back to reality and then decide if this is something they really wanted to come back to. And I think he realized that too.

Her missing him while he’s gone, sure…but also moving forward and living her life through all of its ups and downs.  Finding strength in his memory, his music, and his lyrics.  All of that was so relatable. 

The “I tried to forget you…turns out I can’t”  Are you KIDDING ME with that line????  OMG I COULD SOB.  The ending was so perfect.  So soft, so romantic, so gentle, and just so damn PERFECT. 

Kudos, K!  HUGE fan.  Have been, am now, and always will be. 😘😘😘

[ktownshizzle]

Damn okayyyy

Fuck yeahh, TEA!!! I’m so hyped! 👊 Thank you so much for this reblog / dissertation. This long ass dissection of the fic is what writers dream of. You have no idea how much I truly appreciate it. Like with every fiber of my being. 😘

Fuel, is what it is. To keep dreaming and writing and sharing my Yoongi fantasies so we can all escape our lives even temporarily.

I’m so lucky to have you on here, my friend. Never change! Plase continue to send me all the Yoongi mannerisms and details and memes and photos so we keep ballin’ 💜✨

[mother2monsters]

Serendipity in Seoul pt. 37

Lyric was still catching her breath, her lips tingling from Jin’s release, when Hobi pulled her back against his chest, his hands roaming her bare skin possessively. He nipped at her earlobe, his voice a low rumble. “You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmured, his fingers brushing her sides, keeping her buzzing with heat. His eyes flicked to Jimin, who was still on his knees, staring at her with a hunger that hadn’t dimmed despite his earlier unraveling. “Think Jimin’s earned a reward, don’t you?”

Lyric’s gaze shifted to Jimin, his flushed cheeks and dark eyes locked on her, his cock still straining against his ruined pants. She smirked, her voice breathy but teasing. “Yeah, Hobi. He’s been so patient.”

Jimin’s breath hitched, his hands flexing on his thighs as he waited, every muscle in his body taut with anticipation. Hobi chuckled, the sound dark and approving, and gave Lyric a gentle nudge forward. “Go on, then,” he said, his tone a velvet command. “Let him have you.”

She slid off Hobi’s lap, crawling toward Jimin on her hands and knees, her body still thrumming from everything they’d already done. Jimin met her halfway, his hands shooting out to grab her hips, pulling her close with a desperation that made her gasp. “Lyric—” he rasped, voice thick with need, his fingers digging into her skin.

“Take her,” Hobi said from behind, his voice steady but laced with heat as he leaned back, watching. “Fuck her good, Jimin-ah. Show me what you’ve been dying to do.”

Jimin didn’t need to be told twice. He fumbled with his pants, shoving them down just enough to free himself, his cock hard and leaking as he lined up with her. Lyric braced her hands on his shoulders, her breath catching as he pressed against her entrance, slick and ready from everything before. With one sharp thrust, he buried himself inside her, deep and sudden, pulling a cry from her throat.

“Fuck—” Jimin groaned, his head falling forward as he bottomed out, his hands gripping her hips like she might slip away. “You feel—so fucking good—”

Lyric moaned, her nails biting into his shoulders as he started moving, his thrusts fast and rough, all that pent-up desperation pouring out. He wasn’t gentle—couldn’t be, not after watching her with Hobi and Jin, not after tasting them both. His hips snapped against hers, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the room, driving her higher with every stroke.

Hobi’s eyes burned as he watched, one hand resting on his thigh, the other lazily stroking himself back to full hardness. “Harder,” he ordered, voice cutting through Jimin’s groans. “She can take it. Make her scream.”

Jimin growled low in his throat, obeying instantly, his thrusts turning brutal, his hands yanking her down to meet him. Lyric’s head tipped back, a string of broken moans spilling out as he hit deep, relentless, her body shaking under the force. “Jimin—fuck—yes—” she gasped, her voice cracking with every slam of his hips.

“That’s it,” Hobi purred, his tone dark and pleased. “Look at her, Jimin. Falling apart on your cock. You wanted this so bad, didn’t you?”

Jimin’s eyes were wild, his breath ragged as he nodded, too far gone to form words. “So bad,” he managed, voice wrecked, his thrusts stuttering as he felt her clench around him, tight and hot. “Noona —fuck—I’m—”

“Not yet,” Hobi snapped, his voice sharp now. “Make her cum first. Earn it.”

Jimin whimpered, slowing just enough to shift his angle, one hand sliding between them to rub messy circles over her clit. Lyric’s whole body jolted, a scream tearing from her throat as the added pressure sent her spiraling. “Jimin—oh god—right there—” she sobbed, her legs trembling, her nails raking down his arms.

He kept going, his fingers relentless, his cock driving into her with renewed focus, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought to please her. It didn’t take long—Lyric shattered around him, her body locking tight as she came, a flood of heat soaking him, her cries echoing in the room.

Jimin groaned, his control snapping as her orgasm pulled him under. He thrust once, twice more, then buried himself deep, spilling inside her with a choked moan, his hips jerking as he rode it out. They collapsed together, panting, Lyric’s arms draped over his shoulders, his face buried in her neck.

Hobi laughed softly, dark and satisfied, rising to his feet to loom over them. “Good boy,” he murmured, ruffling Jimin’s hair before pulling Lyric back into his arms, her body limp and trembling against him. “You fucked her well. Proud of you.” His eyes glinted as he kissed her forehead, then glanced at Jin, still recovering. “Rest up. We’re not done.”

[mother2monsters]

Serendipity in Seoul pt. 36

Jin’s eyes flickered with a mix of nerves and raw hunger, his chest rising and falling fast as he watched Jimin slump back, dazed and spent, a wet spot darkening his pants. Lyric’s praise still hung in the air, thick and heady, and Jin’s hand twitched where it hovered over his own straining bulge, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch himself yet.

Hobi’s smirk sharpened, his cock still hard and glistening from Jimin’s efforts, bobbing slightly as he shifted Lyric in his lap. “Come on, Jin,” he drawled, voice low and taunting. “You’ve been staring like a starving man. Show me what you’ve got.”

Lyric giggled softly, her body still buzzing from everything, her hands sliding up Hobi’s chest as she twisted to glance at Jin. “Yeah, Jin,” she teased, her voice a sultry purr. “You begged so pretty earlier. Let’s see if you can back it up.”

Jin swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he didn’t hesitate long. He shuffled closer on his knees, his hands tentative at first as they settled on Lyric’s thighs, then slid up to Hobi’s, his fingers brushing the base of Hobi’s cock. He licked his lips, eyes darting between them, then leaned in, his tongue flicking out to taste Hobi where Jimin had left him slick and messy.

Hobi groaned low, his head tipping back for a moment before he caught himself, his hands tightening on Lyric’s hips. “Fuck, that’s it,” he muttered, voice rough. “Don’t be shy now.”

Jin took the encouragement and ran with it, his mouth closing around Hobi’s tip, sucking slow and deep, his tongue working in broad, hungry strokes. He was less frantic than Jimin, more deliberate, but no less eager, his lips stretching as he took Hobi deeper, his cheeks hollowing with the effort.

Lyric moaned softly, the sight reigniting the heat in her core, and she reached down, her fingers threading into Jin’s hair this time. “So good, Jin,” she murmured, her voice thick with praise. “You look so fucking hot like that—sucking Hobi off like you were made for it.”

Jin’s eyes fluttered, a muffled groan vibrating through Hobi as her words hit him, spurring him on. His hands gripped Hobi’s thighs harder, his head bobbing now, sloppy and determined, spit dripping down his chin as he worked.

Hobi’s breath grew ragged, his control slipping as Jin’s mouth pushed him closer to the edge. “Shit—Lyric, he’s—” He cut himself off with a growl, one hand sliding up her stomach to palm her breast, grounding himself as he thrust shallowly into Jin’s mouth. “Keep talking to him, baby. He likes it.”

Lyric grinned, wicked and thrilled, tightening her grip in Jin’s hair as she leaned down slightly. “You do, don’t you, Jin?” she cooed, her voice dripping with heat. “Love hearing how good you are, how perfect your mouth feels on Hobi. Keep going—make him cum for you.”

Jin whimpered around Hobi, the sound desperate, and doubled his efforts, his tongue swirling faster, his lips sucking harder. His own hips rocked subtly, chasing friction he wasn’t getting, his arousal obvious in the tight strain of his pants.

Hobi’s head fell back again, a string of curses spilling out as his hips jerked, losing rhythm. “Fuck—Jin—gonna—” He didn’t finish, his hand clamping down on Lyric’s hip as he thrust once, twice more, then came with a guttural groan, spilling hot and thick into Jin’s mouth.

Jin took it all, swallowing greedily, his throat working as he milked Hobi through it, not pulling back until Hobi’s grip on Lyric loosened, his body slumping slightly against her. Jin finally released him, panting, lips swollen and wet, a dazed, triumphant look in his eyes as he glanced up at them.

Lyric laughed, breathless and delighted, stroking Jin’s hair gently. “Holy shit, Jin, you’re amazing,” she praised, her voice warm. She looked back at Hobi, who was catching his breath, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “Think he earned that one, Hobi?”

Hobi chuckled, still winded, his hand sliding up to cup her jaw as he kissed her slow and deep. “Yeah, baby,” he murmured against her lips. “He fucking did.” His eyes flicked to Jimin, still recovering, then back to Jin. “Both of them did. But I’m not done with you yet.”

Lyric’s pulse jumped, a thrill shooting through her as Hobi’s tone promised more, his hands already shifting her in his lap again.

Hobi’s smirk was lazy but razor-sharp as he caught his breath, his hands still resting on Lyric’s hips. He tilted his head, eyeing Jimin and Jin with a mix of amusement and dominance, their flushed faces and swollen lips only fueling his taunt. “Look at you two,” he drawled, voice thick with mockery. “So fucking desperate for my girl, you’d suck my cock just to get a taste of her. Pathetic.”

Jimin flinched, his cheeks reddening even more, though his eyes stayed dark and defiant, still hazy from his untouched release. Jin shifted on his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze flickering between shame and lingering hunger. Neither of them denied it, and that only made Hobi’s grin widen.

“Thought so,” he muttered, then turned his attention to Lyric, his tone softening but still edged with command. “Let’s get these off, baby. Show them everything they’re dying for.” His hands moved to her shirt, tugging it up and over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. Her shorts and underwear followed, yanked down her legs until she was bare against him, skin flushed and glistening, every curve exposed.

Lyric shivered, the cool air hitting her overheated body, but Hobi’s warmth at her back kept her grounded. He shifted her again, turning her to face Jin, her legs still spread over his lap as he leaned back, fully in control. “Jin,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “you did good with me. Now let’s see how you handle her. Lyric’s gonna show you how it’s done.”

Jin’s eyes widened, his breath catching as Lyric slid off Hobi’s lap and onto her knees in front of him, her hands already reaching for his pants. She glanced back at Hobi, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “You directing, Hobi?”

“Damn right,” Hobi replied, his voice a growl as he settled back, one hand lazily stroking himself, still half-hard from before. “Undo him, baby. Take your time.”

Lyric obeyed, her fingers deftly unbuttoning Jin’s pants, tugging them down just enough to free his cock—hard, thick, and already leaking at the tip. Jin groaned, his head tipping back as her hands wrapped around him, giving a slow, teasing stroke. She looked up at him, then over at Hobi, waiting for his next move.

Hobi’s eyes glinted, locked on Jin’s wrecked expression. “Start with the tip,” he instructed, his tone firm. “Lick him slow, let him feel it.”

