#ClubVibes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mrsvante · 3 months ago

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The Long Game

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: sugar daddy au, yandere joonie, angst

summary: namjoon was never supposed to fall in love. the arrangement was simple. money for time, desire for indulgence, no strings, no expectations. he was supposed to be your provider, your safety net, the man you called when you wanted something but never needed anyone. but somewhere between the swipe of his black card and the way you sigh his name in the dark, he lost control.

warnings: smut, silent but dangerous namjoon, soft? dom namjoon, yandere joonie 😏, BDE if you squint, namjoon yeaaarrrnnnsss (maybe a bit too much), sugar baby is an independent brat, matcha 🍵 girls unite! dick riding, unprotected sex (be safe), slight choking w/ both hands, mentions of fingers in slippery places, brief boob play, is it love or lust? 🤨

word count: 2,853

a message from our sponsors 👩🏽 : i’ve been listening to this song on repeat for the last two days, the audhd stimming is in full effect (don’t judge i’ve been stressed). after looking up the english translation of the lyrics my brain cooked this up.

hope you enjoy! 😊🤍

He grips the steering wheel, thumb idly smoothing over the worn leather as the glow of his phone screen flickers across his face.

The engine hums low, steady—a stark contrast to the rhythm pulsing from the club’s entrance, where bodies move in drunken chaos under strobing lights. He doesn’t need to be inside to feel it; the bass thrums against his ribs, syncing with his heartbeat, with the restless ache lodged deep in his chest.

But he’s not looking at the club.

He’s looking at you.

Or rather, your Instagram story. Watching it for the millionth time, like a man trying to memorize scripture.

First, a picture of your morning matcha, condensation beading the glass in the early sunlight. Then a snapshot of your notes spread across the library table, neat handwriting and highlighted passages that he wonders if you’ll even remember after tonight.

And then, the last clip—the one that’s been carving through him like a slow, dull blade—your body moving in the dim, red light of the club. The glow clings to you like a brand, painting you in sin, in temptation meant only for him. But it’s not just you in the frame.

A hand reaches for you.

Namjoon’s grip tightens around his phone, the plastic casing groaning under the pressure.

The camera cuts away before he can see if you let them.

He watches it again. And again. As if, on the hundredth replay, the screen might crack open and reveal the answer. As if, by sheer will alone, he could rewrite the moment—erase that hand, pull you back, remind you who you belong to.

You wouldn’t.

You know better…right?

It’s not the first time you’ve done this. Offered him pieces of you, but never the whole thing.

Let him pay your tuition, your rent, your weekend trips to the mall—but never let him own you. Never let him believe, even for a second, that he’s anything more than what you need him to be.

And yet—

He swipes away from your story and pulls up your messages instead.

Your last texts are sloppy, riddled with typos.

[12:45 AM] com3 pick me up

[12:47 AM] pls bby

[12:50 AM] need u 💋

His fingers tighten around the phone.

And then, as if summoned, the car door jerks open, and you spill inside in a mess of laughter and heat, your perfume curling into the air like a spell. The club’s neon lights cast fleeting shadows across your skin, your dress rumpled from dancing, your lips glossy with whatever sin you’ve been indulging in tonight.

You land in his lap without hesitation, your arms winding around his neck, mouth brushing against his jaw.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur, the words warm and syrupy, the kind that drip down slow and sweet.

He exhales, hands instinctively catching your waist. “You’re drunk.”

You hum, nuzzling against his throat. “Mmm. And you’re here.”

Like I always am, he doesn’t say.

Instead, he turns his head, and then your lips find his, and there’s nothing soft or hesitant about the way you kiss him. It’s urgent, messy, tongue teasing against his own, hands slipping into his hair, pulling him deeper, like you’re daring him to lose control.

And maybe it’s the way you taste—vodka and citrus and something distinctly you—or maybe it’s the way you sigh when his hands slide up your thighs, but something inside him snaps.

He grips your hips, pulls you closer, lets the need that’s been simmering in his chest take over.

Your moan is swallowed by the kiss as his fingers drag the hem of your dress up, palms mapping the bare skin beneath. The console digs into his side, but he doesn’t care. Not when you’re rocking against him, not when your body is hot and pliant and his.

“Joon,” you whine against his lips, nails biting into his shoulders. “Please.”

He exhales sharply, his restraint fraying by the second. “What do you want, baby?”

“You,” you breathe, rolling your hips again, dragging a groan from his throat. “Need you to fuck me.”

Fuck.

There’s no hesitation after that.

The next few moments blur into heat and desperation—clothes yanked, fabric bunched, fingers fumbling against buttons and zippers in the tight space of the front seat.

The center console digs into Namjoon’s side as he shifts, dragging you closer, his hands impatient, greedy. Your dress rides up as you straddle his lap, the silky material pooling at your hips, but there’s no room to move freely—your knee knocks into the gear shift, and you gasp, laughing breathlessly against his mouth.

