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em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

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Sports Car

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob have been having sex together for a while now, and have basically christened the entire compound, but when you get injured during a mission and are rendered incapable of having sex for the next month, the cravings need to be relieved somehow.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Fluff, Mentions of Injuries, and Smutish, an Unestablished relationship technically.

Smut Warnings: There are sexual themes to this and references to the reader and Bob having sex together everywhere basically, Mutual Masturbation, Dirty Talk, Cum eating, Bob is just trying to be a good boy man…

Author’s Note: Y’all…I can’t stop writing for this man, and you’ve pulled me into writing for Rhett Abbott as well, what the hell am I gonna do with all these ideas?! Certainly not going to start doing double updates or anything…AHEM anyways. Hope y’all enjoy. I liked the request that was put in by an anon for this to be themed to ‘Sports Car’ by Tate McCrae., I don’t know who y’all are but you guys know how to tempt me with a groovy song lol. Thank you.

Word Count: 6,304

Not being able to have sex with you felt like a death sentence to Bob Reynolds. That was just the plain honest truth.

Because ever since the dam between the both of you broke–ever since the first desperate kiss in the hallway, the first half-undressed quickie in the supply closet, the first time you looked up at him and asked for all of him–Bob hadn’t been the same. You had tethered to him, quietly, and completely, and you didn’t let go.

And he was wholly and utterly yours.

Every room in the compound’s living quarters carried proof of that–or at least memories of it because you and Bob were people who made sure the evidence was only on your bodies and not anything that could be seen to your roommates. They knew of course, but the both of you never wanted to push the envelope by being exhibitionalists, at least…Not when they were around.

Because when the both of you were left to your own devices–which was often–you made sure to take advantage, and you made sure your bodies remembered everything.

You’d sneak up on him in the kitchen and press your lips to the back of his neck while your hand slid under the band of his sweats. He’d whimper every time like it was brand new, like you hadn’t already wrecked him twice that day.

He’d climb on top of you on the couch, tug the book from your hands, kiss your sternum through your shirt until your fingers curled in his hair and your thighs parted instinctively.

You’d pull him into the laundry room and perch on top of the machine with your knees spread, bare just enough for him to drop to his knees and disappear between your thighs–right there, surrounded by the scent of dryer sheets and heat and the unbearable sound of him trying not to moan with his mouth full.

He’d drag you into the storage room, lift you like you weighed nothing, pin you against the shelves and thrust up into you at a devastating angle, biting your shoulder just to keep from making a sound that would’ve echoed through the vents.

The showers were slower. Steamy. Sacred. Hands gliding over each other, mouths tasting sweat and water and salt. His voice would rasp your name like a confession. And yours would stutter in return like a prayer.

This wasn’t just about the pleasure though, it was about the relief. Like your bodies were the only way you knew how to communicate to one another when the world was too loud.

When it all started, it was all-consuming. You’d barely make it through the day without ending up pressed against each other somewhere, whispering ‘just one more time’ through bitten lips. You took advantage of any free time you had and poured it into being tangled up with Bob, and that became your favourite thing to do.

There were days you’d have sex until you were sore. Until Bob couldn’t stop shaking. Until you were both red-cheeked and boneless and half-laughing at how wrecked you were.

Eventually, it mellowed–just enough that the both of you weren’t constantly distracted. You settled into a rhythm. Once in the morning. Again before bed, and sometimes in the middle of the afternoon if the compound was quiet.

Enough to satisfy the craving without drowning in it.

And then–

You got hurt.

It wasn’t a scratch or a bruise or something a few stitches could fix.

You had been caught in a sticky situation–hand to hand combat with someone who decided to bring a knife to a fist fight. And you were left absolutely destroyed.

You spent twelve hours in surgery and were left with twenty-three internal stitches, thirty-four external stitches on your abdomen, two cracked ribs, and a strict, no exceptions recovery plan: bed rest, hydration, painkillers, no heavy lifting, no exertion, and no sex–when you had asked the doctor about it they had said sex is exertion–for the next four weeks.

The first few nights were rough. You couldn’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time, even with the heavy dose of painkillers. You couldn’t sit up on your own because of the angle of the wound. You couldn’t laugh when Bob or anyone else made a joke, you couldn’t sneeze–which was easy to avoid given Bob’s recommendation of distracting your brain by saying something randomly–and you couldn’t move without feeling like glass was breaking through your skin.

Throughout it all, Bob never left your side–even though you had told him multiple times he didn’t have an obligation to be there, which was met with a gentle kiss on the forehead and him telling you to shush.

He helped you shower–kneeling beside the tub, and supporting you with an arm across your back as you lowered yourself into the cold porcelain. He washed your hair with trembling hands, rubbing gentle circles into your scalp in an attempt to relax you and bring you some sort of comfort. He would dry you off without looking too long–even though you knew he wanted to. Though you had caught his eyes lingering–just for a second–before flickering away like it hurt to see you like that.

He would dress you slowly, shimmying you into the oversized t-shirt he loved seeing you in, and pulling the hem down over your thighs before asking if you were okay, like it didn’t break him every time he had to stop himself from going further.

Even through all of it, you always asked him to sleep beside you.

You were so used to waking up with him–your legs tangled with his, your cheek tucked into his neck, his hand resting somewhere warm and steady on your waist. Sleeping without him felt wrong now. Cold. Like something vital was missing.

Bob never said no.

But he had definitely changed the way he held you.

Now, he slid into his side of the bed with the caution of someone lowering themselves into a minefield. He moved like any shift in weight might hurt you, or worse—might hurt himself.

He lay stiffly beneath the sheets, on his back or facing the far wall, hands clutched to his chest or balled into the fabric of the blanket. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t curl around you like he used to.

And he didn’t sleep. Not really.

Because the proximity was torture.

And not just the proximity–

The bed itself.

This was the bed you made love in.

The bed where you’d climbed into his lap and whispered praise into his mouth. The bed where he’d traced every inch of you with trembling hands. The bed where he’d watched you come apart with his name on your lips and your fingers buried in his hair.

Now he lay beside you like a ghost of himself.

Going cold turkey after months of unrestrained closeness—of your thighs squeezing his waist, of his mouth on your chest, of his hands gripping your hips while you moaned for him—

It wasn’t just frustrating.

It was excruciating.

It reminded him of when he was withdrawing from Meth. Of the days when his nerves felt like they’d been stripped raw, exposed to the air, and every muscle ached with the absence of something he couldn’t name.

It made his skin burn, made his chest go tight, and made his entire body feel hollow and heavy all at once.

Some nights he would lie awake just listening to you breathe–soft and steady beside him–trying to find comfort in the rhythm.

Other nights were harder.

Nights when your shirt would ride up in your sleep, revealing the gauze taped to your side and the delicate curve of your waist…And he’d have to roll away, press his hand to his chest, and breathe through his teeth until the ache settled.

Sometimes your thigh would brush against his–warm and unintentional–and his whole body would jolt. His fingers would curl into his palm hard enough to leave crescent marks, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Because the Sentry…

The Sentry noticed.

He felt everything more intensely now. The smell of your shampoo. The warmth of your skin. The shape of your breath against his neck when you shifted toward him in the dark.

And you were the only person the Sentry had ever bonded with. The only one who hadn’t flinched in his presence. Who didn’t just tolerate his power, but excited it.

You made him feel wanted. Controlled. Grounded.

But Bob–Bob wasn’t sure he could be enough of a barrier anymore especially with the situation.

Every brush of skin. Every gentle kiss you gave him in passing. Every time you said his name with that soft edge of longing–

The Sentry stirred.

Not violently. Not like before.

But with interest. With hunger. With something dangerously close to worship.

And Bob knew–if he touched you the way he wanted to, if he let himself trail his hand down the hem of your shirt, just once, or kissed you too deeply, too long–

He wouldn’t be able to stop.

The Sentry would take over.

Not to hurt you.

But to claim you like he always did.

To have all of you, again and again, until nothing else existed.

And right now? That could break you, delay your healing, and undo all the process you made.

So Bob stayed still and controlled himself with what little energy he had, and stayed quiet.

