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inthelow · 1 month ago

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YOU’RE LOSING ME — kim namjoon.

Pairing: art dealer fem! reader x idol! kim namjoon

Summary: You fall in love with Kim Namjoon. A love full of passion, a love that burns quietly and intensely. But what’s the point of love if no one’s willing to risk for it?.

genre/warning: fluff, angst / emotional absence, cursing.

note: bring ur tissues and a cup of tea cuz i’m about to write my longest fic ever hoes

The apartment wasn’t loud about you leaving.

There was no shouting. No slammed doors. Just the gentle zip of a suitcase being opened for the first time in months, the sound of folded sweaters being laid down like old apologies. Even the air felt subdued, like the room was holding its breath with you.

You moved slowly, deliberately, the way someone does when they’re unsure if what they’re doing is brave or stupid. Your fingers hesitated over every item. The scarf from the Amalfi trip. The beanie he used to steal from your drawer because he said it smelled like your shampoo. A mug he bought at a gas station in Seoul because it had a crooked cat on it and made you laugh for five minutes straight— You touched those things like they were burning.

Should you throw it or keep it?

That line had been circling your brain for weeks now—at the gallery, on the subway, even during your meetings, where you were supposed to be discussing lighting angles and shipping crates but instead you were wondering how it was possible to be surrounded by beauty and still feel so hollow.

You didn’t even know when the emptiness started. That was the cruel part. It wasn’t a moment. Not one big, ugly heartbreak. It was slow. Like rot beneath paint. Like silence growing in a house until it swallowed everything else. The pain had become numbness— and then just… nothingness.

You were tired of waiting for something, of just waiting for basic things. You were tired for even trying to ask for basic things your partner was supposed to give you in a relationship. Romance, touch, a place— nothing. You hated how you started not expecting, not making it such a big deal. Trying to understand had become a task, a reflex. And you hated it. You were so understanding that it had become a fight for your standards. Now nothing was accomplished. Nothing was expected anymore.

And you had stayed. For too long. Giving CPR to a relationship that hadn’t had a heartbeat in ages. And mow you moved quietly through the bedroom you two had once made it feel like home. Your home. Your place to land, a place for you. Now it was just a big, boring apartment.

You folded the last shirt and paused. Your eyes landed on the nightstand. His nightstand. And you hated yourself for opening it one last time to see it.

There it was. The ring.

In a box that was already more than eight months old, waiting for the right moment that was never going to arrive. It was just… there, like him. You hadn’t put it on. Not the first time you accidentally found it, excited. Not when he told you he was waiting for the right time to ask you to marry him. Not three months later when you were bored. Not ever— And not because you didn’t want to. But because you had been waiting. Waiting for the moment he’d really ask the question. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the fight. Waiting for him to see you.

But he hadn’t.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, ring glinting dully in the low light. Your throat felt like it was full of water, like if you opened your mouth, it would all come spilling out. And you looked at the ring and thought that maybe you could’ve stayed. Maybe if he had just said something. Done something. Fought for you… But all you’d gotten was silence. And silence had a way of becoming truth.

Your hand hovered over the nightstand, opening the drawer to leave the box inside. Down all the mess of papers and cables. You left it there, becoming dust as it already was. And you hated yourself for a second, for staying there more than necessary, wishing for a change of heart. For a fight that was never coming. For a life that you had planned with him in your mind. For him. For something… but nothing came. It was just you. Like always.

Your gaze drifted to the window, where the city lights blinked in soft, distant rhythms. And somewhere in the quiet, somewhere in the ache, a memory stirred—of an art gallery.

Of a man in sunglasses.

Of the first time Namjoon made you smiled.

< Four year and a half ago. Manhattan, USA. >

The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, warm shadows across the polished concrete floor. You moved quietly among the canvases and sculptures, your heels muted against the cold surface. The space smelled faintly of turpentine and fresh paper—an honest scent, one that grounded you even on the most restless days.

You were adjusting a label next to a large canvas when the front door chimed. A man entered, head low, wearing a faded baseball cap and oversized sunglasses that hid most of his face. The kind of low-key disguise that almost screamed the opposite. Definitely trying not to be noticed, which was always the most noticeable thing a person could do in a room like this.

Some visitors needed to be approached. Others needed to be left alone until the silence got too heavy. He was the latter. You let him wandered, let him take his time since there wasn’t a lot of people to entertain as it was getting late.

He drifted toward the centerpiece of the current exhibit you were standing in front of—a sprawling, abstract piece by Maya Lin, whose sculptures and installations played fluidly between form and space, light and shadow. This particular canvas was a riot of twisted metal shapes and soft washes of color, both chaotic and meticulous. The man lingered, taking his glasses and studying it with the kind of focus usually reserved for something personal.

After a moment, he said quietly, “It’s strange. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel unsettled or calm looking at this.”

You nodded, folding your arms thoughtfully. “Well, Maya’s work isn’t about giving you an answer. It’s about making you sit with the tension—between order and disorder, permanence and fragility. This piece—‘Fragmented Horizon’—is her take on how modern life fractures time and memory. There’s a sort of… simultaneous push and pull in the shapes.”

He nodded slowly, eyes tracing the jagged lines. “Like trying to hold onto something slipping away.”

“Exactly,” you said. “But without nostalgia or softness. More like… acceptance of the messiness.”

He chuckled. “That’s one way to make chaos feel elegant.”

You smiled, watching how the afternoon light hit the canvas and made the colors shift. “That’s Maya for you. Always precise, but never neat.”

He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his tone. “Do you come here often? I mean, to places like this.”

You considered the question. “Well, they send me here since I was in the city for vacation and they were exposing Korean artists. They needed someone to speak the language so—”

“Working in holidays, you must like your job.” he muttered, interested. “Are you a translator?.”

“I’m an art dealer. I mostly work with living artists, commissioning pieces, managing exhibitions, negotiating with collectors who want to own a bit of that chaos.” you shrugged.

His eyes sparkled. “Sounds like you get to know the chaos pretty well.”

You laughed softly. “More than I care to admit.”

He paused, then said, “I talk a lot about art. I like to come to galleries and met new artists, they always have good stories to tell with their art.”

“Stories are everywhere,” you replied, “but it’s rare to find someone who listens.”

He smiled, a genuine, almost shy expression that softened the guarded set of his jaw.

“Speaking of stories,” he said, “what about the piece over there?” He gestured toward a smaller sculpture—a delicate, twisting form made from layered sheets of transparent resin.

You followed his gaze. “That’s by Lee Ufan. He works with space and material in a way that makes the invisible visible—like the silence between sound, or the emptiness around matter. It’s minimal, but it forces you to rethink presence and absence.”

He looked impressed. “I like that. It’s… quiet. But it says a lot without saying much.”

You nodded. “That’s the goal with good art— it’s always better when you can discuss it with someone.” your eyes met his briefly.

A beat passed.

He hesitated. “Do you… do you usually give your number out at galleries?”

“No,” you said slowly, “I don’t unless is work related.”

“Lucky for me.” He smiled. “I’m an art activist. I know a lot of small artist who are dying to have a place. As an art dealer I think you would be great for that. You have a place in Korea, right?.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Do you have credentials?”

“Uhm— not really, but would you pass an opportunity like that?.”

He looked a little nervous. You liked his courage. You thought for a moment, then walked to the counter to grab your card. A small business card that said your name, work number and the gallery you worked in.

“You’ll have to book a meeting if you want an actual art deal.” you said.

“Work phone” he nodded, slipping the card carefully into his pocket. “Y/n, I like your name.”

“And you are?.”

He stretched his hand and you grabbed it, delicate and soft. He had a musician’s hands, long and unpolished.

“Kim Namjoon.”

For a second, the hum of the gallery seemed to quiet around you two.

You knew that name. Of course you did. The disguise might’ve fooled most people, but not someone who paid attention for a living. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t let the recognition bloom on your face. And for that, he looked almost—grateful.

“Do you usually ask for numbers in art galleries?.”

He chuckled. “I usually don’t ask for numbers at all. But I’d knew I regret it if I didn’t.”

You smiled. “I’m hoping it is because of my great work.”

“That, and something else.” He didn’t let you say anything more, turning around to leave. “Y/n. I’ll be in touch.”

And then he was gone. But his absence stayed in the air, like music that had just stopped.

— — — — —

It took Namjoon only a day to text you. A Saturday night.

Unknown Number: Hi. I keep thinking about the sculpture made of resin.

Unknown Number: The one about presence and absence. That stayed with me.

You were curled on the hotel’s couch when the message came through, bare feet tucked under you and a cup of green tea slowly going cold on the table. You read it twice before replying. You’d given your number before and never expected much from it. This felt different. Still uncertain. But thoughtful. You typed slowly.

You: Lee Ufan.

You: He’s brilliant. Still refuses to overexplain anything, which makes everyone else write 6,000-word essays about him to cope.

A minute passed.

Unknown Number: So basically, he’s a mystery that intellectuals are desperate to solve.