“Oops,” you mutter, adjusting your position.

He exhales a shaky breath, his hands sliding down your thighs, gripping tight. “You okay?”

You nod, but your eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want.

His fingers slide between your legs, finding you bare and slick.

His breath hitches.

He should take his time.

Should make you beg for it.

But you’re shifting against him, rolling your hips, chasing friction, and he’s never been good at denying you.

Your hands tug at his belt, impatient, and he groans when your fingers brush against him, warm even through the fabric.

The car is stifling now, the windows beginning to fog. There’s no space, no ease—he’s too big for this, in more ways than one.

And yet, none of it matters.

Because then his pants are pushed just far enough down, and when he finally pushes inside, the stretch of your pussy desperately trying to accommodate his cock pulls a gasp from your lips. Your nails digging into his shoulders.

He stills, just for a second, reveling in the way you clench around him, the way your breath stutters against his neck.

His fingers splay against your lower back, holding you there, savoring the moment, the unbearable tightness, the way your nails drag along his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself.

Outside, the bass from the club pulses, muffled and distant, a world away.

Inside the car, it’s just you and him, tangled in sweat and need, locked in a space too small for what he feels for you.

And then he moves.

The car rocks with each slow, deliberate roll of your hips, the leather seat creaking beneath you as you sink onto his cock.

Your palms press against his chest for leverage, nails biting into his skin through his half unbuttoned shirt. Your dress is bunched up around your waist, wrinkles forming in the fabric, forgotten in the haze of lust. He watches, enraptured, as you take him—your hips undulating, your breath coming in soft, broken pants.

Namjoon groans, his hands gripping your waist, guiding you even though you don’t need it. You already know how to ruin him. You already know how to take what you want.

“You love this, don’t you?”

His fingers press into the tender globes of your ass, hard enough to leave bruises. “Riding me like this. Making a mess all over my cock.”

You whimper in response, throwing your head back, your movements faltering for just a second as his words sink in. But he won’t let you slow down—not when you feel this good, not when his sanity is hanging by a thread. He plants his feet firmly on the floor of the car, thrusting up into you, meeting each roll of your hips with deep, punishing strokes.

The air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the windows hazy from your heat. Every slick, obscene sound of your bodies colliding fills the car, blending with the desperate moans you don’t bother hiding.

Namjoon leans in, his lips dragging along the column of your throat before his teeth scrape over your pulse point. “No one else gets to have you like this,” he pants, his hand slipping up your spine before wrapping delicately around your throat. “Tell me.”

You shudder, your own hand covering his wrist, not pushing him away, just holding on.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

You gasp as he thrusts up sharply, hitting that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. A shiver runs through you, your walls tightening around him, and for a moment, you don’t answer.

Namjoon tenses.

But then—

“Only you,” you cry, lips brushing against his, teasing, intoxicating.

A growl rumbles low in his throat. His grip on your waist tightens, his pace turning almost brutal as he fucks into you with renewed purpose, as if he can carve those words into your skin, make them permanent.

His other hand moves.

Despite the fervor thundering in his blood, he doesn’t move with haste. Slowly, delicately, his fingers curl around your throat, the grip light at first, a silent question.

You shudder, your own hand coming up to hold his wrist. Not to push him away—just to feel him.

Namjoon presses his lips against your ear, his voice dark, smooth.

“Did anyone else touch you tonight?”

You let out a breathy laugh, the sound teasing, indulgent. “Mmm. Jealous, daddy?”

His fingers tighten slightly, just enough to make your pulse flutter beneath his palm. His hips roll up harder, sharper, dragging a moan from your lips.

“Answer me.”

You shift against him, your nails biting into his forearm. He knows you’re playing with him, knows you like the way he’s teetering on the edge of control.

And then you lean in, your lips grazing his jaw.

“No. No one else,” you murmur, voice dripping with something almost affectionate. “Just you.”

Something inside Namjoon uncoils, and then unleashes.

He fucks you harder after that, driven by something deeper, something primal. He wants to believe you. Needs to. Because if you’re lying, if anyone else touched what belongs to him—

No.

You’re his.

Whether you realize it yet or not.

His hand slides up, fingers curling around your jaw, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. The dim light from the dashboard casts shadows over his face, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, the hunger in his half lidded eyes. His thumb brushes along your parted lips before pressing lightly against your chin.

“Look at you,” Namjoon murmurs, his voice thick, passionate in a way that makes something tighten in his chest. “You don’t even realize how good you feel, do you?”

Your cunt clenches around him in response, and his breath hisses through his teeth. Fuck. Every squeeze, every slick drag of your walls around him, every desperate roll of your hips—it’s unraveling him by the second.

“That’s it,” he mutters, his free hand slipping between your bodies, fingertips slipping over the sensitive bundle of nerves that has you jolting in his lap. His rhythm never falters, precise and measured, even as his control frays at the edges.