He didn’t reach for you, didn’t breathe your name the way he wanted to, didn’t tell you how badly he wanted to feel you, even if it was just your fingers in his hair, or your legs curling around him like they used to.

He stayed good.

Even as it slowly killed him.

———————————

By the second week though, Bob was losing his grip.

You were getting better, which was great to see. The worst of the pain had passed, and you could sit up without help, and walk short distances without Bob having to weave himself around you. The stitches were slowly healing, but the skin didn’t feel like it was tearing every time you moved, which meant that process was going smoothly.

But it also meant that the ache between your legs–the one you hadn’t noticed at first because it was dulled by the drowsiness of your medications–was back, and growing louder by the day.

The absence of him–of all of him–had become a pulse inside you. A hollow beat.

You felt like you were on high alert when he was around you, and you noticed such mundane things, like when his hand would brush by yours and set your skin ablaze or when he moved and the smell of his shampoo would tickle your nose. You tried to avoid it because you wanted to respect the doctor’s orders…But it was getting worse by the minute.

So one night, when the lights were off and the air between you was thick with the silence of things unsaid, you reached for him with such slowness that it could've gone unnoticed. Your hand slipped beneath the blanket and rested on his stomach first–just a whisper of a touch.

“Y/N…” He warned, his voice already unsteady, as he slowly opened his eyes to look down at you.

But you didn’t stop. You slid lower, fingers brushing the waistband of his boxers. He let out a sharp breath, and your hand cupped him softly through the fabric. He was already hard–painfully hard, if the way his hips jerked was any indication.

“Let me help,” You pleaded. “Just a little. I’ll be gentle...I promise.” But Bob grabbed your wrist–not harshly. Not even tightly. Just firm, just to stop you. His breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling like he was trying to hold something back.

“I-I can’t,” He rasped.

Your lips parted, and your brows furrowed in confusion. “You can’t or you don’t want to?”

“Of course I-I want to. G-God, I want to,” He said, voice cracking along the edges, almost like he was in pain. “B-But if you keep touching me, I won’t be able to stop, and I won’t be able to stay…You k-know what happens w-when I get worked up.”

The words landed like a stone between you.

You pulled your hand back slowly, guilt crawling into your chest. “Bob…”

“I’d g-give anything for this,” He whispered, eyes clenched shut. “F-For you. But if I l-lose control and hurt you–if the S-Sentry takes over because I can’t keep my hands to myself–I-I won’t forgive myself.” You nodded, even though the rejection burned like a bruise.

You knew the Sentry very well, because you’d encountered him countless times when Bob was so overwhelmed with pleasure and nerves that he took the wheel. You knew when those eyes glistened with a film of gold you were going to be in for an experience. He respected you, he treated you like you were his queen but he was extremely passionate…Passionate enough to stunt your recovery tenfold.

So you turned your back to him quietly, and cushioned yourself against the body pillow beside you, just to not torture yourself and Bob more by looking at him.

——————

The next day, Bob couldn’t concentrate. Not on his book, or on his breakfast. Not even on the tiny lavender plant you’d started trying to keep alive on the windowsill, which had recently begun to droop–as if it felt the tension in the room.

He just wanted to do right by you and be a good man, but on the inside he was screaming. His body was tired of restraint. Tired of pretending.

He could barely look at you without needing to breathe through it.

So he excused himself around midafternoon–told you he needed some air. You told him you’d be okay for a bit, and you meant it. You knew where he was going before he even left the room.

He needed someone to talk to.

Someone who could handle hearing about what he was feeling without looking at him like he was dangerous. Someone who knew what it meant to wrestle with instincts too big for one body.

He found them on the back patio, where the weight bench had been dragged out into the spring sun like a makeshift shrine to silence and post-mission soreness.

Bucky sat on the low concrete ledge, knees spread, forearms resting on them like he’d been in that same position for hours, he was sweating through his grey shirt like he had been benching a whole building on his own.

Walker was shirtless with sweat running down his chest as he racked a set of heavy dumbbells with a grunt that seemed unnecessarily loud.

And Alexei was reclined in a half-broken Adirondack chair, with a half-eaten protein bar melting in his lap, and a bottle of beer perched on the table beside him, just enjoying the warmth that the sun was bringing him.

They didn’t say anything at first when he walked out into the common area, shielding his face from the sun, but they could tell that he looked absolutely exhausted and he was shouldering something that he couldn’t handle on his own. He threw himself down on a lawn chair and let out a sigh, tilting his head back to stare up into the cloud dusted sky.

Alexei, Walker and Bucky gave each other a few side eyes, almost like they were daring one another to ask the question that they knew would crack Bob open immediately. But when Walker made a gesture for Bucky to say something, he decided to take the first shot at starting a conversation.

”You alright?” He asked reluctantly, squinting at him through the rays of sun that beat down on the patio. Bob let out another long exhale, deeper this time, keeping his eyes glued to the dusty blue that lined the sky, watching the clouds shifting overhead. It would’ve been a beautiful day if his insides weren’t chewing themselves to pieces.

”I really don’t know.” He replied. Walker raised an eyebrow.

”Well that’s a strong opening.” Alexei took a gulp from his beer bottle and sighed.

”Is this about Y/N?” Bob didn’t flinch at the mentioning of your name, but just by the softening of his features they knew you were going to be the topic of conversation. Walker gave a soft whistle and leaned back on the bench.

”Damn…Must be serious. You never bring her up.” Bob shrugged.

”W-Well we don’t really talk a-about this kind of stuff together.” Bob muttered, voice low, as his cheeks began to heat up from nerves.

”That’s because we assume that if you do, you’ll explode, which seems like you’re on the right track to doing that now.” He said, motioning to his face to point out the blush that crept up on Bob’s pale cheeks, before cracking open a water bottle. Bucky shot Walker a sharp glance but kept quiet.

”Okay, you talk now, we listen, and we tell how you don’t mess things up.” Alexei explained with a shrug, taking another swig of beer. Bob shifted forward in his chair, palms clasps together like he was trying to stop them from shaking.

”We were…Uhm…” He cleared his throat, “We were s-super active before she got injured…And I mean l-like…” His voice dropped even lower than it was, “A lot.” Bucky raised an eyebrow at the statement.

”I hope you’re not about to tell us she’s pregnant.” Bob’s head shot up.

”W-What? No!” Walker snorted loudly at the reaction, watching Bob run both hands over his face, “T-That would be e-easier to manage t-than this honestly…” That shut them up for a second. He exhaled and shook his head.

“The doctor basically gave us a full-on ban. No sex. No exertion. F-For weeks. A-And I’ve been going insane. I’m trying to be good, I-I am, but I can’t even look at her w-without feeling like I’m gonna burst into flames.” The guys exchanged a look. Not mocking. Not amused. It was a shared, silent kind of understanding. The ‘oh shit, he’s really losing it’ kind. Alexei frowned slightly, like he was calculating something. Bucky leaned back a little, arms crossed, but his jaw was tight. Walker raised both brows and sat forward on the bench, elbows on his knees.

”Well…It’s not like…You can’t do other things apart from actual sex.” Bob let out a strained exhale.

”E-Easy for you to say…You don’t have the S-Sentry serum running through your veins…I–I almost punched a hole in the shower w-wall the other day just trying to relieve myself b-because the Sentry was pissed off we couldn’t have her…” Walker paused mid-sip, brows scrunching.

”Wait…Wait, hold on. We? The Sentry’s had sex with Y/N?” Bob froze. His ears turned crimson instantly.

“I–I mean–I…It’s not–I didn’t mean it like that, I–” He ran a hand down his face, flustered once again. “It’s not like I hand over the keys to my b-brain and say ‘have at her’, o-okay? I-It’s just…I-It’s hard to control when I’m all… Worked up…S-She knows that.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Bucky, quiet but not incurious, leaned forward slightly. “So…What happens to you when he, y’know…Interrupts?” He only asked more because he had his fair share of odd experiences before he got a handle on The Winter Soldier programming, so maybe he would actually have sound advice if he knew what was going on. The question only made Bob’s eyes widen.

“W-We’re not talking about this,” He stammered quickly, shaking his head and sitting up like he could physically remove himself from the question. “No. No, absolutely not. That’s not why I came out here.”