Lyric leaned in, her tongue flicking out to lap at Jin’s tip, tasting the salt of him as she circled it, deliberate and torturous. Jin’s hips jerked, a choked sound escaping his throat, his hands fisting at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Good,” Hobi murmured, his voice dipping lower. “Now take him in, baby. Suck him deep—show him how you drive me fucking crazy.”

She parted her lips, sliding Jin into her mouth inch by inch, her tongue pressing flat against the underside as she took him deeper. Jin moaned, loud and broken, his head falling forward to watch her, his chest heaving. “Fuck—Lyric—”

Hobi chuckled, dark and approving. “Yeah, Jin, feels good, doesn’t it? She’s the best. Relax your throat, baby—let him hit the back.”

Lyric hummed around Jin, the vibration pulling another groan from him as she followed Hobi’s direction, relaxing to take him deeper until her nose brushed his skin. Jin’s hands flew to her hair, gripping tight, his hips twitching as he fought to stay still.

“Shit—Hobi, she’s—” Jin couldn’t finish, his words dissolving into a whimper as Lyric bobbed her head, slow and sloppy, spit slicking her lips.

“Life changing,” Hobi said, his voice smug as he watched, his hand still lazily stroking himself. “Look at her, hyung. Look how much she loves it. Tell her.”

Jin’s eyes were glassy, his voice wrecked. “You’re—so fucking good, noona—please don’t stop—”

Lyric pulled back just enough to smirk up at him, her hand pumping him as she caught her breath. “You’re cute when you beg, Jin,” she teased, then dove back in, sucking harder at Hobi’s next command.

“Faster now,” Hobi ordered, his tone sharpening. “Make him lose it, baby.”

She picked up the pace, her mouth working Jin with a relentless rhythm, her hands twisting at the base as she drove him toward the edge. Jin’s moans turned desperate, his grip in her hair tightening, his hips bucking despite himself.

Hobi leaned forward slightly, his voice a growl. “That’s it. Finish him.”

Lyric hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard and fast, and Jin shattered with a shout, spilling into her mouth as his whole body shook. She took it all, swallowing around him until he was whimpering, oversensitive and spent, his hands falling limp.

Hobi grinned, pulling Lyric back into his lap as she wiped her lips, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Good girl,” he murmured, kissing her deep, tasting Jin on her tongue. He glanced at Jin, slumped and panting, then Jimin, still watching, wide-eyed. “She’s perfect.”

[mother2monsters]

Serendipity in Seoul pt. 35

Jimin froze, his breath coming out in shallow pants, his thighs tense where he sat, his hands twitching on his lap like he didn’t know whether to fist them or reach for her.

Lyric could feel the tension thickening in the air, pressing down on her like a weight, making her nerves buzz with anticipation.

Hoseok chuckled, slow and mocking, his fingers still lazily stroking inside her, his other hand gripping her jaw, keeping her head tilted to the side so she could watch Jimin and Jin fall apart.

“Come on, Jimin-ah,” he purred, eyes lidded, “I know you can do better than that.”

Jin exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat like he was trying to will himself to stay still, but the way his eyes were locked onto the place where Hoseok’s fingers disappeared inside Lyric? The way his breath hitched every time she whimpered?

He was already gone.

Jimin, though—Jimin was fighting it. His hands clenched into the couch, his lips parted like he wanted to say something, but his pride—his damn pride—was holding him back.

Hoseok hummed, his smirk deepening.

“What’s wrong?” he taunted, curling his fingers just right—Lyric’s cry echoed in the dimly lit room, her body arching into his touch as he stretched her, deliberately slow, deliberately deep, deliberately meant to break them. “Scared to admit you want what’s already mine?”

Jimin growled, his jaw tightening. “Fuck you.”

Hoseok laughed.

“Not yet, sweetheart.”

And then—then—he withdrew his fingers completely, dragging them over her thighs, up her stomach, until they rested against her lips.

Lyric whimpered, her breath hot against his fingertips.

“Open,” Hoseok murmured, “clean me up, baby.”

She obeyed without hesitation, lips parting, tongue flicking out to taste herself on him, sucking his fingers into her mouth.

Jin groaned.

Jimin’s hands twitched.

Hoseok’s eyes darkened with satisfaction.

“See?” he murmured, pulling his fingers from her mouth, bringing them to Jimin’s lips instead. “She’s so good for me.”

Jimin sucked in a sharp breath, his gaze flicking from Hoseok to Lyric—then to Jin, who looked like he was one second away from snapping.

Hoseok leaned in, voice low, teasing. “You want her? Show me.”

Jimin hesitated—for only a moment.

Then he leaned forward.

And licked Hoseok’s fingers clean.

Lyric gasped.

Jin choked.

Hoseok grinned like the devil himself.

“Good boy,” he whispered. “Now tell me exactly what you’re going to do to her.”

Jimin’s eyes fluttered shut for a split second as he pulled back from Hobi’s fingers, the taste of Lyric still lingering on his tongue. His chest heaved, his pride in tatters, but the hunger in his gaze burned brighter than ever. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every last trace of her.

Hobi’s grin widened, all teeth and danger, his hand sliding possessively to Lyric’s hip, anchoring her against him. “Well?” he pressed, voice dripping with mockery. “I’m waiting, Jimin-ah. Tell me what you’re gonna do to my girl.”

Lyric’s breath hitched, her body thrumming with heat as she watched Jimin wrestle with himself. She could feel Hobi’s chest rumbling with a low laugh behind her, his fingers flexing against her skin, teasingly close to where she still ached for him.

Jimin’s voice came out rough, jagged, like it was being dragged out of him. “I’d—” He swallowed hard, his eyes locking onto hers, then dipping lower, tracing the curve of her body. “I’d pin her down. Taste every inch of her. Make her scream ‘til she can’t fucking think straight.”

Lyric’s pulse spiked, a soft whimper slipping past her lips before she could stop it. Hobi’s grip tightened, his nails biting into her hip just enough to make her squirm.

“Hmm,” Hobi mused, tilting his head as if considering it. “Not bad.” His eyes flicked to Jin, who was practically vibrating in his seat, his knuckles white where he gripped the armrest. “What about you, Hyung? What’s your plan for her?”

Jin’s throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze heavy and unblinking. “I’d take my time,” he rasped, voice low and wrecked. “Spread her out. Kiss her everywhere she’s begging for it—fuck, I’d make her beg for me.”

Lyric’s head lolled back against Hobi’s shoulder, her skin prickling under the weight of their words, the air growing thicker, hotter, with every syllable. She could feel Hobi’s smirk against her neck as he hummed in approval.

“Beg, huh?” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “You hear that, baby? They think they can make you beg better than I can.” He shifted, rolling his hips against her just enough to make her gasp, her hands clutching at his thighs for balance. “Should we test that?”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed, a spark of defiance flaring as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “Let me prove it, Hobi. I’ll have her crying my name in ten seconds flat.”

Jin let out a shaky laugh, though it sounded more like a groan. “You wish. I’d have her shaking before you even got started.”

Hobi laughed outright, the sound dark and rich, vibrating through Lyric’s chest. “Big words,” he taunted, his hand sliding up her stomach, brushing the underside of her breast just to watch them squirm. “But I don’t share easy.” He paused, letting the tension stretch taut, then added, “Unless she wants it.”

Lyric’s breath caught, her mind spinning as all three pairs of eyes turned to her—Hobi’s teasing, Jimin’s desperate, Jin’s ravenous. She licked her lips, feeling the power shift, just for a moment, into her hands.

“Maybe,” she said, voice breathy but steady, a smirk tugging at her mouth as she met Hobi’s gaze. “If they’re good enough.”

Hobi’s eyes flashed with something wicked, thrilled. “Oh, noona ,” he purred, nipping at her jaw. “You’re gonna make this fun.” He looked back at Jimin and Jin, his grin all challenge. “You heard her. Get on your knees and prove it.”

Jimin didn’t hesitate this time, sliding off the couch in one fluid motion, his hands hovering an inch from her legs like he was waiting for permission. Jin followed, slower but no less determined, his eyes locked on hers as he sank down beside Jimin.

Hobi leaned back, pulling Lyric tighter against him, his voice a velvet command. “Show me how bad you want her. Make it good.”

Lyric’s breath stuttered as Jimin’s hands finally settled on her calves, his fingers warm and trembling just slightly as they slid upward, tracing the curve of her legs with a reverence that made her skin tingle. Jin was right there beside him, his touch bolder, his palm pressing flat against her thigh, kneading the flesh like he couldn’t help himself.

Hobi’s chest rumbled against her back, a low hum of amusement as he watched them, his grip on her hips loosening just enough to let her feel the full weight of their attention. “Look at them,” he murmured into her ear, his voice a tease wrapped in heat. “Already falling apart, and they’ve barely started.”

Jimin’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, dark and molten, his lips parting as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin. “Lyric,” he whispered, voice rough with need, “let me—”

He didn’t finish. His mouth pressed to the inside of her knee, soft at first, then harder, a slow drag of lips and tongue that sent a jolt straight through her. She gasped, her fingers digging into Hobi’s thighs, anchoring herself as her body arched toward the sensation.

Jin growled low in his throat, not about to be outdone. His hand slid higher, pushing her shorts up as he leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “You’re so fucking soft,” he muttered, almost to himself, before sucking a mark into her skin, sharp and deliberate.

Lyric’s head tipped back, a broken moan slipping out as the dual assault lit her nerves on fire. Hobi’s laugh was dark, approving, vibrating through her as his hands slid up her sides, possessive and steadying all at once. “That’s it,” he purred, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Look at how desperate they are for you, baby. You’ve got them on their knees already.”

Lyric’s pulse raced, her body caught between the heat of Hobi’s words and the relentless attention from Jimin and Jin. Jimin’s mouth moved higher, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate line up her thigh, his hands gripping her legs like he was afraid she’d vanish if he let go. Every flick of his tongue sent a shiver ripping through her, her breath coming in ragged bursts.

Jin wasn’t far behind, his lips pressing harder now, teeth grazing her skin as he worked another mark into her thigh, his fingers digging in just enough to make her squirm. “Fuck, Lyric,” he groaned, voice muffled against her, “you taste too good.” His hand slid up, brushing dangerously close to where she was still aching from Hobi’s earlier teasing, and she couldn’t hold back the whimper that escaped.

Hobi’s grip tightened, one hand slipping under her shirt to splay across her stomach, keeping her pinned against him. “You like that, don’t you?” he murmured, his lips brushing her neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “Having them worship you like this. Tell me how it feels.”

Lyric’s mind was a haze, words slipping through her fingers like smoke, but she managed a shaky, “So good, Hobi—fuck, it’s too much.” Her hips twitched, caught between pushing into Jimin and Jin’s touches and pressing back against Hobi’s solid frame.

“Too much?” Hobi chuckled, his tone mockingly sweet as he tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You can take it, baby. You’re mine—you’ll take whatever I let them give you.” His eyes flicked down to Jimin and Jin, sharp and commanding. “Don’t stop. Make her feel it.”

Jimin groaned against her skin, his mouth moving higher, bolder, his hands sliding under her thighs to lift them slightly, giving himself better access. His lips hovered just shy of where she needed him most, teasing, waiting, his breath hot and torturous.

Jin took the cue, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her shorts, tugging them down just enough to expose more of her to his hungry gaze. “Hobi,” he rasped, glancing up at him with a mix of plea and defiance, “let me taste her. Please.”