It’s too much—you’re trembling against him, your hands grip at his shoulders, your moans spilling into the humid air between you. He leans in, nipping at the hinge of your jaw, his lips dragging down to the pulse fluttering wildly in your throat.

“Go on, princess,” he breathes, his voice dark and coaxing, his fingers pressing just right. “Let me feel you.”

His head dips lower, his breath hot against the thin fabric barely covering your breasts.

The dress barely conceals anything, sheer in the right places, sinful in the wrong ones. The way the fabric clings to your body is almost obscene, the heavy swell of your breasts teasingly outlined, your nipples straining against the delicate material.

You're not wearing anything underneath.

The realization should infuriate him. Should make his blood boil at the thought of other men looking at you, at their hungry gazes dragging over skin that belongs to him.

But it doesn't.

It only makes him harder.

Because he knows—no matter how many of them watch, no matter how many of them ache to touch, you'll never let them.

They'll never have what he has. Never feel your pussy wrapped around them, never hear the breathless way you moan when you cum.

You're cruel without even trying, dangling temptation in front of them, letting them hope for something they'll never taste.

And Namjoon?

He gets off on it.

Because at the end of the night, you always come back to him.

He groans, low and desperate, before his mouth finds a stiff nipple through the fabric, his tongue dragging slow, deliberate circles around the pert peak. His teeth grazing over it with just enough pressure to make you clench around him, your walls pulsing tight around his cock.

"Ah, J-Joon." you croon.

The reaction pulls a sharp hiss from him, his fingers digging into your waist. But you don’t shy away. Instead, you arch into him, offering more, pressing your body closer like you want to drown him in you.

Greedy. Needy.

Nasty for everything he’s willing to give you.

But it happens all too fast for his liking.

The heat, the desperation, the way your body molds against his—it’s intoxicating, but fleeting. A moment never lasts long enough with you. He barely has time to commit it to memory before it’s slipping through his fingers like sand.

And it’s times like this that he wants to steal you away. Take you somewhere far from this world that refuses to let him have you. Lock you up in a tower only he has the key to, where no one else can touch you, see you, even breathe the same air as you.

There, he’d worship you the way you deserve—slowly, endlessly, until you finally understand what he’s known from the start.

Your body trembles as you cum, your moans broken, hands clutching at him, grounding yourself in him. And when he follows, thick warm cum spilling into you with a wrecked moan of your name, his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, keeping you there.

He’s not ready to let go.

But you are.

You shift, skin still damp, and he can already feel you slipping away, your presence untangling from his like silk slipping through his fingers.

And then—

“I should go back inside,” you say, your voice light, easy—casual, even. Like you didn’t just let him claim you in the tight confines of his car. Like your body wasn’t still trembling from the way he’d touched you, possessed you. As if this was nothing more than a pit stop before you returned to your night of reckless freedom.

He catches your wrist before you can move, his grip firm, a quiet warning in the way he holds you.

“Didn’t you want me to pick you up?” His words are controlled, careful.

You blink at him, then laugh softly, a sound that scratches against his chest. “I changed my mind.”

His heart stutters, but his expression remains neutral. His fingers loosen, and yet, the urge to hold you tighter—to make you stay, to remind you who you belong to—burns in the back of his throat.

He lets go. He has to.

Because if he doesn’t, if he lets his fingers tighten just a fraction more, he’ll ruin everything. You’ll see it—the madness beneath his calm. The desire that goes far beyond wanting you. You’ll notice the way his control is slipping. And then you’ll pull away.

He can’t have that.

So he watches.

Watches as you fix your dress, smoothing out the fabric like you’re erasing the memory of him, the marks he left on your body, your soul. Watches as you run a hand through your hair, indifferent to the way it still falls in messy waves from his hands, the way your breath is still heavy with the scent of him.

You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, slow and lazy, like you’re so certain none of this means anything.

Like you don’t know what you’re doing to him. Like you don’t realize that the heat between you isn’t just a spark—it’s a wildfire.

“If you want to stay out of trouble,” he says, his voice low, a warning in its calm. “Behave yourself.”

You laugh again, a soft, mocking sound that makes his chest tighten. And then—you leave. Slip out of his car, out of his hands, out of his world and back into theirs.

Back into the flashing lights and pulsing bass, back into the careless crowd that doesn’t deserve you. They don’t see you the way he does. They’ll never understand you. Not like he does.

And just like that, he’s left in the stillness, the echo of your absence filling the empty space around him. He doesn’t chase after you.

Namjoon grips the steering wheel, knuckles white. His jaw clenches. His heartbeat thrums beneath his skin, a slow, deliberate beat, keeping time with the truth he’s always known.

He has no one to blame but himself.

He’s the one who broke the rules. Who let his heart twist into something unmanageable. Who made the mistake of loving you.

But he doesn’t regret it.

Because love—real love—isn’t about caging or forcing. It’s about playing the long game. About devotion. About waiting in the shadows, watching, protecting.

And he has all the time in the world.

two | masterlist

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