Walker raised both hands. “Hey man, you’re the one who said we. You opened that very complicated door.”

Bob scrubbed his palms against his thighs, anxious. “I’m n-not here to give you guys a breakdown of–of what happens w-when I get off, okay?”

Walker opened his mouth again to say something.

“I mean it,” Bob cut in, voice cracking slightly from sheer desperation. “Guys, please. I’m not trying to be dramatic, I just–I really need help f-figuring out how to not reject Y/N e-every night without doing s-something that’s going to mess up her recovery.”

That quieted them.

Bob’s voice dropped again, a threadbare plea now.

“I-I don’t wanna push her away. She already feels like s-she’s broken or fragile or… I don’t k-know. L-Less than. And I hate it. I-I hate not being able to touch her. But if I lose c-control, if the Sentry kicks in at the wrong time, I could delay everything. I could–I could hurt her. I don’t want to fumble this. So I need to figure out how we can both get some kind of relief without c-crossing that line.”

He looked up, finally, eyes flicking from one face to the next.

“So can you guys p-please help me. F-For the love of God.” The silence that followed wasn’t awkward anymore. Bucky stayed quiet for a moment, still leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, gaze steady on Bob like he was reading the fine print behind his eyes. Then, very calmly, very dryly, he said:

“…What if you acted like it was a long-distance call?”

Bob blinked. “W-What?”

Walker let out a short laugh. “Like phone sex?”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “Exactly like phone sex. She’s could be in the bed next to you, but you pretend she’s not…Or you keep your distance or something so you can see her, but you won’t have the temptation to touch her…And you can do it together too so it’s not like it’ll be one–sided or anything.” Bob blinked slowly, then looked down at his hands, the gears clearly turning. A pause, then—

“…That may actually work,” He muttered, more to himself than anyone else

Alexei raised his beer slightly and tilted his head toward Bucky, brows raised in mock suspicion. “But how you know this, Snow Soldier? You never leave compound. You don’t even have dating app.”

Bucky didn’t even flinch. “Doesn’t mean I forgot how to please a woman, Alexei.”

Walker choked on his water. “Jesus Christ.”

“I read and keep up with the times,” Bucky added flatly, raising an eyebrow. “And unlike some people here, I’ve been alive for over a century. There’s not much I haven’t heard of. Or tried.”

Alexei let out a low whistle. “That is…Oddly impressive.”

Bucky smirked, just a little. “Thanks. I’m full of surprises.” Bob, who had gone quiet again, looked back up with a glint of something new behind his eyes. Not quite confidence–but something adjacent to courage.

“I–I think I’m gonna ask her about it. T-Tonight. See if she’s up for it. I mean, if she’s not comfortable then I won’t push it, but…I think she’d say yes. I–I think she needs it…”

“Yeah,” Walker nodded, surprisingly sincere now. “She probably does.”

Alexei pointed his beer toward Bob with a nod. “Just go slow. Say words. Stay in control.”

Bucky gave him a final look, calm and steady. “You’ve already got the hard part figured out, Bob. You care. That’s more than most guys walk into a bedroom with.”

Bob nodded, then stood–hands still a little shaky, but steadier than before. Steadier with purpose now.

“Thanks,” He said, voice low but certain. “Really.”

And with that, he turned and headed back toward the compound. The sun had shifted lower in the sky, casting long golden beams across the windows as he disappeared through the door.

——————

The bedroom was quiet except for the soft rustle of pages.

You lay on your side, nestled into a warm pocket of pillows, the glow from your bedside lamp casting a soft halo over the book open in your hands. The words blurred slightly around the edges, not because you were tired, but because it had become harder to focus lately—especially when your body remembered Bob’s absence more than your mind wanted it to.

Then the door creaked open.

You glanced up.

And immediately–everything shifted.

Bob stood in the doorway for a moment like he wasn’t sure what kind of gravity he was stepping into. But something about him was different tonight. Less hunched. Less haunted. His jaw was still tight, but not from restraint. His eyes–those warm, sky-colored eyes–met yours without flinching.

You sat up a little, a finger marking your page. “Hey…”

He closed the door behind him. “Hey.”

The word felt heavier than usual. More certain.

He crossed the room with a slow, quiet gait. No twitching hands. No pacing. Just a quiet sort of determination as he reached your side and—without asking—sat on the edge of the bed beside you.

Your heart kicked up.

And then he leaned in. Like he was checking something on your face. But then his hand came up, brushed your hair gently back from your cheek, and his mouth found yours in a slow, quiet kiss.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

Just there.

Present.

It had been so long since he kissed you like that–without pulling away, without worrying, without freezing halfway through it like he was terrified his control might snap.

And the second his lips pressed to yours, a moan slipped out before you could stop it. Soft. Raw. Needful.

He pulled back an inch, eyes darting over your face.

“Sorry–” You whispered, breath catching.

“No,” He said immediately, voice low and rough. “G-God, no. I missed that. I’ve m-missed you.”

You blinked, stunned by the admission. Your hand lifted and rested on his thigh instinctively, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

“You seem…” You started, trailing your fingers slowly over the muscle. “Different.”

“I-I t-talked to the guys,” he admitted, a little sheepishly. “Bucky, Walker, Alexei. I was… I was honest with them about how bad t-this has been. And they helped me think of something that might…Help the both of us.”

You tilted your head. “Help?”

His thumb traced the edge of your jaw. “S-Something that keeps us inside the lines. But still g-gives us each other.”

Your pulse picked up. “Tell me.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes.

“We don’t touch each other,” He said slowly, like every word was being weighed in his mouth. “But we…W-Watch. Talk. Feel. Together. Like we’re far away, even though w-we’re right next to each other.”

You stared at him.

And you felt your thighs press together beneath the blanket. “Phone sex. Without the phone.”

He flushed. Nodded.

You smiled, almost shyly. “That’s actually…Hot.” He raised his eyebrows at the reception you gave.

“You think so?” He asked quietly.

“I know so.” You shifted upright, the blanket sliding down your legs. Your breath caught as you watched him watching you–those blue eyes darkening just a shade, like the idea of what you were both tiptoeing toward was finally starting to register in full.

“Can we…” You whispered, voice thick, “Can we try it now?”

Bob’s lips parted like he was about to say something, but nothing came out at first–just the shaky sound of his inhale. Then, very softly, he nodded.

“Y-Yeah,” He murmured. “If you want to.”

“I do.”

That was all it took.

You reached for him before either of you could second-guess it–your fingers curling gently around his jaw as you pulled him back in for another kiss.

But this time it wasn’t soft.

This kiss was full of all the time you’d spent aching. All the days spent holding back. All the longing that had been quietly burning a hole through your resolve. The moment your lips met, it was slow but hungry, your mouth parting for him with a sigh that made his whole body jolt.

He kissed you back like a man dying of thirst–like he couldn’t believe you were letting him taste you again. His hand cupped your cheek, then your neck, and for just one second, just one, he let his thumb brush your jaw like he was memorizing the shape of you again.

You felt his restraint trembling under every inch of that kiss, before you pulled back.

His lips were still parted when you pulled away, breath ragged, lashes heavy over those pale blue eyes.

“I know you said no touching,” You whispered, your forehead still brushing his, “But I just wanted to do that again before we start…”

Bob didn’t answer right away.

He couldn’t.

His gaze was locked on your lips like they still had a gravitational pull he was barely resisting. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile barefoot through fire. But then he gave the smallest nod–slow, reverent, like he understood that this wasn’t just about want.

It was about worship.

You leaned back, eyes locked with his, and slowly threw off the blanket covering your lower half. The cool air kissed your bare legs, but you didn’t flinch. You wanted him to see you. All of you.

You were wearing one of his shirts–oversized and thin with wear, soft against your skin. It was the one he’d dressed you in that morning, his hands shaking a little as he’d pulled it down over your shoulders and mumbled a shy, “Still looks better on you…”

Now, it fell just barely to your upper thighs.

And when Bob saw it–his shirt clinging to your body, brushing your skin like he wished he could–he visibly swallowed.