Hobi’s smirk was pure sin, his hand sliding up to cup Lyric’s jaw, his thumb brushing her lips. “What do you think, jaguya? Should I let Jin have a taste? Or should I make him beg harder?”

Lyric’s breath hitched, her body trembling as she looked down at Jin’s pleading eyes, Jimin’s desperate grip, and then back to Hobi’s wicked grin. “Make him beg,” she whispered, a thrill shooting through her at the power Hobi dangled in front of her.

Hobi’s laugh was sharp, delighted. “You heard her, hyung. Beg.”

Jin’s eyes flared with something wild, a mix of frustration and raw need, his hands still gripping the edge of Lyric’s shorts like they were his lifeline. He exhaled hard, his breath shaky, and leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing her thigh as he fought to find the words. “Please, noona,” he started, voice rough and low, cracking at the edges. “I need to taste you. I’ll do anything—fuck, I’ll make you feel so good, I swear. Just let me.” His gaze flicked up to Hobi, a silent acknowledgment of who really held the reins, then back to her, desperate and unguarded. “Please.”

Jimin paused, his lips still pressed to her skin, glancing sideways at Jin with a flicker of competitive heat before he doubled down, sucking a mark into her inner thigh that made her gasp. His hands tightened, pulling her legs apart just a little more, his own silent plea written in every touch.

Hobi’s thumb traced lazy circles over Lyric’s lips as he watched, his grin widening at Jin’s submission. “Not bad,” he mused, voice dripping with amusement. “But I think you can do better, Jin. Really convince her.”

Lyric’s chest heaved, her body buzzing from the tension coiling tighter and tighter. Jin’s begging, Jimin’s relentless teasing, Hobi’s control—it was overwhelming, intoxicating, and she couldn’t stop the soft moan that slipped out as she shifted against Hobi’s lap.

Jin groaned, the sound almost pained, and dropped lower, his lips brushing the bare skin just above her shorts as he spoke again. “Lyric, I’d fucking worship you,” he rasped, his voice trembling with want. “I’d take my time, make you shake, make you come apart until you can’t even remember your name. I need it—need you. Please, let me.”

Hobi hummed, clearly pleased, his hand sliding down from her jaw to rest lightly around her throat, a gentle claim. “That’s more like it,” he murmured, tilting her head back to kiss the corner of her mouth. “What do you say, jagiya? Think he’s earned it?”

Lyric’s eyes fluttered, her mind spinning as she looked down at Jin’s pleading face, his breath hot against her skin, and Jimin’s dark gaze, silently daring her to say yes so he could follow. Her lips curled into a shaky smirk, her voice breathy but firm. “Yeah, Hobi. Let him.”

Hobi’s chuckle was pure satisfaction, his fingers tightening briefly around her throat before he released her, leaning back to watch the show. “Go on, hyung,” he said, voice a velvet command. “Show her what you’ve got. Jimin, don’t you dare stop.”

Jin didn’t hesitate, his hands tugging her shorts down further, his mouth descending with a hunger that made her cry out the second his tongue met her skin. He was deliberate, thorough, every flick and press of his lips sending sparks shooting up her spine. Jimin growled low in his throat, matching Jin’s pace, his mouth working her thigh with bruising intensity, his fingers digging into her like he was staking his own claim. Lyric’s hands flew to Hobi’s arms, clutching him as her body arched, the combined assault tipping her dangerously close to the edge. “Hobi—” she gasped, her voice breaking, her nails biting into his skin. Hobi leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, “That’s it, noona. Let them make you feel good. I’ve got you.” His hands slid under her shirt again, palming her breasts, teasing her just enough to push her higher. She was unraveling, fast, and Hobi’s dark, approving laugh was the last thing she heard before the world blurred into nothing but their hands and mouths.

Lyric’s thighs trembled as Jin and Jimin devoured her, their mouths working in chaotic tandem, sloppy and unrestrained. Jin’s tongue flattened against her, dragging slow and messy, while Jimin’s lips sucked hard at her clit, his fingers gripping her thighs to keep her spread open. Wet sounds filled the air, their groans mingling with her breathless moans, spit and heat smearing across her skin as they lost themselves in her. Jin pulled back just enough to let his tongue flick against Jimin’s, the two of them tangling messily over her, tasting her and each other in a frantic haze. Lyric’s hips bucked, her hands fisting in Hobi’s shirt as she tried to anchor herself, her body shuddering under the onslaught. “Fuck—Hobi—” she whimpered, voice wrecked, barely holding on.

Jimin growled against her, his tongue plunging deeper, sloppy and relentless, while Jin licked up the mess they were making, his lips brushing Jimin’s in the chaos. It was filthy, overwhelming, and Lyric’s head lolled back against Hobi’s shoulder, her cries growing sharper, louder.

Hobi watched, eyes dark and hooded, his grip on her tightening as her body started to shake. “That’s enough,” he said suddenly, voice cutting through the haze like a blade. His tone was firm, final, and Jin and Jimin froze, panting, their mouths glistening as they pulled back, eyes wild with hunger.

Lyric whined at the loss, her body still thrumming, but Hobi was already moving. “You did good,” he murmured to her, kissing her neck briefly before shifting her in his lap. “But they need to see how it’s really done.” His hands hooked under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly until she was positioned reverse cowgirl, her back pressed to his chest, legs spread wide over his.

He reached down, undoing his pants with a quick, practiced motion, and freed his cock, hard and thick, brushing against her as he adjusted her above him. “Watch,” he said, voice low and commanding, his eyes locking onto Jin and Jimin, who were still on their knees, chests heaving, staring up at them.

Hobi guided himself to her entrance, slick and ready from Jin and Jimin’s work, and sank into her with a slow, deliberate thrust. Lyric moaned, loud and unrestrained, her hands grabbing at his thighs as he filled her, stretching her in a way that made her tremble. He set a rhythm, deep and steady, his hips rolling up into her, letting her feel every inch. “Like this,” he said, his voice rough now, a growl edging into it as he fucked her. “This is how she likes it. Hard. Deep. Look at her.”

Jin and Jimin didn’t just watch—they moved. Jin leaned in first, his tongue flicking out to lap at where Hobi’s cock slid into her, tasting them both, greedy and unashamed. Jimin followed, his lips brushing Hobi’s base, sucking messily at the slick skin, his hands braced on Lyric’s thighs to keep her steady. Lyric’s head spun, her moans turning into broken sobs as the sensation doubled—no, tripled. Hobi’s cock driving into her, Jin’s tongue swirling around her clit and Hobi’s length, Jimin’s mouth sucking at him, at her, sloppy and desperate. It was too much, too good, and she couldn’t stop the way her body clenched, her nails digging into Hobi’s legs.

“Fuck—Hobi—” she gasped, her voice barely coherent, her hips grinding down to meet his thrusts, chasing the edge she was hurtling toward. Hobi groaned, his hands tightening on her hips as he fucked her harder, the wet sounds of Jin and Jimin’s mouths only spurring him on. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, his breath hot against her ear. “Let them taste how good I make you feel. Let them fucking choke on it.”

Jin moaned against her, his tongue plunging deeper, licking at Hobi’s cock as it moved, while Jimin sucked harder, his lips smeared with spit and her, his eyes locked on Hobi’s like he was daring him to keep going. They were a mess, all three of them worshipping her, worshipping him, and Lyric was gone—shattering around Hobi with a scream that echoed in the room, her body shaking uncontrollably as she came. Hobi didn’t stop, his thrusts relentless, drawing it out as Jin and Jimin kept going, licking and sucking through her high, messy and feral, until she was a trembling, whimpering wreck in his arms.

Hobi’s grip on Lyric’s hips loosened as her tremors finally slowed, her body still quivering from the intensity of her release. With a low grunt, he lifted her just enough to slide his cock out of her, slick and glistening from her, leaving her gasping at the sudden emptiness. He held her steady against his chest, her legs still spread wide, and smirked down at Jimin and Jin, who were panting, flushed, and hungry-eyed below them. “Jimin,” Hobi said, voice rough and commanding, his cock twitching as it hovered in the air. “Clean me up.”

Jimin didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, his hands bracing on Hobi’s thighs as his mouth closed around the tip, sucking hard, his tongue swirling to lap up every trace of Lyric. Hobi groaned, his head tipping back slightly, the wet heat of Jimin’s mouth pulling a shudder through him. Jimin worked him eagerly, messy and thorough, his lips sliding lower, taking more, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked. Lyric watched, her breath still jagged, a fresh wave of heat pooling in her gut at the sight. She shifted in Hobi’s lap, her hands reaching down to tangle in Jimin’s hair, fingers curling tight. “Good boy,” she murmured, voice husky and thick with praise. “Look at you, so fucking eager for Hobi’s cock.”

Jimin moaned around him, the sound muffled but desperate, his eyes fluttering shut as her words sank in. Lyric tightened her grip, pushing his head down further, forcing him to take Hobi deeper until his nose brushed Hobi’s skin. “That’s it,” she cooed, her tone dripping with approval. “Suck him like you mean it, Jimin. Make him feel good.”

Hobi’s breath hitched, his hands flexing on Lyric’s hips as Jimin obeyed, his throat working around him, sloppy and relentless. Jimin’s hands trembled where they gripped Hobi’s thighs, his own cock straining against his pants, untouched but throbbing. The praise, the pressure of Lyric’s hands, the taste of Hobi and her combined—it was unraveling him fast. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” Lyric purred, shoving him down harder, her nails scraping his scalp as she guided him. “So good for us, Jimin. Taking Hobi so well—look at how hard you’re making him.”

Jimin whimpered, the sound vibrating through Hobi, and his hips twitched involuntarily, his body tensing as he teetered on the edge. Lyric’s control, her filthy praise, the way she manhandled him—it was too much. His eyes squeezed shut, and with one last deep suck, his tongue pressing flat against Hobi’s length, he came untouched, a choked moan spilling out around Hobi as his body shook, staining his pants. Hobi groaned loud, the sight of Jimin falling apart tipping him closer, his cock twitching in Jimin’s mouth. “Shit—good job, baby,” he rasped, one hand sliding up Lyric’s side as he caught his breath, still rock-hard and pulsing. He glanced down at Jimin, now slumped and panting, lips swollen and wet, then over at Jin, who was staring, wide-eyed and wrecked, his own hand hovering near his lap.

Lyric laughed softly, breathless and delighted, releasing Jimin’s hair to stroke it gently instead. “So fucking pretty when you cum like that,” she murmured, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. She looked back at Hobi, eyes glinting. “Think he earned a break, Hobi?”

Hobi smirked, his chest still heaving. “Yeah. But Jin’s still waiting his turn.” His gaze shifted to Jin, dark and challenging. “You ready hyung?”

[mother2monsters]

Updates

I'll post updates tonight when I get to work. Y'all between Hobi's concerts and traveling I haven't had time to update anything but TRUST there is a lot of updates coming.

Thank you all for reading

[shrewsburysworld]

Mad Doctor (part 1)

Pair :- Yandere Seokjin × Toxic Reader

Summary :- Dr. Seokjin is adored by all, yet bound to a possessive wife who marks him as hers. His colleagues pity him, thinking he’s trapped. But behind closed doors, the truth is far more complicated.

Warnings :- Yandere themes, toxic relationship, manupilative behaviour, domestic violence, jealous reader, possessive reader, dubious consent (mild).

"This is a work of fiction and does not promote or romanticize toxic relationships in real life."