Unknown Number: Sounds familiar.

You smiled.

You: Are you referring to yourself or to the sculpture?

Unknown Number: … Both.

Unknown Number: But I’m easier to approach in daytime.

You: And without sunglasses?

Unknown Number: Maybe.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then—

You: I’m not sure that’s true. You walked around the gallery like you’d been briefed on how not to be noticed by anyone.

Unknown Number: Was I that obvious?

You: Obvious in a very practiced, low-effort kind of way. The hat was a nice touch. Very 2010s indie musician energy.

Unknown Number: Ouch.

Unknown Number: Now I regret not buying the resin sculpture to distract you.

You: You couldn’t afford it.

Unknown Number: You don’t know what I do.

You: I know that people who buy art like that don’t wear Converse with holes in them.

Unknown Number: You noticed my shoes?

You: I notice everything.

There was a pause. A longer one. You wondered if you’d overstepped. But then:

Unknown Number: So do I. That’s probably why I came back.

A small knot twisted in your chest. You stared at the screen.

You: You came back?

Unknown Number: Three times, before I said anything.

Unknown Number: You were always rearranging a frame, or telling a couple that “meaning is subjective” with that one eyebrow lift you do.

Unknown Number: I think I liked that more than the art.

You snorted at how cheesy that was.

You: So what do you do for living?.

Unknown Number: Music. A bit of writing. Some pretending I’m not in music.

Unknown Number: still an art dealer?

You chuckled at that.

You: Yes, but not in the evil capitalist way. I find work for the artists who still rent apartments with roommates.

Unknown Number: That sounds noble. Also suspiciously underpaid.

You: I also make deals with big people, that’s where I get my checks from and how I can get not-much-known artists to the gallery

Unknown Number: Very smart.

You: That’s why I accepted your number request. High risk, high reward.

Unknown Number: Is this your way of saying you want to meet again, or of keeping me guessing?

You: Maybe both

There was a pause again. A beat that stretched just long enough to make you think the moment had passed. Then:

Unknown Number: Next Friday, in Seoul. I’ll be in your gallery.

Unknown Number: Of course, asking for a tour. This is a business thing.

You: I see, only professional matters. I have a group at 7pm you can join.

You: Only if you agree to remove the hat this time.

Unknown Number: Done.

—————

Friday next week came pretty quickly.

And the gallery had never felt so still.

It was 8:52 PM. The lights were dimmed—soft, intimate track lighting casting long shadows over the concrete floor. Outside, the city was moving in its usual Friday-night blur, but inside, everything had slowed to a hush. Specially since it was 8 minutes from closure and the person you had been waiting for didn’t show up to the tour you had given an hour before. But you were okay with that. Finally able to get a rest while finishing the closure.

You stood barefoot behind the front desk, about to flip the lock on the gallery door. You’d swapped your usual heels for flats and hour ago and pulled your hair up into a loose twist that had started to fall by the time he arrived. Namjoon walked in wearing a dark coat and no hat this time, his sunglasses tucked into his front pocket, not on his face.

Good. He was trying.

“Evening,” he said softly, stepping inside.

“You’re late,” you said, not looking up from the wine you were uncorking.

“Traffic.”

You understood it was probably because he didn’t want to be notice by so many people. You could deal with that. So you handed him a glass without asking his preference. He took it with a small nod of thanks.

“No hat. New shoes. You kept your word,” you noted, glancing down. He was wearing clean boots. Expensive ones, slightly scuffed. Still lived-in.

“I felt like the gallery deserved more respect this time.” His tone was dry but sincere. “And I didn’t want to get roasted again.”

You smirked and walked toward the center of the room. “Come on then. You wanted the tour.”

You moved from piece to piece, your voice low but certain. Not a script—just fluid context. Enough to make him look twice at something he thought he understood.

“This one,” you said, pausing at a large mixed-media piece hung on raw linen, “was done by Hyun Seo Kim. She uses burned textiles, thread, and ash in her work. Her whole process is destructive—controlled chaos. But then she stitches it back together. The idea is that memory can’t be preserved, only reconstructed.”

Namjoon stepped closer. “I’ve never seen ash look… gentle.”

“That’s because she bleaches it after. She doesn’t want the trauma to be obvious. Just present.”

He studied it in silence. “That feels honest.”

You turned to him. “Most honest things do.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, like he was storing it for later.

You two moved through the space in slow, deliberate loops—glass in one hand, silence in the other. You weren’t trying to impress him. You didn’t perform your intelligence. You just let it unfold, like a door left half-open for him to walk through if he wanted. And he did. When you both reached the back alcove, you stopped in front of one of your favorite works—a minimalist installation of hanging wires and glass, perfectly balanced so that even the weight of breath shifted the alignment.

“It reacts to people,” you said. “Subtly. Like the way someone’s mood changes the feel of a room.”

He leaned in, careful not to disturb the piece. “So it’s never still.”

“Exactly. But the movement’s so small, most people miss it.”

He looked at you. “You don’t.”

You shrugged. “I spend a lot of time with things that don’t speak.”

He took a sip of wine, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. “That’s funny. I make a living off speaking and I still can’t say half the things I mean.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your fingers traced the edge of your glass. “What is it you want to say right now?”

The question hung between you two like one of the wires—weightless, waiting.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed slightly. Not defensive. Just… unpracticed. Like no one asked him questions he didn’t already have answers to. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I haven’t thought about music once since I got here. That feels… rare.”

You tilted your head, curious. “That’s a compliment or a warning?”

He smiled. “Both.”

You two stood there in the hush, just watching each other for a few long seconds— Then you turned, setting your glass down on the narrow bench against the wall.

“Well, since you didn’t book an official tour, this is where the curated experience ends.”

“No encore?” he teased.

You walked back toward the front desk, your voice thrown over your shoulder. “You’ll have to come back and pretend to like conceptual video art like the rest of our donors.”

“I might do it.” He followed you slowly, letting his fingers brush the edge of a sculpture as he passed.

When you reached the desk, you glanced at him sideways. “So?”

“So…?”

“Was it worth it?”

He didn’t smile this time. He just said, “Yes.”

You exhaled, a laugh almost escaping. “Good. I was worried I’d have to break into the champagne fridge to rescue the night.”

He stepped closer, not touching, just close enough that you could smell the trace of whatever cologne he wore—something cedar-based and quiet.

“You still might have to,” he murmured.

Your pulse kicked just slightly. “Maybe next time,” you said, steady. “We close in five minutes.”

“I thought we were already closed.”

“I’m very professional,” you said. “Even during off-hours.”

He looked at you for a moment, really looked. Then pulled his phone from his coat pocket and opened a new contact.

“Remind me to thank Lee Ufan,” he said. “Without him, I’d still be pretending to care about Rothko in Chelsea.” You took his phone, typed your personal phone number and name before handed it back. And just before he left—hand brushing the door handle, head half-turned—he said: “Y/n?”

“Hmm?”

“I haven’t wanted to stay somewhere in a long time. But this was… good.”

You watched him go. You said nothing… But as the lock clicked into place behind him and you turned off the lights, you realized you were smiling. And you hadn’t done that in days

< Four years ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with tea.

Neither of you two had wanted more wine. It was already past one, the air inside heavy and comfortable, and you had stood, stretched, and mumbled something about chamomile. Namjoon had followed you into the kitchen, because he couldn’t not. Now, two mugs sat cooling on the coffee table, untouched. You were curled at one end of the couch, socked feet tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Namjoon lay on his side across the other end, head propped on a throw pillow.

He didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

“I still think you’re lying about never writing a book,” you said, pointing a finger at him like it was a scandal.

“I told you,” he said, grinning, “I tried one time an I got so stressed for it to be perfect I had to throw it out. I almost had to take pills for anxiety.”

You snorted. “You probably are better just writing music and poems.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m honest.”

He looked at you, really looked—your hair tied back in a loose knot, a small smudge of eyeliner still clinging to the corner of your eye. You always looked like you were halfway between leaving and staying forever.

“Your turn,” he said, lazily. “Ask something.”

You pressed your lips, thinking. Then: “What do you miss most about before things got big?”

Namjoon blinked. “That’s a surprisingly good question.”

“I’m full of them.”

“I miss…” He paused. “Having time to be bored. Back then, I used to wander for hours. Not even writing. Just… looking. People, cracks in the sidewalk, signs on buses. Now everything’s either scheduled or monetized. Or both.”

You watched him. “You sound older when you say that.”

“I feel older when I say it.”

“Do you regret it?”

“The music?”

“No. The scale of it. The attention.”

He thought about it. Then shook his head. “No. But sometimes I wish I could mute it. Like—have it without the echo.”

You nodded slowly, as if you understood without needing him to explain more.

“Okay,” he said, recovering his grin. “Now you: what’s something no one knows about you?”

“I once wanted to be a florist.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“For about four days when I was twelve. I used to rearrange bouquets from the grocery store and get upset when they were ‘imbalanced.’ I told my mom I was going to run a flower shop where people could come in and say how they were feeling and I’d match them to a bouquet.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitched. “That’s… actually adorable.”