“Jesus…” He murmured. You shifted your legs slightly apart, slowly, deliberately, and tilted your head at him.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” You whispered. voice soft but trembling with need.

Bob’s breath hitched. His eyes didn’t leave you. Not your face, not your thighs, not the oversized shirt you wore like a second skin. He looked like he was trying to memorize everything, in case it slipped away again.

Bob’s breath caught again, chest rising in a shaky inhale. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared—like if he looked away, you’d vanish.

“Wh-What I’m thinkin’?” He managed, voice tight. “I’m thinking about how I used to touch you right there…”

His gaze dropped, slow, reverent, to the place between your parted thighs.

“…With my mouth. My fingers. Both. Just to see which one made you lose it faster.”

You shivered.

“I’m thinking about how y-you look when you come on my fingers,” He rasped, hand twitching near the waistband of his sweats now. “All breathless and wet and begging m-me not to stop, even when you’re already t-trembling…”

Your fingers flexed slightly against the sheets. He noticed. God, he noticed everything.

“And I’m thinking t-that if you slip your panties down right now, I-I’m not gonna last five minutes.”

You leaned back into the pillows and smiled, slow and sinful. “Then don’t blink.”

Bob sucked in a sharp breath as you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and began to draw them down. Slow. Teasing. Letting him see.

He let out a low, desperate groan when the cotton dragged down over your thighs. When they hit the bed and your legs parted again–bare and glistening in the lamplight–he swore softly under his breath.

His eyes darted to yours, wide, glassy. “I-I–shit–can I–”

You lifted your hand before he could finish, holding out two fingers in front of him.

“Wet them.” You instructed, your voice soft, yet commanding all at the same time.

His lips parted with a soft gasp, and he leaned in immediately, eyes glazed with heat, desperation thick in every breath. He took your fingers into his mouth like it was instinct–like he’d dreamed about this–and moaned around them as his tongue swept between them. Slow. Purposeful.

His eyes never left yours.

You felt it in your core–the worship in it, the filth layered beneath the reverence.

You smiled, breath hitching as you whispered, “I love having your spit on my fingers. Almost makes me feel like you’re inside me…” Bob whimpered, a shudder rolling through him.

He sucked harder, tongue dragging slowly along the pads of your fingers, his cheeks hollowing slightly as he coated you, made sure you were wet–made sure he gave you everything.

And then, just as slow, you pulled your hand back.

You didn’t break eye contact as you brought your glistening fingers down to your clit and touched yourself–soft, slick circles that had you gasping, hips twitching.

Bob’s mouth dropped open. “F-Fuck…”

His hand moved like it wasn’t his own–shoving his sweats down, pushing his shirt up just enough to expose his stomach. His cock sprang free, flushed and painfully hard, already leaking at the tip.

“Jesus Christ,” You moaned, watching him. “You’re so fucking hard, Bob.”

His hand wrapped around himself, shaky. His jaw clenched. “Y-You did that. Just from w-watching you touch yourself, I–please., don’t stop–”

“I’m not planning to,” You breathed, and then slid your fingers down.

Sank them inside.

Your head tipped back. A moan ripped out of you, louder this time, raw.

You fucked yourself deep, a little rough, hips jerking against your own hand. Your moans came fast now, rhythmic, broken.

Bob panted.

He stroked himself hard and fast, eyes locked between your thighs like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His mouth hung open, chest rising in quick, uneven pulls, his light brown locks falling in front of his eyes briefly before he shook them away from his sight.

“Y-You’re rougher tonight,” He gasped. “You’re picturing m-me, aren’t you? My fingers, inside you, f-fuckin’ you so deep–just how you like–god Y/N, I-I’m not gonna–I’m so close–”

“I am picturing you,” You moaned, your voice shaking as your fingers drove in again. “I’m picturing your hand, your breath against my thigh, your groans ringing in my ears while you make me come on your tongue.”

Bob groaned loudly.

And then he broke.

His hips jerked up, cock pulsing as he came across his stomach with a strangled, wrecked moan. Hot streaks spilled across his belly, his hand, his shirt. His other hand braced against the bed as he tried to stay upright, gasping through it.

You didn’t stop yourself though.

Your fingers were soaked, knuckles glistening. You moaned his name again–louder, needier–and then came with a cry, thighs shaking, fingers still moving inside yourself as you chased every last wave of it.

The room filled with nothing but your breaths.

Shaky. Open. Ruined.

And then–

You sat up, slowly, still flushed and trembling. Your fingers, still slick, still glistening with your arousal as you reached toward him.

Bob didn’t even breathe.

He opened his mouth as if possessed.

You slipped your fingers past his lips, and he sucked them eagerly, moaning around them with such softness you could feel yourself getting worked up all over again. His hands were limp at his sides, useless, spent–but his mouth worked slowly cleaning every inch of your fingers, lapping up your sweetness like it was nectar from the gods. When you finally slipped your fingers out, slick and warm, he moaned softly like he didn’t want to let go.

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned in.

And kissed him.

Slow. Gentle. Nothing like the aching heat that came before. This one was quieter–tender and full, your lips brushing against his like you were grounding him, like you needed him tethered to you in this moment just as much as he needed the kiss.

Bob melted into it with a sound that barely made it past his throat, his whole body relaxing under your touch even as his skin still buzzed with the aftershocks of release.

And then–

You pulled back slightly, dragging your gaze down to his cum streaked stomach–glossy and glinting faintly in the lamplight. His shirt was bunched up just enough to show the ridge of muscle beneath. Your hand moved before he even realized.

Fingers dipped low.

Bob’s breath hitched hard as he watched you swipe through one of the fresh, warm streaks across his stomach–slow and lazy, like you were collecting it on purpose.

And then you brought your fingers to your lip, licking them clean without breaking eye contact.

Bob let out a strangled noise–half gasp, half groan–as his body jolted under you.

“Y/N…” He whispered, voice gone thin and broken. “I-I c-can’t–Jesus Christ–“

You just smiled, slow and flushed and soft, licking the taste from the tip of your finger with a flick of your tongue that made his eyes roll back for a second.

“I don’t think,” You said, your voice calm and sultry, “We’ll be able to follow the rules for the next two weeks at the rate we’re going.”

Bob stared at you like you’d just rewritten gravity.

”I know…”

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arkaiveofurown · 3 months ago

Text

Unseen

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader

Sanji flirts with every woman he meets, yet with you, there’s nothing. No swooning, no sweet words, not even a blush. It leaves you wondering… why do you seem invisible to him?

Word Count: ~2,200

tag: fluff

my masterlist here ♡

——

The first time you stepped onto the Thousand Sunny, Sanji didn’t faint. He didn’t sprout hearts from his eyes or launch into poetic flattery. He simply… nodded.

“Welcome aboard,” he said politely, adjusting his tie.

That was it. No roses, no flirty remarks, no swooning. Just a brief greeting.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. You had just joined the crew after all, and you weren’t expecting a grand entrance. But when Nami casually mentioned it later, it stuck with you.

“Wow, he didn’t even drool this time. You might be the first.”

You laughed along, but deep down, it left a small ache in your chest.

It wasn’t like you expected anything. You’d joined as a mapkeeper and assistant navigator, someone quiet and observant. But it was hard not to notice the way Sanji practically worshipped every woman who stepped on board. Robin always had coffee before she even asked. Nami had a seat pulled out for her every meal. You?

You got a plate and a soft “here you go.” No nicknames. No sparkles.

So you told yourself: You’re just not his type.

And it was fine. Or at least, you pretended it was.

——

Zoro saw it first. Sanji, standing outside the galley one morning, tray in hand, just… staring.

You were down the hall, laughing at something Luffy said. The sun caught your face just right, and Sanji? He froze like an idiot.

“Oi, cook,” Zoro muttered. “You gonna serve that or stand there drooling?”

Sanji flinched and muttered a curse. “Shut up. I’m just—checking the balance of the tray.”

“Uh huh.”

Zoro didn’t buy it. Over the next week, he started noticing the pattern.

Whenever you were around, Sanji got weirdly quiet. When you entered the kitchen, he found a reason to leave. When you complimented the food, he thanked you and turned away, ears pink.