Dr. Seokjin was perfect. That was the general consensus. The nurses adored him, patients fawned over him, and even the strict hospital director softened in his presence. He was the kind of man who carried warmth in his voice and sincerity in his touch.

It wasn’t just his skill that made people admire him—it was his kindness. The way he remembered small details about his patients, how he never raised his voice, how he treated everyone with a level of care that felt personal.

But behind that perfection was the weight of something else. Something only those who worked closely with him noticed.

Bruises and Marks.

Small ones or big ones. Light fingerprints that faded in a few days or scars that stayed for months. Marks around his wrist or his arm, as if someone had grabbed him too tightly.

The hospital staff whispered.

"His wife must be something else, huh?"

"He never says anything bad about her, though. Always smiling, saying he loves her. But you saw it, right? The marks on his arm?"

"Yeah… I feel bad for him."

"Did you hear what happened at the party?"

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✦ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The hospital gala was one of the biggest annual events, a night where doctors, nurses, and hospital executives could finally let loose. It was held in a grand ballroom, chandeliers sparkling above as classical music played in the background. The air smelled of expensive champagne and designer perfume.

Seokjin, as always, looked perfect. Dressed in a crisp black suit, his hair styled back, he greeted everyone with his usual warmth. Women—nurses, executives, even some patients’ family members—found excuses to talk to him, to laugh a little louder when he spoke, to touch his arm casually as they conversed.

And then there was Yn.

She stood close to Seokjin, always within arm’s reach. She was beautiful, no doubt. But something about her presence was unnerving to those who observed. The way she watched him, her gaze sharp and assessing as if controlling him with her eyes. The way her fingers twitched slightly whenever another woman got too close.

Then it happened.

A junior doctor, unaware of the invisible boundaries that surrounded Seokjin, leaned in a little too much. She laughed at something he said, placing her hand lightly on his arm. A casual gesture. Innocent.

But not to Yn.

Her fingers clenched around Seokjin’s arm, hard. Hard enough that his sleeve tightened, his skin compressed under her grip.

"Yn—" Seokjin’s voice was low, meant only for her ears. But the look in her eyes burned.

She didn’t yell. Didn’t make a scene the way some expected. But she turned toward the doctor, her voice soft yet sharp enough to cut.

"Do you always touch married men like that?"

A suffocating silence fell over the group. The junior doctor froze, face paling.

"I—I didn’t mean—"

Yn smiled. It was small, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

"You didn’t mean to, yet you still did."

Seokjin exhaled, trying to ease the tension. He gently placed his hand over Yn’s, but she only tightened her grip, her nails pressing into his skin.

"Yn, let’s go outside for a bit—"

"No need." Her voice was clipped. And before anyone could react, she let go of his arm and turned on her heel, walking straight out of the ballroom.

Seokjin hesitated.

For a brief second, people saw something in his face—panic. A rare crack in his perfect composure. Then, as if forgetting the crowd around him, he hurried after her.

The room buzzed with murmurs the moment they were gone.

"Did you see that?"

"She was furious. All that over a harmless touch?"

"And did you see his arm? She was gripping him so hard it left marks!"

"Poor Dr. Seokjin… he must be exhausted living like that."

"He should leave her."

✦⋆ ˚｡⋆༶⋆˙⊹ ✧˖°

The hospital was quiet that morning after the night of gala party, but the air felt heavier than usual. Seokjin moved through his routine in silence, his hands steady as he checked patient charts, offered polite smiles, and ignored the glances his colleagues exchanged behind his back.

The bruises on his neck, faint under the collar of his coat but still visible, spoke louder than words. No one dared to bring it up. They had tried before, but Seokjin would always deny, dismiss, deflect.

He wasn't a fool. He knew what they thought—that he was trapped, suffering in a marriage with a woman too possessive, too unstable. They pitied him. But pity was useless when they didn’t understand.

"Hey, hyung," Dr. Junho, a colleague as well as close friend more like his little brother - finally spoke up, his voice careful, measured. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

Seokjin hummed, still focused on the paperwork in front of him. "You already are."

"You know what I mean." Junho sighed, leaning against the counter. He hesitated before continuing. "About last night… you should really consider talking to Yn. This—this isn’t healthy."

Seokjin didn't respond immediately. He never did.

"She loves me," he said eventually.

"Love and control aren’t the same thing, hyung." Junho shook his head. "I’m not saying she doesn’t love you, but if she really wants this to work, she has to control her anger. Maybe she could try yoga, meditation, therapy—"

Seokjin's jaw clenched.

"You don’t understand, Junho."

"Then help me understand. Why is she like this?" Junho asked, genuinely concerned.

For a moment, Seokjin didn't know how to answer. But then—memories surfaced.

✽✿❀──❀✿✽

Their marriage had been arranged. She had been shy at first, soft-spoken, always seeking permission for everything.

The café was quiet, the air filled with the soft hum of conversation and the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Seokjin sat at a corner table, stirring his cappuccino absentmindedly. His parents had arranged this meeting, insisting that he at least meet her once.

Yn.

He didn’t know much about her—only that she came from a respectable family, that she was soft-spoken and well-mannered.

And then, she walked in.

She was dressed modestly, a simple ivory blouse tucked into a flowing beige skirt that reached just above her ankles. Her hair was neatly styled, framing a delicate face that seemed hesitant, uncertain.

Pretty. In a quiet, unassuming way.

She approached the table carefully, almost as if she were afraid of disturbing him.

"Uhm… Kim Seokjin-ssi?" Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

He glanced up, offering a polite smile. "That’s me. You must be Yn."

She nodded, biting her lip before asking, "Is it okay if I sit?"

Why is she asking permission? Seokjin thought, slightly amused, but he simply gestured for her to take a seat.

She sat down with her back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. For the first few minutes, she seemed tense, answering his questions in short, quiet replies.

But then, something changed.

Once she got comfortable, she started to talk more—still hesitantly at first, but soon with a little more ease.

She told him about her hobbies, her childhood, her love for collecting small trinkets. Her voice gained warmth, her expressions became animated. And then—just when Seokjin thought he had figured her out—she did something unexpected.

She pouted.

"You’re so serious," she said, leaning slightly forward. "I thought doctors were supposed to be funny."

Seokjin blinked in surprise before letting out a soft chuckle. "I can be funny."

"Prove it."

He raised a brow, smirking slightly. "Why did the scarecrow win an award?"

Yn tilted her head, curious. "Why?"

"Because he was outstanding in his field."

For a second, she just stared at him.

Then she laughed—a small, genuine giggle that turned into a soft snort.

Seokjin found himself watching her.

Not just her face, but the way her eyes crinkled, the way she covered her mouth as if embarrassed by her own laughter.

He didn’t realize it at the time, but something about her—about the way she could shift so easily from reserved to playful—drew him in.

And then came the moment that changed everything.

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────────

The waitress had been nothing but polite.

She was young, cheerful, and clearly trying to do her job well.

"Would you like a refill on your coffee, sir?" she asked, her smile warm.

Seokjin barely glanced up. "No, I’m fine. Thank you."

But the waitress tried pursuing him.

"Do you need something?"

The shift in her tone was subtle—barely noticeable to an outsider. But Seokjin caught it immediately.

The waitress blinked, slightly confused. "Oh, I was just—"

"Because if you’re done, you can go." Yn’s expression was still polite, her voice still gentle. But there was something off about it.

Seokjin turned to her, studying her face.

The waitress hesitated, then quickly excused herself.

Yn went back to sipping her drink as if nothing had happened.

Seokjin tapped his fingers against the table, watching her.

"That was unnecessary," he murmured.

Yn met his gaze, unfazed. "I didn’t like how she was looking at you."

There was no hesitation in her voice. No embarrassment, no attempt to cover up what she had done.

Seokjin should have found it strange.

Instead, he found himself intrigued.

⊹ ⊱ ────── ஓ๑♡๑ஓ ────── ⊰ ⊹

Seokjin had thought she was delicate, fragile even—until he noticed something deeper beneath the surface. A quiet storm brewing inside her.

It started small.

A flicker of irritation when a waitress lingered too long at their table, a slight frown when his female colleagues greeted him too warmly. She never said anything outright, only observed, eyes dark with something unreadable.

A woman had complimented Seokjin at a family gathering, a distant cousin’s wife. Just a simple "You’re so lucky, Yn. He’s so handsome and kind."

Yn had smiled, polite as ever, but later that night, she had clung to him with an intensity that was almost suffocating.

"Don’t talk to her again," she had murmured, fingers tightening around his wrist.

"Yn, she’s family—"

"I don’t like it."

Her voice had been calm, steady, but something about it made his stomach twist.

And then, little by little, her possessiveness had grown.

⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ ⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

Seokjin hadn’t known about her past at first. Not until her mother, in an offhanded remark, mentioned:

"Yn has always been like this. She can’t stand sharing what’s hers."

She had laughed as if it were a joke, as if it were something endearing.

"You should have seen her as a child. She scratched a friend all over her face just because the poor girl tried to take her doll. It took weeks for the wounds to heal."

Seokjin had been startled by the revelation. But more than that—he had been intrigued.

Yn had always seemed fragile, but now he realized she wasn’t weak at all. She was ruthless when it came to what was hers.

And for some reason, that scared him yet fascinated him.

✽✿❀──❀✿✽

"She’s just… always been like this," Seokjin finally murmured, his fingers tapping against the desk absentmindedly.

Junho frowned. "That doesn’t mean it’s okay, hyung. Marriage should be about trust, not fear."

Seokjin chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Fear?" He turned to Junho, eyes unreadable. "You don’t know what you're talking about."

Because fear had nothing to do with it.

Seokjin knew, at the back of his mind, that their marriage wasn’t normal. He knew that love wasn't supposed to feel like possession, that their dynamic was wrong.

But did it matter?

Because the truth was—Yn might have been selfish, possessive, and unstable.

But Seokjin?

He wasn't innocent either.

━━━━━━━━━━━━✦━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hey Guys!!! This potato is back after short break. This one was long af!! There's part 2 for the plot twist. Like, Comment and Reblog.

Taglist :- @luaxjin , @illnevertrustmyselfagain , @aaclariww , @taekritimin123 , @massiekurrb , @demonshauntingthedoves .

[shrewsburysworld]

Mad Doctor (part II)

Pair :- Yandere seokjin × Female reader

Summary :- Dr. Seokjin is adored by all, yet bound to a possessive wife who marks him as hers. His colleagues pity him, thinking he’s trapped. But behind closed doors, the truth is far more complicated.

Warnings :- Yandere themes, toxic relationship, manupilative behaviour, domestic violence, jealous reader, possessive reader, dubious consent (mild), smut (it's bit edgy), oral (f. receiving), jealous seokjin, possessive seokjin.

"This is a work of fiction and does not promote or romanticize toxic relationships in real life."

They had been newlyweds, still learning each other's habits, still adjusting to their life together. Seokjin had noticed Yn’s possessiveness early on—the way she’d stiffen when another woman got too close, how her hand would tighten around his wrist when someone complimented him.

But she had never crossed a line. Not until that night.

It had started at a family gathering.

Yn’s mother had laughed over dinner, sipping on her wine, recounting stories from Yn’s childhood. "Yn has always been like this," she had said. "She never liked sharing her toys. I still remember when she scratched her little friend’s face just because she took her doll. Poor girl had scars for weeks."

Seokjin had chuckled politely, but a strange feeling crept up his spine. He glanced at Yn, expecting her to laugh it off, but she was staring at her plate, lips pressed into a thin line.