“And extremely impractical.”

“You’d make a very judgmental florist.”

“I’d be selective,” you corrected. “No carnations. No baby’s breath. And absolutely no Valentine’s Day roses.”

He laughed, soft and full.

There was a moment of quiet again—not awkward, just long enough for the air to shift. Then he asked, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

You looked at him for a moment, eyes unreadable.

“I think some people fit. In a way that doesn’t have to be explained.”

“Not fate?”

“No,” you shook your head. “More like… they recognize something in each other. Something old. Something familiar.”

Namjoon watched you for a long second. “You sound like someone who’s already met theirs.”

You smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, you asked, “What’s your worst habit?”

He grinned. “Interrupting people when I’m excited.”

“Accurate.”

“Also… leaving too soon. From everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even from people?”

“Especially from people,” he said, then added, more quietly, “Until now.”

You looked down at your hands, picking at the hem of your hoodie. He could tell you were deciding whether or not to believe him. Eventually, you said, “You haven’t left yet.”

He nodded, and said, “Ask me something else.”

You smirked. “What’s my middle name?”

Namjoon grimaced. “…Do I get a hint?”

“No.”

“Is it tragic?”

“That depends on your taste in poetry.”

“Oh god.”

You leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Guess.”

“Something with vowels. It feels like vowels.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Something French?”

You shook your head. He sighed dramatically. “Is it… Eleanor?” You blinked. “Is it Eleanor?!”

You smiled, then mouthed, “maybe.”

Namjoon threw his head back. “I am a genius!”

“It’s not Eleanor.”

“Yah!” he frowned. “I got excited.”

“I just wanted to break your hopes of being a genius.”

He smiled, like you just told him the biggest compliment. “You’re in love with me.”

“I am not.”

He smirked. “You’re very close.”

And you said nothing, but didn’t look away.

Outside, a car passed. The candle flickered. The playlist looped again. And somewhere between the questions and the not-quite confessions, you both realized: This wasn’t temporary.

—————

You were lost.

Not metaphorically. Actually lost.

A wrong turn, a closed road, and a stubborn GPS had led you two somewhere outside of Busan city, into a mess of winding hills and stone walls and olive trees that all looked like something from a postcard Namjoon had definitely lied about sending once… It was your first road trip/travel with him. Now that you were dating you were spending more and more time together so a little travel while you two had time off was great. Specially since it was only the two of you. But this— this was a mess. And it had been funny for the first twenty minutes…

Now you had your feet on the dash, sunglasses slipping down your nose, and Namjoon was squinting at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“Why don’t you just ask someone?” you offered, trying not to roll your eyes.

“Because I’m a man and I’m supposed to figure it out through trial, error, and unnecessary detours.”

“That’s not charming. That’s a cliché.”

“Exactly. And clichés are comforting.”

You finally did roll your eyes and leaned over to look at his phone. “We’re fifteen minutes from the villa. You just missed a left after the sheep farm.”

“That could describe this entire region.”

You smirked. “So dramatic.”

He pulled the car to the side of the dirt road, sighed, and finally looked at you. “Okay,” he said. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever sarcastic thing you’ve been holding in for the last twenty minutes. I deserve it.”

You tilted your head. “I was going to say this might be the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

Namjoon blinked.

“That… wasn’t sarcastic.”

“I know.”

He looked at you. Really looked. The sunlight was pooling in your lap, catching the hem of your linen shorts, the small scar on your knee, the lazy twist of your smile. Your hand was curled around a bottle of water, your nails chipped, your phone face-down on your thigh. You were quiet. Present. Not curating anything.

He hadn’t written a song in two weeks and hadn’t even cared. And maybe that should have terrified him. But instead, what slipped out of his mouth—simple and sudden—was:

“I love you.”

You stilled.

He felt it immediately—the way the air changed. Not colder. Not distant. Just heavier, like the room had shrunk and the road had stopped moving and time was now very, very slow.

You looked at him, your eyes unreadable behind the glasses.

“You said that like you didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

He swallowed. “Because it’s true.”

A beat.

Then another.

You reached up, slid your sunglasses into your hair, and studied him. Not like a critic. Not like a curator. Just a girl who’d been kissed in the middle of a detour and hadn’t expected it to feel like a beginning.

“I don’t think I can say it yet,” you said softly.

“I know.”

“But I’m not getting out of the car.”

He smiled—something small, barely there, but real.

“Good.”

You reached over, laced your fingers through his, and said, “Now turn the car around before I start doubting your sense of direction and your emotional timing.”

He laughed. It shook out of him without resistance.

And when he drove back toward the sheep farm, your hand stayed in his the whole way.

—————

It was late.

Not late like the night you’d always stayed up talking till sunrise. This was the quiet late—the end of a long day, the kind that left your bones a little heavier, your thoughts a little slower.

You had come back from a full weekend at the gallery—an opening, a surprise artist visit, two canceled deliveries, and a handful of clients who talked too much and bought too little. Namjoon had waited up for you. Not because you asked him to. He just always did. He liked to be in your apartment, waiting for you when he was available. Seeing you, being with you anytime he could. He liked being available for you, even in your worst moods.

You came in, dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes with one hand still holding your phone, hair messily pinned, and your lipstick worn off in the center. He didn’t say anything at first—just handed you the takeout he’d ordered and a glass of water. And you two sat on the couch like you’ve been doing the last couple of months when you gave him the key to your apartment, when you came home like this: your legs over his lap, your head leaned back on the armrest, one of his hands tracing slow, lazy lines down your tights.

“You smell like oil paint,” he said quietly.

You didn’t open your eyes. “Someone spilled gesso all over the hallway. I slipped in it. My knees are a war crime.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re very sexy when you’re bruised and tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“You’re always sexy.”

“Your standards are deeply flawed.”

He smiled. “They’re deeply yours.”

And then there was quiet for a while.

You were finishing your noodles slowly. His fingers hadn’t stopped tracing your skin. The TV was on but muted—some cooking show with too much steam and too many close-ups of butter. It wasn’t a romantic night. There were no candles. No dramatic pauses. Which is why it felt exactly right when you suddenly said it.

“I love you.”

Namjoon blinked, mid-chew. He swallowed too quickly and coughed once. You didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. You just looked at him with this almost-shy, almost-tired certainty, like the words had been sitting under your tongue for weeks and simply slipped free before you could second-guess them.

He opened his mouth, but you spoke again, softer this time. “I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want it to sound like… thanks. Or obligation. Or like I was catching up.” He nodded slowly, still not trusting himself to speak. “But I do,” you added. “I love you. I know it. And it’s quiet, but it’s… constant. Like breathing. I don’t have to check if it’s there anymore.”

Namjoon didn’t say anything right away. He just reached for your hand, lifted it gently, and kissed the inside of your wrist—the same spot he’d brushed his thumb across that first night on the floor you two spent together. And then, without needing to say it again, he smiled that slow, stunned smile people only make when they hear what they didn’t know they’d been waiting for.

“About damn time,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but let him pull you close.

And in the quiet, with nothing grand or profound around you both, you thought: this is great. This is perfect.

< Three years ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were cooking.

Or trying to. The kitchen was a mess—half-sliced vegetables, three open spice jars, a pan smoking slightly on the stove. You had flour on your cheek, and Namjoon was holding a wooden spoon like he was conducting an orchestra.

“Okay,” he said, voice stern. “I don’t want to alarm you, but we may have invented a new form of food poisoning.”

You glanced at the pan, then at him. “That’s just… slightly over-caramelized garlic.”

“It looks like regret.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m a realist. A realist with a fire extinguisher under the sink.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned over to nudge him out of the way with your hip. “Move. I’m saving this.”

“You’re gonna dump it.”

“I’m going to elevate it.”

“Oh, now it’s Chopped?”

You gave him a look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He paused. Still every time you said it. Like it rearranged something in him.

“You’re even luckier,” he said, quieter. “Because I would eat your elevated garlic poison a thousand times.”

You two grinned at each other for a moment. Then you turned back to the pan. He didn’t move. Just watched you. Then, softly: “Do you think about where this is going?”

You didn’t turn around, but he saw the way your shoulders shifted.

“Sometimes,” you said, casual but not distant. “Do you?”

“All the time.”

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on the counter beside your hip.

“I think about what it would be like to wake up next to you somewhere quieter. Somewhere with windows that face east and a real coffee machine.”

Your voice was light. “You hate waking up early.”

“For you, I’d tolerate sunrises.” You smiled at the pan. Stirred once. He went on. “I think about your bookshelves of art history in my space. My guitar in your hallway. Arguing over what color to paint the bedroom.”

“We’d never agree.”

“Exactly. That’s how I know it would work.”

You turned then, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, wooden spoon still in hand. “You’re making this sound a little like a proposal.”

Namjoon stepped closer, but didn’t touch you. “I’m making it sound like a possibility.”

You studied him—eyes sharp, searching, soft.