“You’ve got it bad,” Zoro told him one night.

Sanji lit a cigarette and stared at the sea. “She’s not like the others.”

“Because she doesn’t punch you for being a perv?”

“No. Because she actually sees me.”

Zoro rolled his eyes. “You’re such a sap.”

“…Maybe.”

——

You leaned over the kitchen counter one afternoon, watching Sanji stir a pot.

“That smells incredible,” you said, inhaling.

He stiffened. “You… think so?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I don’t know how you always get the seasoning so perfect.”

His fingers fumbled the spoon. “Years of practice. Tasting. Balancing—uh, it’s not that hard.”

You tilted your head. “You always downplay it around me.”

“What?”

“You’re proud when Nami compliments you. You give Robin full ingredient breakdowns. But when I say something, you get all weird.”

He coughed awkwardly, grabbing the salt. “I—I do not.”

“You do,” you said softly, the joke falling flat as something in your chest twisted. “It’s fine, though. I guess I’m not really… your type.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. And for a moment, the kitchen felt too quiet. You busied yourself with brushing crumbs off the counter, trying to act like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

You’d seen the way Sanji looked at every other woman—stars in his eyes, endless flattery, a poetic streak a mile wide. Meanwhile, you got nods. Maybe a smile if you were lucky. No pet names. No swooning. You couldn’t help but wonder if something about you just didn’t measure up.

Too plain. Too quiet. Not glamorous enough.

Maybe he just didn’t see you the way you saw him.

Sanji didn’t say anything for a long beat. Then his voice came, low and strange.

“…You’re not boring. You’re the opposite of boring.”

You looked at him, surprised.

“What’s that mean?”

But he was already moving again, pretending to focus on a tray of bread as his face turned red.

“I’ve got stuff in the oven,” he said quickly, already backing toward the pantry. “Gotta check the spice rack. Or… something.”

And just like that, he was gone.

You stood in the kitchen alone, staring after him, your heart a tangle of confusion.

You weren’t sure what hurt more—that he kept running from you…

Or the possibility that it wasn’t rejection at all.

Just something deeper he didn’t know how to name.

——

“Nami,” you said quietly one night, sitting beneath the stars, “Do you think… I’m Sanji’s type?”

Nami blinked. “What?”

You shrugged. “He’s never flirted with me. Not once. I figured… I don’t know. Maybe I’m not pretty enough.”

Nami stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Are you kidding? Sanji blushes so hard when you enter the room, he has to stir soup just to calm down.”

You frowned. “What?”

“He’s obsessed with you.”

You shook your head. “But he doesn’t even talk to me half the time.”

Nami sighed. “Exactly. That’s how you know it’s real. You’ve seen him flirt—he lays it on thick when it’s easy. With you, it’s not.”

“…Why?”

“Because you matter,” Nami said simply. “You’re not a crush. You’re you.”

And suddenly, all the quiet glances, the silence, the fumbling—it made sense.

——

It was raining on the next island. You pulled your hood tighter and jogged ahead, boots splashing through puddles as you helped Nami carry supplies back to the ship.

Sanji was waiting at the docks, umbrella in hand. The second he saw you, something shifted.

Everything slowed.

He watched you running through the rain, hair damp, laughing, cheeks pink from the cold. Your eyes found his—and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

He held the umbrella out as you ducked beneath it beside him.

“Thanks,” you murmured, catching your breath.

He stared.

“Sanji?”

He blinked. “Y-Yeah. You’re welcome.”

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

“…I’m doomed,” he muttered.

You laughed. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Let’s get inside before you catch cold.”

——

You found him in the kitchen later that night, leaning against the counter, cigarette unlit between his fingers.

“You always stare at me like that when I’m not looking?” you asked.

He jumped. “W-What?!”

You smiled. “Zoro told me. And Nami. And Chopper.”

He groaned. “Traitors.”

“Why don’t you flirt with me?” you asked softly.

He swallowed. “Because I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He looked up, eyes burning. “Because you’re not a fantasy, Y/N. You’re real. You laugh when I’m stupid and smile when I’m quiet and I—” he broke off, voice low, “—I don’t want to screw it up.”

You stepped forward.

“What if I told you it’s okay to be nervous? That I see you, too?”

He stared.

“And what if I said I like the version of you that gets shy more than the one who flirts?”

He dropped the cigarette.

“I’d say…” he whispered, “…that’s the best lie I’ve ever heard.”

You grinned.

“It’s not a lie.”

——

The next morning, he pulled out your chair at breakfast.

“Good morning, my sunshine,” he said dramatically, hand over his heart.

You raised an eyebrow.

“You flirting with me now?”

He smirked, blush rising. “Maybe I’m just making up for lost time.”

Zoro groaned. “He’s back.”

But this time, Sanji didn’t wink at Nami or flirt with Robin.

He just kept stealing glances at you.

And when you caught him, instead of looking away, he smiled.

Because for once, he wasn’t scared.

#sanji x reader #sanji x you #sanji x y/n #sanji fluff #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x you #one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece fluff #one piece fanfic #straw hat pirates

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calypso-rt · 5 months ago

Note

She fell first/He fell harder request (pretty please, you are my one and only writer I ride or die for) She’s your typical sweet shy kind reader kook, a jeans/t-shirt type, a friend of Sarah. He’s always ignored her though in favor of the extroverted sexy kook girls. She glows up a bit becoming more of a woman and dressing figure hugging (though not revealing. She’s still her and modest) and has decided to let go of Rafe, feeling stupid for just having a crush on someone who couldn’t care less about her. Though now she has his attention and he’s feeling some type of way being ignored/the bare minimum short polite conversation when she used to sneak glances at him at the house or find reasons to linger around him…..and he’s def not okay with guys talking to her…while he is glancing from afar with heartache…..and he’s def gonna follow when a guy leads her away from the party and make some heartfelt declaration. I WANT RAFE SIMPING AND BEING A MESS, CHASE HEEEER

-> A/N: i saw this and just HAD to start writing immediately. I love it so much thank you, anon! <3

worth the wait

-> Rafe x F!Reader

It started years ago, slow and quiet, like a secret you kept even from yourself.

You were there, always there, floating around the edges of his world like a soft breeze he never bothered to notice. A friend of Sarah’s, a Kook by default but never quite the type to demand attention.

You were the quiet one. The sweet one. The one who lingered in doorways when he was around, sneaking glances when you thought he wouldn’t see.

(He never did.)

Rafe Cameron had always been too busy looking at girls who weren’t you. The loud, sexy, confident ones who draped themselves over him like accessories, all sun-kissed skin and effortless flirtation.

They knew how to keep his attention. You? You were just the girl in plain clothing, flipping through paperbacks at parties and blending into the background.

You knew better than to hope. But that didn’t stop you from feeling.

Maybe that’s why leaving for the summer felt like such a relief.

A few months away, an out-of-state camp, something new. You didn’t have to be that girl anymore. The one waiting in the wings, the one hoping for a glance that would never come.

You threw yourself into everything: early morning hikes, late-night talks by the fire, pushing past the edges of your comfort zone until you weren’t just existing, but living.

And somewhere along the way, something shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t come back with a whole new personality, didn’t suddenly turn into one of them...the girls Rafe actually looked at.

But you carried yourself differently now. Stood a little taller. Laughed a little louder. You still wore the same clothes, but they fit you better somehow, hugging the quiet confidence you hadn’t realized you’d built.

Most importantly?

You came back over it.

Over him. Over the way you used to linger, over the ache of wanting something that was never yours to begin with. It was stupid, really. A crush. That’s all it had ever been.

And if Rafe Cameron had never noticed you before?

Well. That was perfectly fine.

Except… now he did.

It happens at a party, because of course it does.

Figure Eight, same crowd, same overpriced liquor being poured into red cups. The air is thick with salt and smoke, music thrumming under your skin as you weave through the sea of familiar faces.

Nothing’s changed.

Except you.

You’re not lurking on the edges anymore, not pretending to be invisible. You’re here because you want to be, because, for once, you don’t feel like an afterthought in your own story.

And Rafe?