Seokjin's cousin sister was always friendly but he felt yn's eyes on him and he tensed, her mother previous words didn't do anything better.

Jin had tried to let go of that topic, he wasn't disloyal and he wasn't an object but why did it feel like it. Why did he get nervous while talking to another woman. He didn't see but he knew yn was watching and he knew what was going to happen tonight.

That night, when they got home, the tension followed them inside.

It started small—Yn’s arms crossed, eyes dark as she questioned him. "That woman was too close to you today."

Seokjin sighed, rubbing his temple. "She was just making conversation, Yn."

"She touched your arm."

"It was just for a moment."

"She was laughing."

"She can't laugh now?"

"She was flirting."

"She was just being friendly."

"Yn—"

*smack*

The slap came so suddenly, neither of them registered it at first.

A sharp sting on Seokjin’s cheek. A heavy silence in the air.

Yn gasped, stepping back as if she had burned herself. Her hand trembled. "Jin—" Her voice cracked. "I—"

She looked terrified. Like she had just realized what she had done.

Seokjin’s mind was blank. The pain barely registered, but the shock did. His wife—his soft, shy, lovesick wife—had hit him.

Yn clutched her hands together. "I didn’t mean to. I swear. I just—" Her breath came out shaky. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jin."

A long, suffocating silence stretched between them.

Seokjin forced himself to breathe. He swallowed, the weight of the moment settling in. And then, despite everything, he gave her a small, tired smile. "It’s okay."

But Yn knew it wasn’t. She knew she fucked up.

That night, they both lay awake in bed. Neither spoke. The space between them felt like an ocean. Yn wanted to apologise but she knew her sorrys are waste if she doesn't control her possessiveness. She never found it as a trait. Growing up she was proud of her selfishness and possesiveness, but now she wasn't sure.

Jin had been avoiding her for days. Yn felt like shit even though they slept in same bed he felt miles away and guilt for the first time was eating her away. Her Jin must be upset on her, she must correct her mistake.

Yn was determined. If her behavior hurt Seokjin—if it put a crack in their marriage—she would change. She isn't ready to give up on seokjin, never.

The next morning, she reached out to her friend, asking for recommendations for yoga and meditation classes.

"I need to control my anger," she admitted, voice heavy with shame.

And when she told Seokjin about it, he had smiled, relief flickering in his eyes.

"I’m proud of you, Yn."

For the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe.

If he likes it then I'll do it.

❀｡･:*:･ﾟ❥･:*:･ﾟ✿･:*:･ﾟ❥･:*:･ﾟ❀

It started slow. Days passed.

Yn meditated in the mornings as instructed by teacher. She learned to breathe before reacting. When Seokjin’s female colleagues laughed a little too much at his jokes, she clenched her fists but said nothing. When she felt the surge of jealousy creeping up, she forced herself to calm down, to breathe, to not punch her in the face.

Seokjin noticed the difference immediately.

She no longer clung to him with bruising grips. She no longer tightened her arms around his waist whenever she got insecure.

She still loved him—he knew that. But something was different.

She was different.

And at first, it was good.

Healthy.

They were happy.

Seokjin was happy.

Until he wasn’t.

___

It was subtle at first.

Seokjin would flirt playfully, and instead of blushing furiously and gripping his arm, Yn would just smile and shake her head.

He would tease her about another woman talking to him, expecting that usual fire in her eyes, but she only kissed his cheek and said, "I trust you."

She didn’t get jealous anymore.

She didn’t throw her arms around him at random moments, burying her face in his chest.

She still held him, still kissed him, still loved him—but it wasn’t the same.

And Seokjin—he didn’t understand why that bothered him.

It was better this way, wasn’t it?

But then, why did he feel restless?

Why did he miss the way she used to grip him like he was the only thing keeping her afloat?

Why did it feel like he was losing something?

___

One evening, Seokjin decided to surprise Yn.

He had finished early at work and drove to her yoga class, waiting in the parking lot with a small bouquet in hand.

When he saw her step out of the building, he smiled.

He was about to call her name, stepping forward—

But then he froze.

Yn wasn’t alone.

She was talking to someone—a man.

Seokjin’s stomach dropped.

She was smiling. Laughing. Her posture was relaxed, her face open and warm.

She didn’t smile at men like that before.

And then it hit him.

Is this how Yn felt?

That suffocating weight in his chest. That rush of jealousy clawing up his throat. That deep, irrational fear that someone was trying to take what was his.

His fingers clenched around the bouquet, heart pounding in his ears.

For the first time, Seokjin understood.

And he hated it.

𓆩♡𓆪.｡.✿.｡.𓆩♡𓆪.｡.✿.｡.𓆩♡𓆪

The drive home that night was quiet. Too quiet.

Seokjin gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white as his mind replayed the image over and over again.

Yn. Laughing. Smiling. With another man.

She had never done that before.

At home, Yn hummed as she set the table for dinner. She looked… peaceful.

Seokjin should have been happy. She was finally in control of her emotions, finally at ease. But something wasn’t right.

He couldn’t stop staring at her.

She was still his Yn, still his wife, but she wasn’t the same.

She wasn’t his in the way she used to be.

She didn’t cling to him the second he walked through the door. She didn’t demand to know how many women had tried to talk to him today.

She didn’t grip his arm too tight, didn’t press possessive kisses onto his skin.

She didn’t need to.

Because she was fine.

Without him.

"How was work?" Yn asked, taking a bite of her food.

Seokjin swallowed hard.

"It was okay," he murmured, watching her carefully.

Yn smiled. "That’s good. I had a great class today. We focused on breathing techniques."

Breathing techniques.

Seokjin bit the inside of his cheek.

"Who else was there?" he asked, forcing his voice to stay light.

Yn blinked, clearly not expecting the question. "The usual group."

"The usual group."

That man was part of the "usual group," wasn’t he?

Seokjin forced himself to nod.

"That’s nice."

Yn beamed.

But Seokjin felt sick.

The days that followed were a battle he hadn’t prepared for.

Seokjin was used to being the good one in their relationship. The patient one. The reasonable one.

But now… he was the one holding back his emotions.

He would wake up to find Yn already meditating in the living room, eyes closed, face serene. She looked untouchable—like something sacred.

She used to wake him up first.

She used to press lazy, desperate kisses to his lips in the mornings, refusing to let him leave the bed.

Now?

She was slipping away.

And he hated it.

At the hospital, Seokjin became distracted.

"Dr. Kim, are you alright?" a nurse asked when he nearly prescribed the wrong dosage for a patient.

He nodded stiffly. "Just a little tired."

Junho, his closest friend, noticed too.

"You don’t seem yourself lately," Junho remarked as they walked to the cafeteria. "Is everything okay with Yn?"

Seokjin clenched his jaw.

"She’s… changing."

Junho brightened. "That’s good, right? She’s working on herself."

Seokjin should have nodded. Should have smiled and said, Yes. It’s good.

But the words stuck in his throat.

Was it good?

Because it didn’t feel that way.

That night, when Seokjin got home, Yn was on the couch, scrolling through her phone.

She didn’t rush to the door when she heard him.

She didn’t even look up immediately.

It was like a knife to the chest.

"Hey," she finally greeted, glancing up.

That’s it?

Just ‘hey’?

"Hey," he echoed, his voice colder than intended.

Yn frowned. "Something wrong?"

Everything.

Everything was wrong.

"No," he said flatly, dropping his bag and walking past her.

Yn didn’t chase after him.

She used to.

She used to always chase after him.

❀｡･:*:･ﾟ❥･:*:･ﾟ✿･:*:･ﾟ❥･:*:･ﾟ❀

Seokjin tried to ignore the growing unease in his chest.

He told himself he was being irrational.

That he should be proud of Yn for controlling herself.

But the thoughts wouldn’t stop.

Especially when, a few days later, he picked her up from class early.

He saw her before she saw him.

And there he was again.

The man from before.

Standing next to Yn.

Smiling.

And worse—she was smiling back.

Seokjin saw red.

He had never hated anyone before.

But in that moment, he hated him.

His feet moved on their own, carrying him forward.

"Yn," he called, voice tight.

She turned, surprised. "Jin! You’re here early."

Seokjin barely glanced at the man before pulling Yn closer. His arm wrapped around her waist, his grip firm.

"Let’s go," he said.

Yn blinked but nodded, giving a small smile to the man. "See you later."

See you later.

See you later.

Seokjin gritted his teeth.

The second they got home, Seokjin pulled Yn against him, burying his face in her neck.

Yn laughed softly, carding her fingers through his hair. "What’s gotten into you?"

Seokjin didn’t answer.

He gripped her hips tighter, as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.

"You don’t hold me like this anymore."

"You don’t need me like before."

"You’re slipping away."

Yn sighed, pulling back to cup his face. "Jin, you know I love you, right?"

"Then why does it feel like I’m losing you?"

Seokjin forced a smile. "Of course."

Yn smiled, leaning in to kiss him.

He kissed her back.

But this time, he didn’t let her pull away.

His lips moved urgently, possessively.

Yn let out a surprised sound, but he didn’t stop.

He needed to remind her.

Needed her to feel it.

Needed to brand himself onto her skin again.

His hands gripped her waist, his mouth trailing lower.

Yn gasped as he kissed along her collarbone, her neck. "Jin—"

But he didn’t stop.

He sucked and bit down, leaving marks.

Dark. Visible.

Possessive.

Yn let out a breathy laugh, tugging at his hair. "You’re acting jealous."

Seokjin smirked against her skin.

"Maybe I am."

Yn rolled her eyes but let him do whatever he wanted.

Just like she used to.

And for the first time in weeks, Seokjin felt at peace.

His kisses lingered further on body, his hands now pulling on her yoga pants. It was overwhelming for yn, they haven't had sex since their fight and she missed this so much.

Her panties were soaked and seokjin started moving her to bedroom. After pulling her panties down he put his one digit in, not really needed lube seeing how much horny yn was.

"You're my wife, Mine!"

Seokjin hurried himself out of his clothes, going down on her. Oh how he loves pleasuring yn. Hearing her break and whimper just by his mouth. Starting by sucking on her clitoris and to licking her folds, seokjin tried to prove that no one can please her better than him. His fingers joining and opening her up. Yn was mess, fuck she was a total mess. Her stomach bubbling with hotness and she knew she was close.

Seokjin however didn't rush - he enjoyed, licking her vagina clean he moved forward. Lubing up his dick, he was ready to insert - until.

"What about condom?"

Seokjin forgot and weirdly didn't want to remember about it. Surely he would pull out and even if he doesn't they were mature to be parents, right?

She could just leave that stupid class and would carry his child, her bump showing proudly but Jin still put on the condom. He can't go against her wishes but he does show his frustration with rough thrusts.

Hitting her on right spots, her hole swallowing him, adjusting his whole length as if it was made for it.

Jin sweet talked throughout the whole sex, he praised which elevated his sweet wife more. And for the first time in while seokjin was at peace.

❀｡･:*:･ﾟ❥･:*:･ﾟ✿･:*:･ﾟ❥･:*:･ﾟ❀

Seokjin woke up alone.

His arms reached out instinctively, searching for Yn’s warmth. But the bed was empty. Cold.

His heart sank.

Last night, she had been there—under him, around him, his.

But now…

Seokjin sat up, rubbing his face before his eyes landed on the living room.

There she was.

Sitting on the floor, back straight, eyes closed in deep meditation.

Her lips, the same ones he had kissed raw last night, were slightly parted in a peaceful sigh.