“And you’re not scared?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Terrified.”

“But?”

“But I love you more than I fear the part where it could all fall apart.”

A silence passed, then you said, “I think I’d want a balcony. Wherever we are.”

Namjoon grinned. “See? That’s already a ‘we.’”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. And then you reached out, quietly, fingers brushing his.

“We could take it slow.”

Namjoon nodded. “We could take it together.”

The garlic burned. The pan hissed. Neither of you moved. Because in that moment—over smoke and risk and flour on your cheek—the future stopped feeling theoretical. It started to feel like something you could build.

Not in one night— But maybe, If you two kept choosing it— Every night after.

—————

The gallery was already humming.

Rows of suited collectors, critics, young interns holding wine glasses too tightly. Warm lighting made everything glow just a little too perfectly. You stood near the entrance to the main room, your talk scheduled in less than twenty minutes. You weren’t nervous. Not about the speaking. You’d done this before—art history, curation, your specialty in contemporary Korean painters—this was your terrain. What was sitting heavy in your stomach was the ghost of Namjoon’s absence.

You hadn’t expected him to come. Really. He was across the country, prepping for an upcoming televised performance that morning, stuck in rehearsals and press for the next week too. He’d sent a voice note that morning. Tired but warm. “You’ll be brilliant, and I’m not only saying it because I love you but because I know you. You don’t need me there to see it. I’m proud of you, baby.”

And you understood. You always understood. Still. You kept catching yourself glancing at the door.

“Y/n,” someone said—Sophie, your co-curator, adjusting her headset. “They’re ready for you in five.”

You nodded, adjusted your blazer, smoothed your palm against the small stack of notes you wouldn’t end up using. You moved toward the front of the space, where the podium stood framed by two large pieces from the exhibit—bold, saturated strokes and raw canvas textures behind you. It was a big night. You were hoping to expand your contacts, specially after your conference. The microphone gave a small feedback pop as you stepped forward.

You were two lines into your opening when it happened.

A flicker of movement near the back of the room. Someone slipping in quietly. You didn’t pause. Not really. Just a half-breath longer between phrases. But your eyes caught him— Namjoon. Hair a little messy, jacket half-buttoned, eyes red-rimmed from a redeye flight. His body carried the energy of someone held together by caffeine and adrenaline and the sheer force of trying.

He was here. He shouldn’t have been.

But he was.

You kept going—finished your opening, sliding into your thoughts on spatial symbolism and absence in modern Korean brushwork—but your heart was no longer still. It beat like it knew him again. Like it was grateful. When the talk ended, the applauses were polite, enthusiastic, a few flashes from someone with a press badge. But you stepped down and walked past all of it—past compliments and handshakes and gallery assistants offering you wine—and headed straight toward him.

Namjoon stood near the wall, half out of the spotlight, holding a paper cup of truly terrible gallery coffee.

“You’re not real,” you said, quietly, breathless.

“I’m very poorly rested, but real,” he answered.

“You said you—”

“I changed my mind at 1 a.m. Took the first flight out. Rehearsals be damned.”

You stared at him. “Did you just show up?” you asked, voice smaller now.

“No,” he said. “I came through. There’s a difference.”Your throat tightened. “You were amazing,” he said. “I mean, I only caught the last twenty minutes, but I wanted to stand up and yell like a lunatic.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know.”

“And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”

“I know that too.” He looked at her gently. “That’s why I had to.”

You stepped forward then, and for a moment you didn’t hug him, didn’t kiss him. Just stood in front of him, looking.

“Are you flying back tonight?” you whispered.

“No. we’re going back to the apartment. I plan to sleep for eighteen hours and then take you to that place you love. The one with the ugly chairs and perfect tiramisu.”

You smiled. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything,” Namjoon said.

“I love you so much.” You leaned into him. Tired. Grateful. A little stunned.

And he kissed you hair, right there between gallery walls and strangers, and whispered, “I love you.”

—————

You knew how Namjoon’s world worked… barely. He knew yours pretty well since every time he had an open space he tried to spent it with you at work or home. It was really rare for you to tag alone with his since it was mostly out of country or when you were working. The most you had been with him at work was at concerts, small shows or when he was working in music in his studio at the company.

So when you were on vacation for two weeks, you decided to tagged along to one of his normal days.

“It’ll be boring,” he warned. “Just me in a chair and people talking too fast.”

But you’d smiled, kissed his shoulder, and said, “I like chairs.”

So you went. And it wasn’t boring. It was… relentless.

From the moment you two arrived at the studio, people swirled around Namjoon like a weather system—stylists, managers, PR handlers, producers. His name was said in every sentence, but never to him. He was always in motion: adjusting in front of a camera, changing his shirt, signing something, nodding through directions, practicing lines.

You sat on a folding chair in the corner of the dressing room, half-listening to the buzz. You pulled out your laptop to answer emails, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. And at one point, he caught you watching. He mouthed, Rescue me. You smiled.

Later, when there was a brief break, he slumped beside you, stealing your water bottle.

“How do you do this every day?” you asked.

“I don’t,” he said. “Some days I hide in closets.”

“Respect.”

He leaned against you lightly. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just absorbing it all.”

“It’s not always like this,” he added quickly. “This week is… extra.”

You didn’t challenge him. But you also didn’t say, It seems like it’s always ‘extra.’ Instead, you said, “Do you have an actual lunch break?”

He made a face. “Technically, yes. Practically, no.”

You pulled something from your bag—a sandwich you’d picked up that morning, wrapped in wax paper and still a little warm. Namjoon stared at it like you had pulled gold from a shoe.

“I forgot what love tasted like,” he said dramatically, taking it.

You nudged his foot with yours. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I haven’t eaten since… yesterday, I think?”

“You’re the reason I carry snacks.”

He grinned around a bite. “Marry me.”

“I’ve seen how you cook. Absolutely not.”

He laughed, mouth full.

You two sat like that—your laptop balancing on your knees, him chewing too quickly, his head resting briefly on your shoulder. Just a moment, in the eye of the storm. And still… you felt the distance. Not between you two exactly—but between this life and yours. Between the slow, curated hush of gallery walls and the frantic, blinking pulse of his world.

You didn’t resent it. But it felt… heavy.

When he got pulled into his next segment, you stayed behind. Alone again in the dressing room. You looked at the schedule taped to the wall. Seven more things to go. A different building after this one. No end in sight. You opened your phone and scrolled through your messages with him. A few voice notes. A photo he’d sent last week of you eating breakfast half-asleep, captioned “Exhibit A: cutest person alive.”

You smiled. But something inside you tugged. You started typing: “Can we maybe block a day off next week? Just us? Nothing huge. Just… be still?”

Then you stared at it. Deleted it. Instead, you sent:

You: You’re killing it today, proud of u

He replied seconds later.

Namjoon: Only cause ure here

You locked your phone. Stared at your reflection in the makeup mirror. Still smiling. Still here. Still wondering how long you could keep up with the pace of a life that never paused. But you were sure you could as long as you want it, because you love him. And if he was always trying for you. You could try for him too.

—————

Rain tapped lightly against the kitchen windows, the kind of soft, even rain that didn’t interrupt plans so much as cancel them without asking. You had moved in only three months ago—bare walls, bare windows, the kind of clean that felt temporary. But tonight, it was warm.

You stood barefoot in front of the stove in an oversized sweatshirt that definitely used to belong to Namjoon. Your hair was twisted into a low bun, lazy and lopsided, and you were humming—off-key and quietly—to a song playing through the tiny Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Something old. Sam Cooke, maybe. Or Ella. You liked to listen to music that made you feel like you were in a slower decade. And your boyfriend always had great recommendations.

Namjoon leaned in the doorway, holding a peeled orange in one hand, watching you stir something in a small pot.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you pretend you’re not a domestic goddess, but you are. Like—look at you. Apron, slippers, vintage jazz, homemade jam?”

“This is store-bought jam,” you said.

“Doesn’t matter. The energy is jam you made at midnight while processing intergenerational grief.”

You turned slightly to glare at him. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Because I’m in love with a woman who makes toast look romantic,” he said, stepping closer and placing the orange in you mouth before you could protest.

You laughed, cheeks puffed, chewing exaggeratedly. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a peck. “You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You adore it.”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stirred. You leaned into him, sighing softly.

The world felt quiet here. Warm, not in the literal sense—though the stove certainly helped—but in the way your back pressed into his chest, in the rhythm of the rain, in the simple reality of two people with nowhere else to be.

“What are we making again?” he asked.

“Chai.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough.”

He smiled into your hair. “You’re enough.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for the mugs and poured, carefully, like it was a spell. He watched your hands—how precise they were, how steady—and thought about all the things you touched that weren’t meant to last but somehow lasted anyway. You two sat at the little table by the window, legs tangled under the chairs, sipping the tea in silence for a while.

Then Namjoon said, “When we’re eighty, can we still do this?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll still like me when I’m eighty?”