He’s exactly where you left him, stretched out in one of the patio chairs, a beer dangling from his fingers, his attention flickering between his phone and the girl curled up next to him. Some blonde, barely dressed, draping herself over his arm like she’s claimed him.

It used to sting, seeing him like that.

Now, you don’t even spare him a second glance.

It’s almost funny, the way his head turns when you walk in: slow and deliberate, like he’s making sense of something his brain can’t quite process. You catch the moment it clicks. The flicker of recognition, the way his easy, lazy smirk falters for half a second before sliding back into place.

You’re laughing at something Sarah says, not even looking his way. Your shoulders back, your head held high, the warm glow of summer still clinging to your skin. And your eyes—God, your eyes—don’t even flicker in his direction.

Maybe it was the liquor running through his blood, but he gets up, the wasted blonde grumbling in frustration as she's pushed aside, and makes his way over to you, heart beating.

“Didn’t know you were back.”

His voice is low, smooth, the same drawl you’ve heard a million times.

You glance up at him, barely breaking stride as you move away from Sarah. “Got in a few days ago.”

His brows pull together. “And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Sarah knew.” You shrug, effortless, like you don’t notice the way his eyes drag over you, lingering at the way your clothes fit just right. Like you don't care.

(You do. A little. But you’d rather die than let him know that.)

Rafe scoffs, taking another step, cutting off your path like he expects you to stop for him. “Right. Sarah knew.” He tilts his head, watching you too closely. “Guess you’ve been busy.”

You smile, all polite disinterest. “Something like that.”

And then you walk away.

No nervous laugh, no lingering, no waiting to see if he watches you go.

(He does.)

And for the first time in his entire life, Rafe Cameron feels something sharp and unfamiliar twist in his gut.

It takes him a second to recognize it.

Regret.

...

Jealousy isn’t something Rafe Cameron feels.

At least, not like this.

You’re different now. And worse? You don’t seem to give a damn about him anymore.

And he feels it, really feels it, when he sees you laughing with some guy at the party.

Some Kook douchebag he barely remembers the name of, leaning way too close, making you smile in a way that burns in his chest.

His stomach twists. His jaw clenches. His grip tightens around his drink until the cheap plastic cracks in his hand.

“Dude.” Topper’s voice breaks through the red haze, amused and knowing. “You good?”

Rafe doesn’t answer. Just glares at the scene in front of him like he can will it to stop.

(You haven’t even looked at him once tonight.)

You used to... always used to. Sneaking glances, lingering, hoping he’d say something. And now? He could be furniture for all you care.

The guy leans in. Says something that makes you tilt your head back and laugh.

And Rafe sees red.

Before he can stop himself, he’s moving. Drink abandoned, footsteps quick and purposeful as he crosses the room.

By the time you realize he’s there, it’s too late.

“Didn’t think this was your type.”

His voice is smooth, dripping with something too sharp to be casual. You blink up at him, surprised, before your expression flattens.

“I didn’t know I had a type.”

Rafe snorts. “Yeah?” His gaze flicks to the guy beside you, unimpressed. “’Cause last time I checked, you weren’t into desperate losers.”

The guy bristles. “What’s your problem, Cameron?”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Rafe—”

But he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking at him.

His jaw is tight. His fists curl at his sides. Everything about him screams territorial, and he hates that he feels like this, like he’s been replaced, like you were his to lose in the first place.

And then you do the worst thing imaginable.

You smile at the guy.

A small, amused, totally dismissive smile, like Rafe isn’t even here.

Like he doesn’t matter.

And that’s when it hits him like a truck, like a gut punch, like a sinking, spiraling, helpless feeling.

He’s screwed.

...

Rafe has never had to chase before.

But that’s exactly what he’s doing now.

It starts with little things. Small, almost unnoticeable gestures that shouldn’t mean anything but do.

One: The Jacket

It’s late. Too late to be sitting out by the beach in just a thin hoodie, but Sarah begged you to stay for one more drink, and you didn’t want to seem like the same girl who used to fade into the background.

You shiver once, just once, and suddenly, there’s a heavy weight settling over your shoulders.

“Rafe—”

“Don’t start,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets like he didn’t just drape his very expensive hoodie over you without a second thought. “It’s cold.”

You glance up at him, suspicious, but he just stares out at the water like this isn’t a thing. Like this isn’t the first time he’s ever done something for you without being asked.

(You don’t give it back.)

Two: The Coffee

It’s early, and you’re buried in a book at a café, sipping on some overpriced latte when a familiar voice breaks your focus.

“You drink that caramel crap?”

You blink up, startled to find Rafe leaning against the table, a fresh cup in his hand. Before you can answer, he sets it down in front of you.

Your usual order.

The one you’ve always gotten. The one you thought no one ever noticed.

Your lips part, but Rafe just shrugs, casual. “Figured you might want a refill.”

Then he walks away.

You stare after him, utterly baffled.

Three: The Save

You weren’t going to call it a date.

Just a study session at the country club with some random Kook guy, an easy way to brush up on Econ while sipping from the drink in your hand.

But Rafe doesn’t see it like that.

He sees some guy sitting way too close, leaning over you like he has any right to, and before you can react, there’s a firm hand curling around your wrist.

“Come on,” Rafe says, voice low and final.

You blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

His grip isn’t tight, but it’s there. Protective. “We’re leaving.”

You scoff. “Since when do you get to decide where I—”

“Since you clearly don’t know when someone’s wasting your time.” He glares at the guy, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. “Trust me. You can do better.”

And even though you should be annoyed, even though you should pull away, you don’t.

Because his fingers brush against your palm for half a second, just long enough for you to realize he’s trembling.

...

You’re not sure what you expected when Rafe finally snapped.

The party is long over. The music has faded, the bonfire burned down to glowing embers, and most of the guests have either gone home or passed out somewhere inside. But you stayed.

Not for him.

(Definitely not for him.)

You just like the quiet. The way the Outer Banks feels when it’s still. When the waves are the only sound, when the sky stretches wide and endless, littered with stars.

You tug your sleeves over your hands, exhaling softly as the wind rolls in off the water. You don’t expect to hear footsteps behind you.

But you do.

“We need to talk,” he says, voice low, words edged in something raw.

You sigh, shaking your head just enough to make a point. “We really don’t.”

His jaw clenches. “Yeah, we do.”

He sits down beside you on the sand, shoulders touching.

You cross your arms. “You can’t just—”

“Why won’t you look at me?” he blurts out.

You freeze.

He’s sitting too close, his expression a mess of frustration and something else. Something bordering on desperation.

You force out a scoff. “Rafe—”

“No, seriously.” His voice dips, softer now. “You used to. All the time.”

Your stomach flips. You hate that he remembers. You hate that he noticed now and not when it actually mattered.

“I grew up,” you say evenly. “I stopped wasting my time.”

Something flickers behind his eyes, and for the first time, he looks hurt.

“That what you think?” he murmurs. “That it was a waste?”

You swallow, shifting uncomfortably. “What else was it supposed to be?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, he just stares at the ground, like he’s struggling to say whatever is clawing at his throat.

Then, finally

“I was an idiot.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Rafe lifts his head, and the look on his face nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

Because he’s serious.

“I didn’t see it. See you.” He shakes his head, almost like he hates himself for it. “I don’t even know why. I think—I think I was too busy looking at the wrong things, and by the time I figured it out, you weren’t there anymore.”

Your chest tightens. “Rafe—”

“I notice you now,” he says, shifting closer. His voice is rough, uneven. “I notice everything. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you get nervous. How you always pick the raisins out of the trail mix after you play golf.”

Your breath catches.

His jaw clenches. “And I hate it.”

You rear back slightly. “What?”

“I hate that I had to lose you to see you.” He exhales, shaking his head. “I hate that some other guy gets to stand where I should have been this whole time.”

Silence.

Loud. Heavy.

You stare at him, heart hammering, every instinct screaming at you to run, because this is too much, too late, too Rafe.

So you shake your head. Swallow down the ache in your throat.

“I don’t...” You inhale sharply. “I don’t believe you.”

Rafe goes still.

You square your shoulders, trying to steady yourself. “You don’t get to do this, Rafe. You don’t get to ignore me for years and then suddenly—”

“I know.” His voice is hoarse. “I know. And I don’t expect you to believe me.”