His jaw clenched.

She was slipping away again.

Slowly.

So slowly that if he wasn’t careful, he would lose her completely.

But Seokjin wasn’t going to let that happen.

He had made up his mind.

"Yn."

His voice was soft but firm.

Yn slowly opened her eyes, blinking as she turned to face him. "Jin?"

He smiled, tilting his head. "Come have breakfast with me."

Yn hesitated.

Seokjin never interrupted her meditation.

Her routine had been sacred ever since she started this journey of self-control.

But now, his eyes held something she couldn’t quite place.

Something desperate.

"I just… want to have breakfast with my wife," he added, voice almost pleading.

Yn hesitated again, then nodded slowly.

"Just for today."

"Just this once."

She didn’t know.

She didn’t know what she had just agreed to.

Because Seokjin never planned to let her go back.

It started small.

Little things that Yn didn’t notice at first.

Like how her alarm mysteriously stopped ringing in the mornings.

"Oh, did you forget to set it?" Seokjin would ask, feigning innocence.

Or how, every time she wanted to meditate, he would suddenly need her.

"Can you help me with this?"

"Let’s go for a walk together."

"I made tea for us, come sit with me."

He never forced her.

No, Seokjin was too smart for that.

Instead, he made her choose him.

Made her feel guilty for wanting to spend time alone.

And when she did try to insist on her routine, his face would fall ever so slightly, just enough for her to see.

"I just… miss you, that’s all."

Yn would pause, chew her lip, then sigh.

"Okay, just for today."

Just for today.

But today became tomorrow.

Tomorrow became the next week.

And soon, Yn’s carefully built routine began to crumble.

Just like Seokjin planned.

___

It wasn’t enough.

Seokjin needed to try more.

So he let the jealousy creep back in.

He made her see it. Feel it.

One evening, while they were at a dinner party, he spoke a little too kindly to a female colleague.

He smiled a little too warmly.

And from the corner of his eye, he watched Yn’s fingers curl into fists.

Perfect.

She had been so calm lately. So rational.

But Seokjin didn’t want rational.

He wanted her to burn for him.

So when the woman laughed at his joke and placed a hand on his arm, he didn’t move away immediately.

Yn saw.

And just like that, the fire was back.

Her nails dug into his wrist under the table, a warning. A claim.

And Seokjin nearly smiled.

When they got home, she was seething.

"You enjoyed that, didn’t you?" she accused, arms crossed.

Seokjin blinked, innocent. "What are you talking about?"

Yn stepped closer, eyes blazing. "She was all over you, and you let her."

Seokjin sighed dramatically. "Yn, you know I only love you."

"Then prove it."

She grabbed his collar, yanking him into a bruising kiss.

Seokjin let her.

Let her pull. Let her mark him.

Let her claim him all over again.

His fingers curled into her waist, holding her close as she pressed hickeys into his skin like she owned him.

She did. She always would.

And in that moment, Seokjin knew.

He had won.

___

Yn stopped going to meditation classes.

Not all at once. No, it was gradual.

Slow.

Seokjin made sure of that.

"Come with me to the hospital, I have a long shift, and I miss you."

"Let’s take a trip, just us."

"I don’t want to sleep alone tonight, stay with me."

One by one, her excuses piled up.

And one day, she simply stopped going altogether.

Seokjin held her tighter than ever.

And when she clung back, possessive, needy, desperate—he knew.

His Yn was back.

She thought she had won.

That she had chosen to let go of meditation on her own.

But Seokjin knew better. Every step. Every moment.

His sweet, jealous wife. His obsessive, possessive wife.

His perfect wife.

And she would never even realize.

Seokjin had always been a patient man. It was a necessary trait in his profession—steady hands, steady mind, unwavering control. He knew how to wait. How to watch. How to manipulate the smallest changes in a person’s body to lead them to recovery.

But this wasn’t about healing.

It was about undoing.

.・。.・゜✭・.✫・゜・。.♡・。.・゜

The hospital was quieter in the mornings, the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air as the early shifts began. Dr. Junho leaned against Seokjin’s desk, arms crossed, his face laced with concern. His eyes flickered toward Seokjin’s sleeve, barely hiding the faint bruises on his wrist—remnants of last night’s possessive grip.

“She’s getting worse, Jin,” Junho muttered, keeping his voice low so no nurses would overhear.

Seokjin merely sighed, adjusting his tie in the reflection of his computer screen. "It's not as bad as it looks."

Junho scoffed. "Jin, people saw what happened last night. The way she held onto you, the way she stormed out. And now—" He gestured toward the bruises. "She’s leaving marks on you. This isn’t normal.”

A pause stretched between them.

“She loves me,” Seokjin finally said, voice calm, unwavering. "That’s all there is to it."

Junho pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling in frustration. "Jin, love shouldn’t be like this. You know that, right?"

But Seokjin only smiled, an expression so gentle, so convincing that anyone else would have believed him. "You don’t understand, Junho. She just… loves me differently."

And that was the end of the conversation. Junho knew pushing further would be pointless—Seokjin always denied it, always dismissed it. With one last wary glance, Junho left, leaving Seokjin alone in his office, staring at his reflection.

A love like theirs wasn’t for others to understand.

---

When Seokjin stepped inside his home that evening, the air felt different. It was warm, charged, filled with something possessive and intoxicating. Yn was in the kitchen, back turned to him, humming softly as she prepared dinner. His heart swelled at the sight.

She turned at the sound of his footsteps, her lips curling into a smirk. "You’re late."

Seokjin simply walked over, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, pressing a lingering kiss to her neck. "You missed me?"

Yn huffed but didn’t pull away. "Of course I did. Who else am I supposed to keep in check?"

A chuckle rumbled from his chest. "Of course."

As they sat down for dinner, Yn eyed the faint bruises on his wrist, her fingers tracing them lightly. "I didn't mean to grip you that hard," she muttered.

Seokjin took her hand in his, squeezing gently. "I know, darling!."

She didn’t notice the way his grip lingered, possessive in its own way. She didn’t notice how his eyes darkened ever so slightly as he watched her across the table, how his mind swirled with satisfaction.

Because she was his. And he was hers.

And as long as the world thought he was the victim, no one would ever suspect who the real yandere in their marriage was.

Heya!! Sorry for being lazy in posting the second part 😩

Thanks Y'all for patiently waiting and giving love to this series (mwah mwah), if anyone has any ideas on next part or epilogue do not hesitate to share with me. And do comment if you liked the plot.

Taglist :- @aaclariww , @taekritimin123 , @bebabido , @demonshauntingthedoves , @kpopsmutty69 , @11thenightwemet11 , @margaretro23 , @yoontaethings .

[cyb-soo]

parasite

╰┈➤ synopsis — Jungkook swears the two of you are in love. Two hearts harbouring the same feeling for one another, but a blue screen always keeping you apart. However, an impromptu live steam reveals some interesting information that could finally destroy the distance.

╰┈➤ pairing — yandere!jungkook x camgirl!reader

╰┈➤ word count — 2.5k

╰┈➤ content warning — mature themes, obsessive behavior, masturbation (m&f), semi-public masturbation, voyeurism (by eavesdropping), sexting, porn, he's delusional

“I can’t sleep.” Your voice is soft and sleep-laced. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about it.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. Speaking to him like you’re confessing a secret. “I thought I could make it until Friday–”

Friday.  Jungkook’s favourite day. The one day of the week he can see you through the screen. He hates how much distance there is between you. His hands twitching to reach through the screen, body begging to pull you close. You always say how lonely the winters get, how cold it is in your room.

He could keep you warm.

And while his head knows that you’re just two strangers through a screen, his heart begs to differ. Because every time you come online, sit down in your chair and stare into the camera, you look into the lens like you can see him.

You’re looking at him like that right now. Looking into his eyes like you need him.

Jungkook knows just what you like. He knows how to heat you up– airy moans sounding through his headphones. And he knows how to cool you down– praising your performance and telling you how pretty you looked. But even though he knows you better than you know yourself, you bring out a part of Jungkook he didn’t know he had.

You destroy him. Tearing him to pieces and putting them back together again. Stretching him so thin he thinks he’ll snap, only to be let back like an elastic band.

He craves you like he can’t understand. Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, aching to sink his teeth into your skin. You’re all he thinks about, every day of the week until Friday– when he finally gets to speak his mind. It’s a short second of pleasure in a sea of pain, but you make it worth the while.

That’s why this stream is such a blessing. You answered his call and came to him when he needed it most. And it seems like you needed him too.

“I can’t stop thinking about–” You pause to bite your lip, a look of pain etched upon your face. “How much it hurts.”

It does look like it hurts. Your teary eyes are red-rimmed, as if you kept rubbing at them– trying to rid yourself of these intrusive thoughts. Your lips stand out to him too, bitten and bleeding just a bit. You’re quick to lick it away, almost like you could sense his staring.

Jungkook is in pain too. That string in his stomach is tightening by the second. It begins to burn and it hurts with the way he’s straining through his pants. His blue pajamas are growing a bit of a dark spot near the front. They’re too tight, so why even bother keeping them on?

“You won’t be mad at me right?” You’ve begun to rock yourself back and forth. The pillow in between your legs brings just a bit of relief. “I tried so hard to last till Friday– I really did. But then again, this could be like a little treat to the both of us.”

Your eyes remain fixed on the flood of new messages. Hands fisting the sheets tightly, you’re whole body tense because you refuse to go any further unless your viewers tell you to. All the responses scream at you, begging for you to continue, but you stay still.

Jungkook can’t take it any longer. His pants discarded on the floor, shirt somewhere he forgot. He palms himself through his boxers, hips jutting up to meet his hand. Arousal shoots through his skin and he’s staining himself a dark blue. If he can touch himself so carelessly, then don’t you deserve to as well?

kookiejar: keep going kookiejar: i know we both need it

Jungkook can see you reach your hand down slowly. Pushing past the waistband of your underwear and reaching that aching part of you.

From where you lie on your side, Jungkook can see everything. Your shirt is riding up, risen up along your stomach to reveal your bare skin. The cotton clings to you, you’ve already broken a sweat from the raging heat in your core.

The black panties you wear grow darker as you keep drowning in desire. They’ve gotten messy, lacy patterns sticking to your skin. The fabric creates too much distance, so you slowly slide them off. Now nothing separates you from the sin you’re so caught up in. A sheer wetness coating your thighs. You keep rubbing them together to get more friction, trapping your fingers in between your legs.

Your movements are lazy as you chase your lust. Tired and still sleepy, there’s no reason to rush into it. You slowly circle your clit, building up a tension that has you clenching around nothing. That aching need only rises as you slip your fingers down further. Pushing two fingers into your puffy, pink hole. You let out a groan at the sensation and Jungkook thinks he’ll go insane.

He’s a total mess. Warm and wet, he’s completely soaked through his shorts. The fabric begins to inch at his sensitive skin and his face contorts at the feeling. He peels them off, thighs trembling as they stick together.

His cock stands tall. Angry and red as pearly drops of pre-cum roll down the slide. He’s barely touched himself, only lazy strokes after desperately palming himself through his pants, but he can already feel himself tipping over the edge if he doesn’t slow down.

His insides are tied tight, abs tensing and hands shaking. His whole body feels as if it’s on fire. He grips onto the corner of his computer to hold himself still. Thumbs brushing against your hair through the screen. His eyes lock onto you, focused on watching you ride out your pleasure before he even thinks about his own.