“No,” he said dramatically. “I think I’ll worship you. I’ll be the weird old man in the building who writes poems about his wife and forgets to wear matching socks.”

“Joke’s on you,” you said. “I’m going to make you wear orthopedic shoes.”

“I’ll write a song about that too.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re smiling,” he said, nudging your foot under the table.

You were .

And in that tiny kitchen, with your knees touching and the storm rolling gently outside, you thought: If it always feels like this, I’ll never want more.

< Two years ago. Seoul, Korea >

It was late afternoon when he showed up.

You weren’t expecting him to be back yet. He’d been in back-to-back rehearsals for days, barely texting, let alone appearing in person. Specially since he was supposed to be in another country soon. But there he was—sweaty, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy under a cap. The kind of entrance that always made you pause halfway through whatever you were doing.

“I had a twenty-minute window,” Namjoon said, breathless, stepping inside. “Thought I’d spend it doing something irresponsible.”

You raised a brow, arms crossed. “Oh? And what exactly is your idea of irresponsibility?”

He grinned. Walked toward you like he already had the answer.

“Kissing you until I forget how time works.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Bold plan. Does it come with snacks?”

Namjoon leaned in, hands settling lightly on your waist. “Just me. Very limited edition.”

You didn’t move away. Not when he bent closer. Not when his mouth brushed yours, slow and soft like a question he already knew the answer to. The kiss deepened easily—like you’d missed it. Like you two had both been holding tension in your shoulders, your spines, your jaws. He kissed you like he was catching up, and you responded like you’d been waiting. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers brushing warm against your skin. You gasped slightly, which only made him smile against your mouth.

“I forgot how good you smell,” he murmured. “Like coffee and painting and—whatever it is you put on your neck that drives me insane.”

“I can’t believe that works on someone famous.”

“I’m extremely weak for you,” he whispered, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Pathetically so.”

You laughed, pulling him down onto the couch with you, your legs sliding around his. His body pressed into your, heavy and warm, and for a second, it felt like everything outside that room had stopped. No shows. No flights. No noise. Just him. Just you.

Your hands were in his hair. His fingers curled under your thigh. Both of your breathing picked up, uneven, mouths parting between kisses like you were saying each other’s names without sound. And then—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

His phone, on the floor. Lighting up like it knew exactly what it was doing.

Namjoon groaned into your shoulder. “No.”

You didn’t move. “Ignore it.”

“I want to.”

“Then do it.”

But he was already reaching for the phone. Still half on top of you, reading the message with a growing frown.

“Shit.”

You sighed. “You have to go.”

“I do,” he said, not moving. Still hovering above you. Still touching you like he didn’t want to stop.

You stared at the ceiling. “You always have to go.”

Namjoon looked at you then. Really looked. “I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.”

“I’ll come back.”

“And I’ll wait.”

A beat.

Then he kissed you again. Slow. Like a promise. Or maybe an apology.

When he stood, he adjusted his hoodie, cheeks flushed, lips still red. “I’ll text when I land.”

Yoy nodded, quiet. And when the door closed behind him, the room stayed warm—but only with the ghost of him.

You curled into the couch, your body still tingling with all the things you two didn’t have time to finish. And outside, the sun dipped behind the buildings. An unhealthy understanding was growing.

—————

The golden hour fell across the apartment like spilled honey.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a glass of wine balanced on the edge of a book you weren’t really reading. Namjoon was curled up sideways on the rug beside you, head resting in your lap, hair still damp from a shower, one sock missing. His eyes were half-closed. Music played low from the speakers—something string-heavy and slow, the kind of instrumental that made the windows feel like museum glass.

You two hadn’t had a day like this in months. No flights. No soundchecks. No exhibitions. No rehearsals. Just this—sunlight and soft clothes, the smell of jasmine from the candle you always forgot to blow out, the quiet hum of domestic peace. You had called in sick to have a moment for you two, you had missed it.

You trailed your fingers through his hair. “You’re shedding.”

“I’m molting,” Namjoon murmured. “It’s part of my rebranding.”

“To what? A golden retriever?”

“No. A misunderstood sculptor. Quiet, mysterious, tragic.”

You snorted. “You’re none of those things.”

“I’m trapped in rap persona, Y/n. Don’t mock my inner artist.”

“Your inner artist drinks chocolate milk and watches anime at 3 a.m.”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “Exactly.”

You two sat like that for a while—just breathing. Just being. Then Namjoon said, “You know that piece we saw in Berlin? The one with the floating glass?”

“The installation with the suspended shards?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

“Why?”

“It looked fragile,” he said slowly, “but it was all anchored by invisible tension wires. If you didn’t know the structure, you’d think it was about to fall apart.” You nodded, thoughtful. “And it made me think,” he continued, voice softer, “that love is kind of like that.”

“Like invisible tension wires?”

“Yeah. It looks like it’s floating, like it could fall any second—but there’s stuff holding it together that you don’t always see.”

You looked down at him, touched. “That’s very you,” you said.

“What? Romantic?”

“No. Structural.”

He laughed. “I’m trying to be profound, woman. Don’t ruin it.”

You smiled, leaned down, and kissed his forehead. “I love your brain.”

“I love that you’re the only person who never makes me feel like I have to perform smart.”

“You are smart.”

“You’re smarter.”

“True.”

You two grinned at each other. His hand found yours. Fingers tangled like habit.

The apartment smelled like soy candles and laundry. The light was amber and fading. The dishes from the late lunch were still in the sink. Your blouse was hanging from a chair, his hoodie on the floor. Everything was a little bit messy, a little bit imperfect.

But he was here. And you were here. And time—for once—wasn’t the enemy.

So you took everything to make that day even better. Deciding in the night to have a cozy dinner to chat and just be homebodies, at least for a night.

At night the apartment smelled like garlic, olive oil, and ambition. You stood barefoot at the stove, chopping cherry tomatoes with practiced ease. Your hair was half up, your sleeves rolled, and you moved like someone who actually knew how to cook without setting off the smoke alarm. Namjoon, meanwhile, stood to your left, holding a bell pepper like it was a small animal he wasn’t sure how to approach.

“You’re watching it like it’s going to blink,” you said, not looking up.

“I’m observing it,” he said defensively. “I believe in understanding your enemy.”

“It’s not an enemy. It’s a pepper.”

“It’s raw. Which I believe is an important stage in its villain origin story.”

You rolled your eyes. “Cut it into strips. Not chunks. Not chaos. Strips.”

He squinted. “Define ‘strip.’”

You turned, raised an eyebrow, and took the knife from him. In one fluid motion, you sliced a piece and handed it to him. “This. This is a strip.”

Namjoon took it. Bit into it dramatically. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Culinary genius.”

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you said, taking the knife back.

He grinned, stepping closer behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “And smart,” he murmured.

“Depending on the topic.”

“Rude.”

“Or honest?.”

You nudged him away with your hip, still focused on the sauce pan.

“Okay,” he said, hands in his hoodie pocket, “book question.”

“Hit me.”

“Would you rather live inside a Haruki Murakami novel or a Donna Tartt novel?”

You paused, considering. “So, either surreal existentialism with a chance of magical cats and jazz… or beautiful ruin, Greek references, and murder?”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

“I’d die in a Tartt novel.”

“You’d thrive in a Tartt novel,” he corrected. “You’d be the one saying devastating things about beauty over a glass of wine right before the plot collapses.”

“And you?”

“Murakami,” he said. “I already feel like a guy wandering through metaphors, missing the point, haunted by dreams.”

You smiled at that. “You just want to talk to a ghost as well.”

“Maybe.”

You stirred the sauce. “Do you ever miss reading just for pleasure?”

“Always,” he said. “Sometimes I get two chapters in and then I get a call or an edit note and it’s over. Makes me feel like my brain is made of bubble wrap.”

“I know the feeling,” you said. “I miss reading slowly. Like… the kind of slow where you reread a sentence five times because it sounds good in your mouth.”

Namjoon walked over to the counter and perched on it, stealing a cherry tomato from the bowl. “What’s the last sentence you did that with?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, smiling softly. “Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

Namjoon blinked. “Tartt?”

You nodded.

He whistled low. “Yeah, okay. I’d die in her world too.”

“Probably in a linen shirt. Tragic and elegant.”

“Promise me if I get murdered by aesthetics, you’ll make it sound romantic in the eulogy.”

You smirked. “I’ll say you died holding a first edition and looking mysterious.”

“Perfect.”

He slid off the counter and came to stand beside you again, watching you stir the bubbling sauce. “You’re really good at this,” he said softly.

“At what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing around. “Making things feel warm. Real. Like we’re just… people.”

You looked over at him, eyes soft. “We are just people.”

“Sometimes I forget.”

“Then remember.”

And you leaned over and kissed him, fingers brushing his jaw lightly.

Outside, the city glowed through the windows. Inside, the pasta boiled over, and neither of you two moved to stop it right away. Because sometimes, you let the water spill— when the conversation is that good. When the love feels that close. When time, for once, is yours.

—————

You were late to your own morning.