You falter.

He shifts closer. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s afraid you’ll bolt.

“I just…” His voice drops to almost a whisper. “I just need you to know that I’m trying. That I’m not going anywhere this time.”

You swallow hard, pulse hammering.

Because for the first time, he looks at you: not like a challenge, not like something to win, but like something he’s afraid to lose.

And that scares you more than anything.

...

Epilogue: The Payoff

Rafe dedicated any free time he has to you and only you.

It's not really a conscious decision, there's nowhere else he'd rather be. He's utterly determined to prove to you the depth of his feelings.

You’re browsing the tiny, tucked-away bookstore downtown, running your fingers along the spines, when a book suddenly appears in front of you.

"Thought you might like this one," Rafe says, leaning against the shelf like he belongs there. Like he planned this.

You eye the book, one of your favorites. The same one you used to read at parties when he wasn’t paying attention.

Your lips twitch. "You think you can bribe me with books now?"

"Not a bribe." He shrugs, but there's a telltale smirk on his lips. "Just proving I do pay attention."

You try not to smile.

You fail.

Another time, it's late. You’re shivering outside after a bonfire, rubbing your hands over your arms, when Rafe suddenly pulls his hoodie over his head, a sliver of his toned abs showing, and drapes it over you.

You blink up at him. "Aren't you cold?"

"I'm fine," he says, but his arms are already breaking out in goosebumps.

You roll your eyes but tug the hoodie tighter around yourself. It smells like him: clean, warm, safe.

He doesn’t ask for it back.

You don’t offer.

He's forever jealous although he's resisted making a scene, knowing how much you hate it.

You’re laughing with JJ at a party when you feel it. The heat of his stare.

You glance over, meeting Rafe’s narrowed eyes across the room, his jaw tight, fingers tapping against the glass in his hand.

You arch a brow. Oh?

"Relax," JJ murmurs, amused. "Pretty sure your boyfriend is about to combust."

You don’t correct him.

And when Rafe gets just frustrated enough to stalk over, hand resting at the small of your back, tugging you just a little closer...

You call that a win.

But he's a bit impatient in his love for you.

It happens in his car.

You're laughing—really laughing—at something dumb he said, and he’s just watching you, like he’s trying to commit the moment to memory.

His hand lifts, fingers brushing against your jaw.

You stop laughing.

The air shifts. Your heartbeat stutters. His eyes flick to your lips, then back up.

But you pull away, grinning as you grab the door handle. "Not yet, Cameron."

His groan is tortured. "You’re actually killing me."

You smirk. "Good."

It takes time.

Little moments. Soft gestures. Proof that this isn’t just some fleeting fascination. That he’s all in.

And when you finally kiss him—really kiss him...

He swears under his breath, pulling you in like he’s terrified you’ll change your mind. Like he’s spent years waiting for this and refuses to waste another second.

His hands frame your face, his lips desperate and sure all at once.

When you finally break apart, breathless, he presses his forehead against yours, grinning like an idiot.

"You’re mine now," he murmurs, voice thick.

You smile.

"Yeah, Rafe." Your fingers curl into his hoodie. "I’m yours."

As if you weren't always.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction

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xobunni0 · 28 days ago

Text

THROAT BABY ₊˚⊹ᰔ min su x f!reader

smut, big dick!min su, sucking him off in that suit

‘throat babies, tryna give em to you’

min su stood stiff and awkward in that black, perfect to his fitting suit the squid game handlers had given him for the final ceremony. the black of the jacket clung snug to his shoulders, sleeves just barely brushing his wrists, but it was the pants that did it. tailored just right, the fabric outlined the natural print of his cock even when he wasn’t hard, just the sheer print of it, outlined against the flat front, a thick curve that pressed against the material. no underwear or nothing at all could hide that kind of cock. he glanced down at himself, then flicked his eyes up fast, his face becoming flushed. his hand went low, tugging subtly, trying to shift the imprint upward, to hid the bulge. it didn’t help, just made the fabric hug him tighter.

you had noticed it immediately, of course. you’d always suspected. he was too quiet, too polite, too fidgety not to be hiding something big. and now here it was. just there, plain as daylight and too big to ignore. he caught you looking, looked away, but didn’t stop you

now, somehow, your knees pressed against cold steel where the bedframe bit through the cheap mattress, and he sat above you, back straight, arms stiff at his sides, legs spread just enough to give you space, barely. you were already between them, your hands working at his pants. his breath sounded uneven, and his eyes stared at the wall like if he didn’t look at you, none of this was really happening

you undid the button slowly. his thighs tensed, the moment he heard the sound of his fly going down his breath hitched. your fingers slipped beneath the waistband and pulled, and the pants came down just enough to expose the base of his cock, slim and smooth, flushed at the tip like a soft pale pink, lying soft against one thigh

he shifted again, half lifting his hips without thinking as you pulled the fabric lower, freeing him. his cock lay there, still soft, sure, but already swelling. already starting to rise, twitching once as cool air hit the head. you looked up. his ears were red. his fists clenched against his knees. his eyes flicked down for just a second, then locked on yours.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked

“No” he said, voice almost cracking “Just… I don’t know why you’re…”

but he trailed off, his cock jerked again. you leaned in closer

“I’ve thought about this since the second game” you murmured, fingers brushing his shaft. it was warm and only getting warmer. harder. he let out a soft, shaky exhale when your thumb grazed the head. you leaned in, tongue slipping out, tasting salt just at the tip, a gentle swipe and his thighs trembled beneath you

“Ah!” he exhaled, trying to suppress it, but it came out anyway

you wrapped your hand around the base and felt the weight of it, thick as your wrist and it took both hands to wrap around the length as it hardened. you licked again, this time slower, from base to tip, tongue flattening against that one prominent vein as he grunted above you, hips twitching forward

“god” he breathed, eyes wide now, locked to the sight of your mouth, wet and eager, teasing his tip before letting your lips close around it

the noise he made was low and full of disbelief “fuck!”, like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he didn’t deserve it. you took him in slowly, inch by inch, your mouth stretching around the girth of him, your jaw aching already and still not halfway down

he watched you now, he couldn’t look away. his hands hovered at his sides, unsure, clenched like he was afraid to touch you, like if he laid a finger on your head he might cum right there.

your spit coated him, slick and glistening, the head now flushed deep with blood, precum beading at the slit and smeared across your tongue. you moaned softly around him, humming against the shaft as your throat flexed and took him deeper. he hissed “T-t-too much. fuck, I-” but you didn’t stop. you wanted to feel his cock press against the back of your throat, wanted to taste every inch of him until he stopped being polite and started fucking your mouth like he meant it.

his hips moved without permission, just a little. a shallow thrust. then another. then a groan, long and low building up from somewhere deep inside him “Aahhh, god. f-fuck…”

you wrapped both hands around the base, pumping what you couldn’t swallow, bobbing your head now with. wet sounds filled the room, filthy and needy. and above you, min su’s breathing grew louder, mouth parted, face flushed enjoying every second

you pulled back for air, a thick string of saliva clinging from your lips to his cock, and stared up at him. his chest was rising fast, nostrils flared, eyes glassy, he looked wrecked.

“you want to fuck my mouth?” you asked, lips swollen, voice hoarse “Do it.”

he froze for half a second, then moved

his hands finally found your head, fingers curling into your hair, grip clumsy but firm. you opened your mouth for him, tongue out, jaw loose. he guided himself in, slow at first, watching your expression, making sure you could take it but you didn’t gag, you wanted more

he began to thrust, short and shallow. then deeper

your throat clenched as the head hit the back, and still he pushed. you choked slightly, then adjusted your angle, breathing through your nose. he groaned deep and helpless “Ahh fuck, fuck, you’re taking it.”

you didn’t let up. your hands grabbed his thighs now, holding him, nails digging in as he started to really fuck your mouth. the pace built up, your spit dribbling down your chin, his cock driving in and out. your jaw ached, your throat burned and you loved it

he was so deep now you could feel him. he twitched inside your mouth then froze, just for a moment, gasping

one hand still buried in your hair, the other going to his throat

the silk of the bow tie. tight, too tight now as he fiddled with it, tugging at the knot, not undoing it, just pulling gently. the black bow twisted beneath his nervous fingers, while you took his cock

“f-fuck, you’re still. why are you still-?” he stammered, he was torn between pleasure and panic

you sucked harder, sliding deeper, your hand pumping the base, and when he made that high little gasp “Ahh!” you knew he felt it everywhere. you pulled back just enough to speak, your breath hot against his slick cock, lips brushing the head as you cooed, “It’s so fucking big, min su. you know that, don’t you?”

his eyes widened, mouth falling open “I-I don’t..”