You’re covering up all the pretty little sounds you make. Biting down on your fist as you try to fight off every moan that makes its way up your throat. All Jungkook can hear is the rusting sheets and your heavy breathing– hitching as you hit that sweet spot.

You’ve never been very vocal when you’re like this. None of those obnoxiously loud moans or phony cries of climax. You’re not like those porn stars of the week, fake and nothing but fictional. You’re real. That’s why Jungkook was so drawn to you. Your sweet sighs as your head arched back. The way you’d talk to the chat, always so worried if they were enjoying themselves or not, saying you wouldn’t finish unless they did first. And how you’d always end up breathless whenever you finally came undone. Jungkook knows how you act when you’re deep in desire, but this isn’t it.

kookiejar: what are you hiding from?

You scan over the chat as you lazily fuck yourself. Jungkook can see the reflection of his message in your iris. The bright blue words burnt into your retinas, they stay there for a second before you try to blink them away.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” You say between heavy breathes. Still blissed out and struggling to think. “I couldn’t wait, and if we’re too loud, people could hear.” Your voice is a bit muffled, face hiding in your pillow in embarrassment.

kookiejar: all that matters is you and me kookiejar: don’t worry about anyone else

His blue words burn into the screen. They’re all you can see. 

Were you really so bad at concealing your emotions? Hiding your hesitation in between dirty  words and a dark room. You tried to cater to your fans while still enjoying the ecstasy, all without ever truly letting go. Yet, you can never outrun the eyes of anonymous. He sees right through your lies. He looks into your heart and knows what you really want. 

Perhaps letting go wouldn’t be so bad? To let yourself indulge in the dark night. To be truly tangled up in this heat. To have your fingers pushed up inside. Knuckle-deep and stroking at the softest parts of you. Reaching deeper and rubbing against that sweet spot– the one that has you arching your back and letting out a sweet sigh. 

Screw the neighbours and what they’ll say the next morning, you’ll deal with the consequences when they come. And even if you did have a bit of doubt in your mind, a notification from the chat eases all your worries.

user ‘kookiejar’ sent you $250

kookiejar: let yourself go

And you do just that. Sounds of pure pleasure play through Jungkook’s headphones: airy moans and heavy breathing– that creaky bed frame that you can’t afford to fix. You’re wrapped up in the bedsheets, baby blue colour that keeps getting darker. Blue turnt to black with how much you’re working yourself up. Wetness dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets. You turn over slightly onto your stomach. Grinding down onto the mattress while your hand grabs a fistful of the sheets. Searching for something to hold on to as open mouthed moans muffle themselves into your pillow. 

Tonight is intimate. You could’ve chosen to be selfish– gotten off as the sun fell from the sky. Giving into your cravings and chasing the heat. A few minutes spent pulling at your clit, teasing yourself a little before and pumping them inside. You could’ve come undone in quiet, hiding it like a secret in the dark. But instead, you chose to come online.

You’re sharing all the secrets about yourself. Giving your viewers a voyeuristic look at the little details that make up your life. Small details that you should’ve been more careful to conceal. Because as you let your mind relax and your emotions take over, your muted moans make their way through the single white wall that separates you. 

Jungkook can barely make out the noises coming from the room right next to him. It’s all so muffled he has to stain himself to hear. His headphones lay abandoned on his bed. Computer tossed to the side and for the very first time, his eyes aren’t on you. Instead he stares at the white wall in front of him. Eyebrows furrowed as he tries to focus on what he can’t hear. Jungkook pushes himself closer to the wall, ear pressed up against it. No air leaves his lips, he’s completely quiet. All his attention on your hushed moans that sound through the wall. 

He can hear you. 

He can actually hear you– and not through a stupid screen or on replay in his memories, but right next door. It’s almost as if you’re right next to him, and Jungkook can’t help himself from imagining it. 

You two sitting on the same bed, not even an inch of distance between your bodies. You’re breaking a sweat, the moisture gathers at your hairline and drips down to your flushed cheeks. They’ve turnt red with how hot you’ve grown. 

With your warm body in reach, Jungkook can barely hold himself back. His once forgotten arousal has only been intensified. Back is the ache in his bones and he lets out a groan at the feeling. Jungkook lets out a small whine, sensitive to the cold air against his burning body. He left the lonely sheets in search of your voice and now he sits slumped against the wall. He wraps one hand around his cock, his needs have been neglected and he doesn’t know if he can ignore them any longer. 

He starts out slow, lazy strokes going down his dick, but it isn’t very long before he picks up the pace. His other hand tries to grip onto the wall. Jungkook’s mind is a mess and he needs something to steady himself with. Not only that, but with his palm pressed flat against the wall, it’s almost as if he could reach right through and take you in his arms. Just a single touch from you would be enough to push him over the edge. He’s close– and from what he can hear, you are too. 

Almost at your breaking point, you’re so desperate to cum it’s hard to hold back– but you do. Pulling your fingers away from your aching cunt, letting out a breathy whine as you do so. Biting down on your sticky fingers, you try to ignore the throbbing of your core. Your body begs for more, but you turnt to look into the lens instead. 

“Fuck– I’m so close.” You say through a muffled moan. “You are too, aren’t you?” You look at the camera in anticipation, waiting for a response with baited breath. 

Jungkook doesn’t even have to grab his headphones to hear your question, he can hear it right through the wall. A part of him jumps to answer you, the words threatening to tumble past his lips. But he clamps his hand down on his mouth and swallows back the sentence. He wouldn’t want to scare you after all. Instead, Jungkook is quick to snatch up the laptop laying open on his bed and type out a reply.

kookiejar: yes, please– i’m so close kookiejar: you make me insane when you make those pretty sounds

“You want me to keep going?” You ask the chat. Head rolling back as you reach back down. Slender fingers encircle your clit, rubbing at the sensitive spot. The feeling is so good it has you slipping out a soft moan. “Like when I make these sounds?” Your eyes flutter over to the chat once again. You ask the question almost teasingly. And even if you can’t see him, Jungkook can’t stop himself from frantically nodding his head yes. 

He types with trembling fingers. No doubt making a mess of his computer. Sticky hands traveling over the keys, begging you to keep doing what you’re doing His hand travels up to the tip of his cock. So slick it’s easy to start thumbing over his slit. The new sensation and noises of you doing the same has his eyes rolling back. His head lolls to the side, temple resting against the cold wall. Frantic eyes flicker to your form, still teasing at your clit as pretty sighs tumble past your pink lips. 

Jungkook’s almost there. A burning heat builds up in his stomach. It spreads through his body and reaches his crotch. He’s a second away from cumming and he wants you to do the same.

kookiejar: don’t stop

Eyes drifting amongst the dark, they find the light and focus on a single sentence. Don’t stop. 

“Okay–” You manage to say through a sigh. And with your face buried into the pillow and fingers rubbing against your bud, the string inside you finally snaps. As you reach your peak, you mumble out the remainder of your sentence. “Kookie…”

With his name on your lips and his hands thumbing at the tip, Jungkook can’t hold back any longer. He cums all over himself. A stickiness that covers his hand and the wall in between you. And instead of the screen that used to separate you, it’s the room that entraps you. A room with white walls and iron bars. One that he just has to figure out how to sneak into.

© cybsoo2 2025, all rights reserved

[mother2monsters]

Serendipity in Seoul pt. 34

Lyric was already breathless, her body pliant under Hoseok’s touch, her head lolling against his shoulder as his hands explored—slow, teasing, deliberately cruel in the way they hovered where she needed him most but never gave her enough.

But this moment—this—wasn’t just about her.

It was about the men watching.

Jin and Jimin sat across from them, eyes dark, their bodies tensed, hands gripping their thighs as they tried—and failed—to keep themselves in check.

And Hoseok? Hoseok fucking loved it.

He smirked, rolling his hips against Lyric, letting out a soft hum of approval as she whimpered, pressing herself further into his touch.

Then he looked up.

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice velvet and command wrapped in one, eyes locking onto Jimin first, then Jin. “Look me in my eyes and tell me you want to fuck her.”

Jimin inhaled sharply, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful.

Jin’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his fingers twitching.

Neither of them answered fast enough.

Hoseok tsked, shaking his head as he dragged his fingers—slow, deliberate—down Lyric’s stomach, slipping beneath the band of her shorts, his touch featherlight but so fucking heavy in its intent.

“You want her, don’t you?” His voice was lazy, laced with amusement, but his eyes burned with something ruthless. “Say it.”

Lyric gasped, her back arching as Hoseok’s fingers slid inside—one, then two, a slow, torturous stretch as he curled them, watching them instead of her.

Jimin shuddered.

Jin groaned.

“Tell me what you want to do to my girl’s body,” Hoseok continued, his tone turning darker, his pace slowing to an agonizing tease. “Use your words.”

Jimin’s fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.

“I—” he started, his breath hitching when Hoseok curled his fingers inside Lyric, making her whimper.

Jin was already gone, eyes glued to the way she writhed under Hoseok’s touch, the way her lips parted, her chest heaved—

“Fucking say it.”

Jimin exhaled sharply, his self-control shattering as he finally, finally met Hoseok’s eyes.

“I want her.” His voice was wrecked, raw, starving.

Hoseok smirked.

“Then beg.”

[mother2monsters]

Serendipity in Seoul pt.33

The house was quiet except for the faint hum of music playing from Destiny’s phone on the counter. The others had spread out—some showering, some lounging in exhaustion—but she still had energy thrumming under her skin, an unshaken buzz from the night.

So she danced.

Barefoot in Jungkook’s kitchen, wearing one of Namjoon’s old t-shirts that hung loose over her frame, she moved instinctively to the rhythm. Slow, teasing sways of her hips, arms stretching lazily overhead as she let herself get lost in the music.

She didn’t know she was being watched.

Jungkook had been on his way to get water when he stepped into the kitchen and froze.

His mouth went dry.

The dim glow of the under-cabinet lights kissed her skin, highlighting the sheen of sweat still lingering from the concert, the way the fabric of her borrowed shirt slid up just enough to tease the curve of her thighs as she moved.

Fuck.

She hadn’t noticed him yet. And he—well. He had no intention of interrupting.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his bare chest, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he watched.

Destiny’s hips rolled, slow and languid, completely lost in her own world, the kind of movement that wasn’t for anyone—but had the power to bring a man to his knees anyway.

Jungkook exhaled sharply through his nose.

And then she turned.

The moment she saw him, she startled, stopping mid-movement.

“Oh, shit—”

Jungkook grinned.

“Don’t stop.”

His voice was low, still thick from the concert, rough around the edges in a way that made heat prickle over her skin.

Destiny swallowed, suddenly aware of how dark his eyes were, how heavy they had been on her before she even knew he was there.

“I was just—”

“Dancing,” Jungkook finished for her, pushing off the doorway and stepping closer. “Yeah. I saw.”

Her pulse kicked up.

He was shirtless, sweats hanging low on his hips, hair damp from the shower. The tattoos on his arm flexed as he reached for the glass he originally came for, filling it with water.

But he wasn’t really thinking about the water anymore.

Jungkook took a slow sip, eyes dragging over her as he swallowed.

“Keep going,” he murmured.

Destiny hesitated.

But then the music changed—something slower, deeper, bass-heavy—and she felt a slow smirk creep onto her lips.

“Oh,” she mused, cocking her head. “You like watching me dance, Jungkook?”

His jaw tensed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip.

“You have no fucking idea.”

And so she did.

She started moving again, this time knowing exactly who she was moving for.