You’d woken up disoriented—your phone lighting up with a 9:17 a.m. alert and three missed calls from Sophie. You hadn’t meant to sleep in. But Namjoon hadn’t come in until 3 a.m., and when he did, you’d stayed half-awake for an hour listening to him wind down in pieces—shower running, suitcase unzipping, soft cursing as he looked for a charger. He’d crawled into bed around four, smelling like cold air and exhaustion. And even then, he reached for you.

So you stayed awake a little longer. Just so he wouldn’t feel alone.

Now, your hair was still damp from the fastest shower in recorded history, and you were pulling on a wrinkled blazer with one hand while tying your boots with the other. You texted Sophie—“On my way, sorry, cabbing now.”

Your calendar pinged. You’d missed your standing espresso run with Mina, the new artist you had brought in to curate a modernist reinterpretation series. A small thing. Just coffee. But it was already the third time this month.

In the hallway mirror, you caught herself. Tired eyes. Lipstick half-finished. You used to be early to everything. Precise. Present. Punctual. Now?. You’d started sleeping in his rhythm. Eating in his rhythm. Turning down dinners with friends because he might be back in town that night. You’d canceled a trip to Berlin because his rehearsals shifted and he “might have a free weekend.” He didn’t, in the end. You never rebooked.

You smoothed your collar. Stared at your reflection. Said out loud, “You’re still you.”

And for a second, you weren’t sure if you believed it. Because that night, you got home after 8. Namjoon was already there, sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, hair damp from a shower. There was takeout on the table—he’d actually ordered this time—and a bottle of wine he must’ve picked up on the way back.

“You look like capitalism chewed you up,” he said, grinning.

You dropped your keys. “I feel like it.”

He opened his arms. “Come here.”

You did. You sat beside him, tucked yourself into his chest. Let yourself sink. You loved him so much. You were exhausted and tired, but here, with him now— it felt good. You were risking so much, your job, your time, your life. But everything disappeared in a moment like this, when you were tangled in his arms and he was whispering sweet things in your ear… So you had something to ate. You two watched something neither of you really paid attention to. He kissed your temple and made you laugh. Everything felt okay.

But later, when he dozed off, arm still draped across your waist, you looked over at your laptop. Unanswered messages. Missed calls. That gallery invite you meant to RSVP to. A workshop you forgot to confirm— Your life was shrinking. Not disappearing. Just… folding around his.

And you weren’t sure he’d noticed.

< A year ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had never been one for anniversaries.

Not the showy kind, at least. No big speeches, no couple selfies with champagne flutes. But you did believe in marking things. Quietly, intentionally. A special dinner. A handwritten card. A night with no interruptions. A day that reminded you why you’d stayed. Namjoon was good in that too. At least for the first one, he had flew you to Paris and took you to an art museum you were dying to go. The second one he was in a tour but bought you a ticket to Barcelona where you two had dinner and he introduce you to a painter you loved. Everything was magical with him.

This year, the anniversary fell on a Tuesday.

You had work all day—client meetings, artist calls, a minor crisis about a mislabeled shipment. You were exhausted by the time you got home, but you still lit the candles in the kitchen. Still set the table for two. Still wore the green dress Namjoon once said made you look like you were about to ruin someone’s life in a French film. And he loved it— Namjoon wasn’t in the country. He and the group had a show overseas—a major one.

You hadn’t expected him to cancel it. But the show had wrapped the night before. You’d watched it from your laptop in bed, wine in hand, wrapped in his old sweatshirt. He’d looked beautiful under the stage lights. Exhausted, yes, but alive.

He hadn’t said he was flying back. But he hadn’t said he wasn’t, either.

And Namjoon was always good at the last-minute surprise. The unannounced flight. The knock on the door just when you’d given up. He had that kind of magic, the kind that made you believe in things even when you knew better. So in a special night like that day, when you knew he was only eight hours and could make it in time, you decided to go on with the schedule.

You went to your share favorite restaurant—the one with the rooftop and the quiet view of the city lights. You already had a reservation, Namjoon had made it weeks ago thinking it would be a great place— before the show was confirmed. However, he didn’t cancel it, nor he say he wasn’t going. He did tell you he might not make it and it was very obvious it would be a surprise if he actually did but he always did that. Specially since he didn’t text you all day. So, you decided to wait for him, like always.

At 8:00 p.m., you ordered a glass of red.

At 8:15, you declined the menu—just in case.

At 8:40, you checked your phone.

At 9:00, the waiter asked gently if you’d like to order. You shook your head, throat tight.

The food smelled amazing. The candle flickered between empty seats. Your phone buzzed at 9:12.

Namjoon: Happy anniversary. I love you.

That was all it said.

You stared at the message for a full minute before locking the screen.

The waiter came back. “Still waiting?”

You smiled, small and practiced. “No. I think I’ll take the check.”

You walked home slowly, heels in your hand by the end of the block, the city alive around you in a way you weren’t. You didn’t cry. You didn’t text him back. You didn’t even take off the dress when you got home—just sat on the edge of the bed, lights off, wondering when it had started to feel like this. Like something one-sided. Like hope was an embarrassing thing to hold onto.

It was embarrassing now waiting for him. Did it make you a bad person?. After everything he did for you, was this something to punish him for?. But he had make you have big standards about him, about how he could do anything to see you. And you did the same. But why now it felt like you shouldn’t be hurt?. A little mistake, a little thing under the bridge. Was it something to worry? or was it just something you were making a big deal?.

Was waiting for someone to show up too much now?.

The light was soft and grey when you woke. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on top of the covers, still in the green dress from the night before, makeup smudged beneath your eyes like a fading memory. You sat up slowly, your body stiff, your mouth dry, your phone still beside you on the bed, screen black. You didn’t reach for it right away. The apartment was quiet—almost aggressively so. The kind of silence that hums in your ears, that dares you to fill it. You made coffee without thinking, poured it into the chipped blue mug he always used when he was home. Then—almost accidentally—you poured yourself a second cup.

You stared at them both for a while.

The phone buzzed around 8:45 a.m. Namjoon

Incoming call

You hesitated only a second before picking up.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep, but too alert. The kind of voice that knew it was calling a fire it couldn’t put out.

“Hi,” you answered. Calm. Soft. Nothing in your tone gave you away.

“I wanted to call last night, but everything was chaos. Press, crew dinner. I tried to find a flight, but there was nothing that would get me to you in time.”

“I figured,” you said.

“I thought about video calling, but I didn’t want to…” He trailed off.

“Don’t worry.”

A pause. “How was dinner?”

“I didn’t stay long.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “I should’ve done more.”

You sipped your coffee. It was still too hot, but you didn’t flinch. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“No,” you agreed quietly. “It’s not.”

He was silent on the other end. You imagined him sitting in some hotel bed, probably still in stage makeup, phone pressed to his cheek, trying to read you through the static.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“No,” you said again, and this time it wasn’t soft—it was far. “I’m just tired.”

“Of me?”

“Of hoping for things you used to do without thinking.”

He exhaled hard. “Y/n…”

“I’m not going to fight with you over the phone,” you said gently.

“I’m not trying to fight.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I love you,” he said finally, quiet and uneven.

“I know.”

Another silence. This one worse than all the others.

“I’ll be back in two days,” he said.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. “Okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You closed your eyes. Hating that word. You hated hearing that— always did. But more so now than ever.

“Okay,” you repeated, and it sounded like maybe.

Not yes. Just… maybe.

He didn’t come back the next day. It was a week later he finally had time to come back to the country. And almost two days later he was able to be back home. But by that time— it was already too late to talk about something that has already passed. So you two stayed quiet. And for the first time and not last, that night it was just something small that happened.

—————

You found it on a Wednesday, tucked in the back of the nightstand drawer he never used. You were searching for a charger. His drawer was chaotic—full old receipts, ticket stubs from cities he barely remembered, notes of night thoughts. And then, under a stack of guitar picks and a long-dead pen, you saw it. A small, square box.

You paused. Everything in you stilled. Your fingers hovered above it for a breath, then two. You opened it.

Inside: an engagement ring.

Simple. Elegant. A soft, brushed gold band with a quiet, imperfect diamond that looked more chosen than flashy.

Your heart gave a quiet, panicked lurch. You didn’t cry. Didn’t gasp. Just closed the box slowly and put it back exactly where you found it. You didn’t say anything to him either Not that night. Not the next. You didn’t know why. Maybe because it felt like looking at a letter addressed to you that hadn’t been sent yet. It felt like love in transit. Like something that belonged to his timing, not yours. And you trusted him. Even if everything was hectic. Even if you were fraying around the edges.

You trusted him to get there.

It was two weeks later, near midnight, when he finally told you.

The night was unusually quiet. Outside, the city seemed to hold its breath—no honking, no sirens, just the low hum of a world that had finally decided to rest. Inside your share apartment, the windows were cracked open to let in the cool air, and the sheets tangled loosely around your legs as you two lay there, close but not speaking yet. It had been one of those rare days when the two actually had time. Real, unscheduled time. A slow morning. Grocery shopping. Making pasta without burning it. Watching a movie neither of you finished because you fell asleep halfway through, limbs knotted, breath in sync.