“too big for my throat” you whispered, licking up the underside slowly “but I’m gonna take all of it.”

a helpless noise left him, somewhere between a moan and a sob, and his hand tugged tighter at the bow tie, the knot pressing against his throat now as he tried to breathe through the pleasure. his legs were trembling under your palms, his whole body leaning forward slightly

you wrapped your lips around the head again, tongue swirling, mouth slick and hungry, sucking with slow pressure while your hand stroked the base with long pumps. his cock throbbed under your touch. you could feel him getting close, could taste it salt, musk, precum thick now. you pulled him deeper, humming around him

“s-stop or I’ll…”

one hand was still buried in your hair, the other going to his throat

you didn’t stop. you wanted him to cum, wanted to feel that thick load rush down your throat while he melted above you

“c-cumming, I’m fuck- I’m..”

you braced yourself, eyes locked to his as he cried out, loud and startled “fuuuuckk” and the first twitch of cum hit the back of your throat, thick and he kept cumming, hips jerking forward with every spurt, cock throbbing against your tongue. you swallowed fast, trying not to choke, but there was so much, some of it leaked past your lips, dripping down your chin

mouth sealed tight around his cock, hands holding his trembling thighs in place as he rode it out

his fingers curled tighter in your hair, the other still on his tie, knuckles white as he gripped

you kept your lips around him even as the orgasm faded, sucking gently until he whined “too much, it’s too much.”

you pulled off slowly, lips puffy and shining. a final drop leaked from the tip, and you caught it with your tongue, licking your lips clean as you looked up at him

his face was flushed. his bow tie was twisted and damp with sweat. his shirt stuck to his chest, collar open, mouth still parted like he didn’t know what to say.

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 - 𓊆ྀི 𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞𓊇ྀི

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canadachronicles · 2 years ago

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Dedication!!!

#I also hate ketchup chips #(in fact I only like plain old chips with salt and nothing else!)#Trent McClellan #This Hour Has 22 Minutes #22 Minutes #THH22M #Canadian Humour #Canadian Instagram #Can't wait for the new season!!!#Canada Chronicles

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reasonsforhope · 21 days ago

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"In the salt flats of Gujarat, India, an unlikely green revolution is underway. With support from trade union SEWA, thousands of informal salt farmers are swapping diesel pumps for solar power – cutting emissions, raising incomes and proving that the path to net zero can bring both environmental and economic transformation.

As you reach for the salt shaker at dinner tonight, pause for a moment to consider those fine white crystals. They may represent the final stage of a journey that starts in a harsh, unforgiving world few ever see.

These crystals could well derive from the blistered salt flats of Surendranagar, in the western reaches of the Indian state of Gujarat. For generations, families like Manguben Dhirubhai Jaga’s have toiled from dawn to well past dusk in the 45ºC heat and blinding sun to produce one of the world’s most essential and undervalued minerals. And thanks to climate change, their lives are only getting tougher.

“Salt is everything here,” Manguben tells the JUST Stories team as she crouches beside a large rectangular earthen pan filled with evaporating brine. She scoops up a handful of large pearly white cuboids, one of nature’s wondrous geometric forms; her face wrapped in a thin scarf to protect against the unrelenting glare. “We don’t go to the office. This” – she gestures to the gleaming desert – “is our office.” The ground is parched and fissured like cracked porcelain; but in the distance, flamingos dot a flooded plain, an ominous sign for the salt farmers – despite its refreshing relief, early rain can ruin a salt harvest.

A grime-encrusted diesel-powered pump sits quietly by one of the nearby pans – a once essential cog in the process; both a blessing and a curse for the women, and a pernicious source of carbon emissions weighing heavily on India’s net zero transition. “We used to spend everything we earned on diesel and repairs,” Manguben says. “There was nothing left at the end of the season.” She recalls the engine breaking down mid-season, the belts snapping, and how they would have to wait days for a mechanic to come from the nearest town. “One year, it didn’t start for ten days. We lost so much time and income.”

India is the world’s third largest salt producer, 80% of which comes from these inland salt flats in Gujarat. The vast majority of the workforce here are women like Manguben, but for decades they have received a pittance for their back-breaking labour; reliant on extortionate loans to buy diesel at inflated prices at the start of the season and forced to sell their salt at rock-bottom prices by exploitative middlemen.

At just 26 years old, Manguben has already spent over a decade working under the harsh conditions of the salt farms. Every year, she and her family of ten migrate 40 kilometres from their village to the desert, where they will live in a chhapara – a makeshift hut made of sticks and tarpaulin – for the next eight months. The women sleep inside and the men under the stars. Her day starts at 7am with a quick breakfast of bajri no rotlo (millet roti) and black tea. And then she’s straight into the brine: repairing lining, fixing leaks in pipes, monitoring water levels, stamping down and raking the salt in her bare feet to create the perfect size crystals. She breaks at midday to have a simple lunch of rice and dhal, before returning to the pans – only stopping when the stars start to glimmer in the sky.

There is no running water. No electricity. No shade. “We work with our feet in saltwater all day,” she says. “It burns when you have cuts. But there’s no choice – you have to keep going.” Manguben’s hands are painted white with salt, with water too precious to wash them – their supplies are only for drinking, and sparingly. After a few hours in the desert your skin starts to feel sticky and clogged, like you’ve been bathing in the sea. Manguben now travels home for a weekly shower, a luxury that she has only recently been able to afford.

But, as for most of the two billion unregistered, untaxed and unprotected workers that comprise the world’s informal economy, that’s just the way it goes – particularly for women. For Manguben however, that changed recently, when the Self-Employed Women Association (SEWA), a trade union that advocates for the rights of low-income, independently employed women across India’s informal sector, posed some simple but powerful questions: What if these Agariyas (salt-pan workers) also owned the energy that powered their salt production, and were able to maintain the technology themselves? And what if that energy was clean and healthy for both the women and the environment?

Over the past decade, with help from SEWA and its partners, the Agariyas have been steadily replacing their diesel-powered pumps with solar-powered equivalents, facilitated by comprehensive green skills training and funded through a pioneering financing scheme; thereby slashing emissions, cutting costs and giving the women control over their own economic futures. “Now, we don’t spend on diesel. We save. We decide together. ” Manguben says. “We used to feel helpless; now we feel proud.”w

On the horizon, a plume of dark smoke rises endlessly from a neighbour's diesel pump. But here, two small solar panels tilt toward the sky. They make no sound. No smoke. Just consistent, reliable power from the sun.

Indeed, in this barren moonscape a quiet revolution is taking place in one of the world’s most gruelling industries – one that could transform how we think about just transitions to net zero emissions, and more specifically how to realise basic human, gender and labour rights in the world’s shadow economy. With hundreds of thousands of salt pan workers worldwide – and millions of women working in informal, carbon-intensive sectors more broadly – SEWA’s business model provides a blueprint for climate action boosted by an underutilised power source: women.

“This is one of the most stunning examples of a truly just transition,” says Mary Robinson, former Irish President and UN Human Rights Commissioner, and co-founder of women-led climate justice campaign Project Dandelion, a close partner of SEWA’s, after visiting the salt pans with the JUST Stories team in February. “From bullocks to diesel to solar – owned and run by the women themselves. It’s a rare, holistic story – one the rest of the world should be learning from.”

-via Just Stories, July 9, 2025

#india #gujarat #asia #south asia #salt #salt mine #mining #informal economy #women #solar power #just transition #environmental justice #good news #hope

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ktownshizzle · 3 months ago

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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.”

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