The shift was subtle but deliberate—the way her hands traced over her own body, the way her hips rolled slower, teasing.

Jungkook was riveted.

He set the glass down, suddenly needing his hands free.

“You know what else she likes?”

The deep, rumbling voice sent a sharp thrill up Destiny’s spine.

Namjoon.

She turned slightly to see him standing just outside the kitchen, arms folded, one eyebrow raised as he took in the scene with dark amusement.

“She likes being told what to do,” he continued, stepping inside, closing the space between them.

Destiny’s breath hitched.

Namjoon tilted his head, watching her closely.

“Keep going,” he murmured. “But this time…” His fingers lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to stay locked on his. “Don’t look away.”

Fuck.

A slow heat curled through her stomach as she obeyed.

Jungkook made a noise low in his throat.

And then the others started filtering in.

Yoongi, quiet and sharp-eyed, leaning against the counter. Taehyung, taking his time, his stare heavy as he settled behind her.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

They just watched.

And Destiny—fuck, she could feel it.

Namjoon smirked, voice dark and approving.

“She likes this too.”

[mother2monsters]

Serendipity in Seoul pt. 32

The air inside Hoseok’s house was thick with the lingering heat of the final Seoul concert, the energy still buzzing through their veins. Lyric was curled up next to Hobi on the plush couch, her legs draped over his lap as he ran his fingers absentmindedly up and down her thigh. The casual intimacy wasn’t unusual, but tonight, there was a tension in the room—one that had been simmering beneath the surface ever since he accidentally overheard the conversation in the kitchen last night. 

Jimin and Jin sat across from them, drinks in hand, but neither of them were focused on anything other than her.

Hoseok noticed.

He felt their eyes devouring her every movement—the way she bit her lip when she laughed, the slow rise and fall of her chest as she settled against him, the way her fingers traced mindless patterns on his forearm.

And it didn’t irritate him.

No.

He liked it.

He liked the way their eyes darkened whenever he touched her. Liked the way Jimin clenched his jaw when his fingers skimmed higher up her thigh. Liked the way Jin’s grip on his glass tightened when she turned to press a soft, lingering kiss against his jaw.

They wanted her. Badly.

And Hoseok wanted to see just how far he could push them before they broke.

“Noona,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement as he turned to face her fully.

“Hm?” she hummed, blinking up at him with those wide, innocent eyes that made his cock twitch.

He smiled, slow and lazy, before leaning in and capturing her lips in a long, indulgent kiss. Not just a brush of lips—no. He made a show of it, tilting her head back as his tongue slid into her mouth, tasting, teasing, owning her. His fingers tightened on her jaw, keeping her right where he wanted her as he deepened the kiss, making her sigh softly against him.

When he finally pulled away, her lips were swollen, breath uneven, eyes glazed over.

Jimin’s fingers flexed against his thigh. Jin let out a slow exhale, like he was trying to control himself.

Hoseok smirked. Good.

But he wasn’t done yet.

He shifted behind her, pulling her back against his chest, caging her between his legs. His hands slid under her shirt, not to remove it, but just to touch—to claim. His lips brushed against the shell of her ear as he spoke, loud enough for them to hear.

“They’re watching you,” he whispered, voice thick with amusement. “They can’t stop watching you.”

Lyric shivered, eyes flickering to Jimin and Jin.

Their stares were molten, barely restrained.

Hoseok chuckled against her skin. “You like it, don’t you?” His hands slid lower, teasing the waistband of her shorts. “Knowing they want you. Knowing they’re aching for you.”

Her breath hitched. “Hobi—”

“Shh,” he soothed, pressing a kiss to her neck. “I want to see how long they can last.”

Jimin swallowed hard, shifting in his seat. Jin’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaze flickering between Hoseok’s hands and Lyric’s parted lips.

They were so close to breaking.

With the way their eyes were devouring her, Lyric doesn’t know who’ll break first. 

Her or them.

[mother2monsters]

Serendipity in Seoul pt. 31

Flashback to the day they arrived in Seoul:

The sun was warm against their skin as Destiny and Lyric stepped into the sleek, modern nail salon, a quiet buzz of conversation filling the air. It was a ritual—getting their nails done before a BTS concert, hyping themselves up for the nights ahead.

Lyric had gone all out, as expected. Her nails were painted in an intricate gradient of fiery oranges and deep reds, perfectly matching the aesthetic of Hoseok’s concert colors, tiny sparkling gems accentuating the edges.

Destiny, on the other hand, kept it simple. A glossy black base, each nail decorated with the names Namjoon, Yoongi, Taehyung, Jungkook, and the BTS symbol on her thumb. It was personal. It was hers.

The salon wasn’t packed, but there were a few other customers—women who, at first glance, seemed just like them. BTS fans, giggling excitedly, wearing shirts with album logos and concert dates printed on them.

Destiny didn’t think twice about them.

Not until she heard the whispering.

Not until she understood it.

“They must be American. Black, obviously.”

“Yeah. And fat. Seriously, why do they even bother?”

Destiny’s fingers twitched against her lap.

“BTS would never want them. What a joke. Imagine thinking they have a chance.”

A sharp, bubbling anger started in her chest. She didn’t react—not yet. But she knew Lyric heard it too. Her best friend’s posture had gone rigid, the playful ease she had just moments ago vanishing in an instant.

The women kept going.

“They should be embarrassed. They’re the reason international fans are ruining everything.”

That was it.

Lyric snapped.

She turned, eyes dark with fury, voice ice-cold as she spoke—flawless Korean rolling off her tongue like a goddamn whip.

“You do realize we understand every single word you’re saying, right?”

Dead silence.

The women froze, eyes going wide, mouths parting in shock.

Destiny didn’t wait for them to recover.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, a slow smirk curling at the corner of her lips as she eyed them like they were nothing.

“BTS would never want us? That’s funny.” Her voice dripped with mock amusement. “Because they don’t fucking want you either.”

The women stammered, flustered, tripping over half-baked apologies, but Destiny wasn’t interested.

She turned back to her nail tech, casually glancing at her half-finished manicure.

“Make sure the names are extra bold. Wouldn’t want anyone to miss them.”

Lyric snorted.

The women got up and left.

[mother2monsters]

Serendipity in Seoul pt. 30

It had been late—one of those nights where exhaustion blurred the lines of reality, where quiet confessions slipped through the cracks before anyone could think better of them.  The last Seoul concert looming ahead and Hobi was too wired to sleep. Jin and jimin were crashing so he was going to see if they were up. He wanted to discuss something he’d noticed. 

Hoseok had just been passing by, on his way back from the kitchen, when he heard their voices.

Jin and Jimin, low murmurs, quiet but not careful enough.

The moment he heard her name, he froze, instinct kicking in before logic.

He wasn’t one to eavesdrop. Not really.

But something about the way they were talking—about the weight in their voices—made him stay.

“She’s…” Jin exhaled sharply, his voice laced with something torn, something hungry. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like I feel her, all the time. Even when she’s not here.”

Jimin let out a dry laugh. “I thought it was just me.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jin, quieter now, like he wasn’t sure if he should even be saying it:

“I’ve been trying to ignore it, to push it down, but… fuck. I want her.” A pause. A shaky breath. “And I want Hobi-hyung to let us want her.”

Something hot curled in Hoseok’s gut.

“Exactly,” Jimin muttered, frustration seeping into his voice. “We already share everything, have for years. We move as one. We know each other’s thoughts before we even say them. This wouldn’t be any different.”

Jin hummed in agreement. “In the early days, it was nothing to sneak a quick kiss in the hallways. Or a handjob when the tension got too thick. It was just…”

“Us.” Jimin finished, voice full of nostalgia.

“Yeah.” Jin sighed. “So why can’t we share this too? Why can’t we share her?”

Hoseok sucked in a sharp breath, something inside him shifting.

He had always known, on some level, that their bond was different. That it went beyond what most people would call normal. The early days had been full of stolen moments, whispered promises in the dark, hands roaming in frustration, in comfort, in understanding.

There was never jealousy between them, never hesitation.

Just connection.

Just them.

And now—her.

Lyric had woven herself into them without even trying, had settled into the cracks of their bond like she had always belonged there.

And fuck—maybe she did.

Hoseok turned away before they could notice him, his mind already working, already planning.

He wasn’t upset.

He wasn’t possessive.  At least not with them. 

No.

He wanted to see it.

Wanted to push them.

Wanted to watch them break under the weight of their own desire—just like he had.

And when they finally snapped, when they finally gave in?

He’d be right there, leading them into the inevitable.

[mother2monsters]

Serendipity in Seoul pt. 29

Jungkook’s Itaewon penthouse thrummed with pre-concert energy by 4 PM. The open space blended sleek design with cozy chaos—windows framing Seoul’s skyline, takeout boxes and soju bottles strewn across the counter, BTS scattered over couches and chairs. Jungkook manned the kitchen, flipping bulgogi on a grill, while Taehyung lounged nearby, scrolling. Yoongi nursed a coffee, half-dead, as Namjoon and Destiny bickered over a playlist—her in his hoodie, him in sweats, both radiant. Lauren sat on a stool, smirking, Stacy’s shade buried in her mind.

Hobi and Lyric slipped in last, a quiet heat between them—her in his borrowed shirt, thighs peeking from shorts, him in a loose tee and cargos, hair damp. The room erupted—Jimin whistling, Jin clapping Hobi’s shoulder—but Hobi’s thoughts lingered on Lyric’s morning worship, her hands and lips still searing into him.

In the kitchen, Jin and Jimin cornered him as he grabbed a water bottle. Jungkook was focused on the grill, Tae distracted, giving them a hushed pocket. Jin leaned against the counter, smirking. “You’re glowing, man. Lyric’s got you good, huh?”

Hobi grinned, rubbing his neck, voice low. “You don’t even know. This morning—she literally worshipped me, hyung. Said it was her way to send me off for tonight’s show.”

Jimin’s eyes widened, leaning in, voice soft. “Worshipped you? We need details...”

Hobi’s grin turned sheepish, a flush creeping up. “She started with her hands—ran ‘em down my chest, kissed every inch like I’m sacred. Then her mouth—took me so deep I couldn’t think. Told me I’ll own the stage tonight, made me feel invincible.”

Jin’s smirk softened, awe creeping in. “Damn. She made you feel that good? I never experienced anything like that.”

“Yeah,” Hobi murmured, eyes distant. “Then she washed me—slow, gentle, like she was piecing me back together. Rubbed me down after, massaged every knot ‘til I was just… hers.”

Jimin’s breath caught, a quiet reverence in his gaze. “Fuck, hyung. That’s… she’s incredible.”

Hobi nodded, voice dropping. “She is. Tonight, I honestly feel like I could touch the sky if I wanted to”.

He paused, glancing across the room—Lyric laughing with Destiny, her thighs catching the light, confidence radiating. That’s when he caught it—Jin and Jimin’s eyes following his, lingering on her. Jin’s gaze was steady, soft but longing, like he could feel the echo of Hobi’s words in his bones. Jimin’s was hungrier, lips parting slightly, a quiet ache flickering as he watched her move, her power pulling him in.

Hobi’s chest tightened—not with jealousy, but recognition. They weren’t just listening. They were yearning. He filed it away, a spark igniting, but said nothing. Not yet.

“Dinner’s up!” Jungkook called, breaking the moment. Hobi smirked, clapping their shoulders as they headed back—Jin and Jimin trailing, eyes still drifting to Lyric, a quiet longing simmering beneath the surface.