Now, the lights were off. Only the occasional gleam from a passing car painted stripes across the ceiling. You lay on your side, your fingers tracing slow, absentminded lines along Namjoon’s chest. His arm was wrapped around your waist. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Then, softly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it: “I’ve been thinking about marrying you.”

You didn’t move, didn’t stiffen. Your fingers paused briefly, then continued their path across his skin.

“I mean, not just thinking,” he said, a small, sheepish laugh escaping. “Planning, really. Secretly. Clumsily.”

Your smile was audible, even in the dark. “That sounds very on-brand.”

He let out a breath, clearly relieved you weren’t panicking. “I keep trying to find the perfect moment. The kind you tell stories about later. But every time I think I’ve got it, something happens—another show, an art event, a delay, a rehearsal running late. You didn’t interrupt. “I just…” His voice grew a little quieter. “I want to do it right. For you. You deserve something beautiful. Not rushed. Not after a long flight or in a hallway or between meetings.”

You turned slightly, tucking your face into the space where his neck met his shoulder. You could hear the nervous flutter in his chest. Like your silence was the only thing louder than the city.

Namjoon gently shifted his hand to cradle your face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mm-hm.”

“If I asked you… someday soon,” he said carefully, “would you say yes?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, fixed on you like you were the only thing he could see.

Your voice was steady and warm, no hesitation. “Of course I would.”

Namjoon’s face softened completely. He looked stunned by how easy it was for you to say. Like part of him had been bracing for uncertainty, and instead got home. “Yeah?” he asked, because part of him needed to hear it again.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Without blinking.”

He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’d taken all day, burying his face in you shoulder with a groan. “God, I love you.”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he mumbled. “I want all of it. Boring weekends. Matching mugs. Bad schedules. Waking up next to you every day until we’re old and weird.”

“We’re already weird.”

“Okay. Older and weirder.”

You kissed the top of his head. “I want that too,” you said. “All of it. And more.”

Namjoon looked up at you again, eyes sleepy and full of so much love you almost couldn’t hold it. “I’ll find the right time,” he promised. “It won’t be long.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” you said. “As long as it’s you.”

He kissed you once—lazy, warm, and deep with knowing. And when you two fell asleep, it was with yours hands clasped between both, like two people who had already chosen each other—formally or not.

The ring stayed hidden. And you let it. Because you already had the answer. And he already had your heart.

< Seven months ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were supposed to go away that weekend.

Just the two of you. A quiet place in the countryside, two hours outside the city. No cameras. No phones. No work. Just a cabin, a fireplace, books, and each other. You had planned it for weeks. Namjoon hadn’t had a proper day off in months. You wanted to give him a weekend where he didn’t have to perform, or talk about a setlist, or be anything except yours.

He seemed excited when you told him. He even kissed the tip of your nose and said, “God, I need that. You. Us.”

You booked it that night.

But on Thursday evening, two days before the trip, he called while you were at work. His voice was careful.

“Babe, listen—I know we had the cabin this weekend, but I might need to stay in the city. Something came up with Badu’s label and they want to do a session on Saturday. I know, I know, it sucks.”

You sat in the storage room of the gallery, your phone pressed to your ear, surrounded by crates of borrowed sculptures. You didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Is it urgent?” you asked finally.

“It’s… time-sensitive. I think they’re trying to fast-track something before Badu flies out to Tokyo. I can say no. I mean—if this is a big deal for us, I’ll say no.”

But he said it the way people do when they don’t want to say no. When they’re already halfway to saying yes.

You smiled, though he couldn’t see you. “It’s okay. We’ll reschedule.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You should do it.”

“Rain check?”

“Rain check,” you repeated, soft.

You hung up, and you stared at the weekend itinerary you had printed out. His favorite bakery for the drive. A wine tasting in a small town. That local bookstore you thought he’d love. Even a museum you wanted to visit… You folded it all up and slid it into a drawer.

When you got home that night, he was already asleep. Studio hours were brutal. You curled in next to him, your arm across his back, your nose against his shoulder. You didn’t cry. You didn’t get angry. You just waited for him to say something about it the next day. Maybe suggest a new weekend. Maybe show up with coffee and a smile and say, “Hey, let’s pick a new date.”

He didn’t. It was just one weekend, you told yourself. Just one plan. People get busy. People cancel. Still, it sat with you—quiet and dull—like a match that never got lit.

Not a flame. Not yet. But something you wouldn’t forget. Something was changing.

< Six months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You locked yourself in the gallery’s back office and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since 10 a.m. The artist had walked out. Just like that—mid-meeting, hands flailing, voice raised—and declared he wouldn’t be participating in the upcoming show. Something about the press release tone being “too colonial,” which you had tried to explain wasn’t even written yet. Your director blamed you. The interns stared at you like a live grenade. And to top it all off, you’d spilled coffee on your blouse five minutes before a meeting with one of the museum board members.

By the time it was 7:00 p.m., you felt like the whole day had been gnawing at you from the inside out.

You didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Instead, you curled up on the lumpy chair in the corner of the office, legs pulled up, jacket still on. The gallery lights were out except for a low amber track that lit the sculptures like ghosts. You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

He answered on the third ring, his voice half-absent. “Hey, love. You okay?”

“No,” you said.

You didn’t mean to sound so small, but it leaked out anyway.

He hummed. “What happened?”

You exhaled. “Everything.”

“Specifics?”

You tried to organize it, the chaos of your day, into something coherent. “The artist dropped out. Just—walked out mid-meeting and said we were culturally tone-deaf. My director was furious. I got blindsided in front of the entire board.”

“That sucks,” Namjoon said, still distracted.

There was a pause. You could hear faint voices in the background, maybe someone talking over a beat. Music. Studio noise. You imagined him in his headphones, half-listening. You waited. Nothing else came.

“I just feel like I’m failing,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him. “Like I’m drowning in details and no one else sees the full picture. Or me.”

Namjoon clicked his tongue. “You’re not failing. You’re just being dramatic because you’re tired.” You went quiet. He didn’t notice. “I’ve gotta finish this mix,” he said after a beat. “But do you want to come by later? We’ll order something.”

“I don’t really want to be around people tonight,” you said, tears starting to form in your eyes of frustration you couldn’t get out. “I just wanted to talk.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he replied, not unkindly. “You’ll be fine.” Then, softer: “I’ll text you when I’m done, yeah?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Sure.”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

He hung up.

You stayed in the dark a little longer.

Your phone screen dimmed in your hand, and you didn’t move. You weren’t angry—at least not in the dramatic sense. No door slamming. No actual tears. Just a subtle ache, like the one you get when you realize a song you loved doesn’t hit the same way anymore.

You had needed to feel heard. Held. Instead, you’d been reassured like a child with a scraped knee.

“You’ll be fine.”

You always were. You always had to be. Of course you will be fine later but you wanted someone to actually hear you out. For the first time, you wondered what it would be like to be with someone who didn’t expect you to already have the answers. Someone who wouldn’t call your strength a reason not to show up.

You stood, stretched your legs, and grabbed your bag. The gallery was quiet, but you left the light on in the main room as you walked out. Let it shine for someone, even if it wasn’t going to be you.

< Five months. Seoul, Korea. >

It wasn’t an anniversary. Not a birthday. Not anything capital-I Important. It was just a Wednesday night you two had agreed on a week ago, in the quiet way people do when they’ve both been slipping through the days without touching each other long enough to notice. You both. were sitting on the couch when Namjoon had looked over at you—half-asleep, feet on his lap, a half-finished script on your tablet—and said, “We should have dinner together next week. Just… be normal for a night. Just us.”

You smiled. “Wednesday?”

“Perfect,” he said. “Wednesday.”

You had marked it in your mind like you do when you don’t want to hope too much, but still want to remember. It had been so long since you two had made time. The kind that wasn’t reactionary. The kind that wasn’t just falling asleep next to each other with takeout on the floor and emails still open. So you planned.

On Wednesday, you left the gallery early. You picked up fresh pasta from that little place down the hill, the one with the handmade ravioli Namjoon once called “dangerously life-changing.” You bought wine—nothing fancy, just something warm and red and meant to be shared. You even found the candle you two used on your first official dinner date, now half-burned and tucked into the back of a drawer.

By seven, the table was set.

By eight, the pasta was cold.

You texted him around 7:30.

You: Everything okay?

He didn’t respond.

You waited until 8:10 before calling. It rang four times before it went to voicemail.

You tried not to spiral. He probably lost track of time. Maybe a recording session ran late. Maybe he was caught in traffic or had bad signal. You checked his location, then immediately felt guilty. It pinged from his studio downtown. You opened the wine anyway. Not to be dramatic—just to keep your hands busy.

At 8:44, your phone buzzed.

Namjoon: Shit. Fuck. I’m so sorry.

You stared at it for a second. No follow-up. No call. Just those four words blinking on your screen. That’s it?. You typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.

You: It’s okay.

You put your phone down, slowly, and stared at the food. The wine bottle. The candle burning low. It wasn’t the missed dinner that hurt most—it was how easily it had happened. How he hadn’t thought about it until too late. How you didn’t even feel surprised.

At 9:03, your phone buzzed again.

Namjoon: I have an open hour but I’ll have to go back to the studio later

Namjoon: I’ll go now, should I bring dessert or something?

You closed your eyes. Bit the inside of your cheek.

You: It’s late. I’ve got work early.

Namjoon: I’ll make it up to you. I swear.

You didn’t answer.

You turned off the candle. Put the wine in the fridge. Packed the cold ravioli into a Tupperware. You washed the dishes slowly, methodically, like you were erasing the evening in reverse. The bubbles slid over your rings. The water turned lukewarm. The kitchen dimmed as the sun fully disappeared. When you finally sat on the couch, the apartment was quiet. Not sad, exactly. Not angry. Just… silent. Like nothing had happened. And that, you thought, was the worst part.

Because this was supposed to be the night you two tried. The night you looked at each other again, for real. But instead, you looked at your glass of wine. Still full. Still waiting.

And you wondered, When did I start doing this by myself?

< Four months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had told him about it a month ago. You had brought it up at dinner—early, gently, the way you do when you’re trying not to pressure someone into caring about something that matters deeply to you.

“I’m giving a talk,” you had said, slicing your vegetables with slow precision. “It’s for the Rothko Foundation event. Big gala. Black tie, way-too-much-champagne type of thing.”

Namjoon glanced up from his phone, nodded absently. “That’s amazing.”

“They picked me to speak about the new acquisitions,” you continued, not hiding your excitement. “I’m going to be in the program. I have ten minutes. It’s kind of a huge deal for the gallery.”

He smiled. “Look at you, Miss Spotlight.”

You’d laughed. “It’s important for me. Would you be there?.”

Namjoon smiled slightly, nodding slowly, like a promise. “Of course I will.”

You’d worked your ass off for it. Navigated donor egos and fragile artists, put together the exhibit proposal in a week, fought for your voice at the table when everyone else wanted a safer, duller speaker. And they chose you. That night, you sent him the event details. He RSVP’d yes.

But it would have been less disappointing if he had just tell you that he’ll try to be there.

The night of the gala, you stood in front of the mirror in your shared bedroom, adjusting the sleeves of your navy-blue dress. The fabric fell just below your knees, structured and classic, the kind of thing that made you feel confident without trying too hard. You wore your hair up. Your earrings shimmered when you moved. There was a part of you—stupid and stubborn and hopeful—that still expected him to knock on the bathroom door with a “Wow,” and a kiss on the cheek, and a “Let’s go make rich people uncomfortable with your brilliance.”

But the apartment was quiet. Namjoon wasn’t home.

At 6:34 p.m., you checked your messages.

Namjoon: Hey, baby. I hate this so much. They moved up the shoot. We’re filming all night now. I’m so, so sorry.

There was a second message.

Namjoon: I sent something to the venue for you. Should arrive before the talk. I love you.

You didn’t reply.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet. Your heart was doing that thing—folding in on itself like paper too many times creased in the same place. He’d known. He’d known this was important. Not optional. Not a charity auction or a friends-of-the-gallery dinner. This was your night.

And once again, work had won.

The way to the gallery was quiet, frustrated and almost too annoying. Specially since it was a special night where you were supposed to be excited or nervous— Instead you were angry with your boyfriend.

The venue was beautiful, if clinical. Crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, lacquered smiles. You shook hands with people whose names you couldn’t remember. Your name was printed in the program beneath a black-and-white headshot you hated. And at 8:12 p.m., just before your speech, an usher approached you with a bouquet of white orchids. There was a small card attached. Handwritten.

You’ll kill it tonight. So proud of you.

— N.

You stared at it like it had come from a stranger.

“You’ll kill it tonight.” you repeated.

It sounded like something you’d write to a colleague, not a partner. Not the man who knew what this moment cost you, who’d kissed your forehead while you wrote your talking points and rubbed your back during your mini spiral about what to wear. Not from a man that promise that he would be there tonight when you told him it was important for you.

You folded the card and threw it in the trash.

The worst thing that night was that your speech was perfect. You spoke for ten minutes. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t shake. It was flawless, perfect in any way a good and smart speech could be. Everyone clapped. Someone on the board teared up. The director beamed at you like you were an investment finally paying off.

And Namjoon wasn’t there.

When you stepped off the stage and walked backstage alone, the applause didn’t stick. What did was the silence waiting for you in the dressing room. The hollow space where he should’ve been. No hug. No “You did it.” Just orchids in a vase, propped against a wall.

You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

It rang once. Twice.

He answered, breathless, wind muffling his voice. “Hey, babe. I’m still on set. Can I call you in a bit?”

“I just finished the talk,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hesitated. “Shit—already? How did it go?”

“Well,” you said quietly. “It went well.”

“That’s amazing. Knew you’d kill it,” he said. There was a clatter on his end, voices shouting something in the background. “Sorry, hang on—what was I—yeah, we’re good—sorry, babe, what were you saying?”

Your throat was tight. “I just… I really wanted you to be here.”

A pause.

“Y/n,” he sighed, and not unkindly—just tired. “I wanted to be there too. You know that.”

“I know. I do.” you leaned against the edge of the vanity, your hand clutching the phone tighter. “But it mattered. It wasn’t just about the speech—it was about you seeing it. Being in the room. With me.”

More voices. A door opened and shut.

“I sent the flowers,” he said, gently. “Didn’t they get there? I thought they’d be there before you went on.”

“They did,” you replied. “They were… fine.”

He chuckled, not catching the edge in your voice. “That’s the most Y/n response ever.”

You closed your eyes. “Namjoon.”

“I know this sucks. Believe me, I know. But I can’t get into this right now. We’re literally rolling in ten minutes, and I still have to fix my makeup. I just—I need to focus for a bit, okay?” You didn’t speak. “Can we talk later?” he added. “I want to talk. I just need to get through tonight.”

You almost nodded out of habit. Almost said, Of course, it’s fine, I get it, go be brilliant.

But something inside you ached to say it out loud. To ask him to stay, to make it a big deal and fight. Instead, you murmured, “Sure.”

“You’re amazing,” he said. “Love you.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t notice. He’d already hung up.

You sat still for a long time, phone in your lap, your hands folded like someone waiting for a train that wasn’t coming.

That’s when it hit you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you. It’s that now he loved you comfortably.

He loved you like something that would always be there, even when neglected. Even when ignored. Even when standing alone in a velvet dressing room with someone else’s applause still echoing in your ears. And your pain? It didn’t fit in his schedule anymore. it was only an imposition.

You blinked hard, once. Twice. And then the tears came. Not loud. Not messy. Just steady. A soft unraveling, like thread pulled from the edge of a seam that no one bothered to sew back up.

You cried for ten minutes. Then you stood. Smoothed your dress. Wiped your eyes and went outside to continue the event. Because even if he was not there, it was still your night.

< Three months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

Another fight unraveled the same week. Fight after fight without any income had been followed you two. And the last one came because of laundry.

You had asked him, gently, to please not mix your wool sweaters with the rest of the wash—again. You were tired. You’d been working weekends. The gallery’s next exhibit was massive, and you were overseeing three interns who didn’t know the difference between a loan form and a press release. And Namjoon—half-distracted, headphones slung around his neck—said something like:

“It’s just laundry, Y/n. Not a crisis.”

That was it.

That was the crack that splintered into something bigger than either of you two meant it to.

“Do you know how much I’ve been doing lately?” you asked, trying to stay calm, even as your voice wavered. “I ask for one thing. One thing.”

“You always make everything sound like an indictment.”

“And you make everything feel like it’s not worth your energy.”

He turned then, clearly hurt. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, and your voice was rising now, sharp with every silent moment you’d swallowed those past months. “Do you even know what I’m working on? Who I’m curating next? Have you even asked?”

“I’ve been drowning, Y/n.”

“So have I. The difference is I still check in. I still try.”

He rubbed his face, eyes heavy. “I didn’t come home to fight.”

“You barely come home at all.”

You two stared at each other. The apartment was still. The dryer buzzed in the background. It wasn’t the first fight but you were with the same exhaustion as the ones before.

After a long pause, he dropped his shoulders. “You’re right,” he said, quieter now. “I’ve been selfish.” You blinked, a little surprised. “I’ve been stretched so thin I stopped noticing what I was letting go of,” he continued. “I hate that I made you feel like I wasn’t trying. I am trying, Y/n. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because you weren’t sure if it mattered anymore.

He stepped forward, reached for your hand. “Can we start over tomorrow? I’ll make dinner. We’ll talk. I’ll actually show up.”

You nodded. You let him hug you. Let his arms wrap around your waist. Let him kiss the side of your head and tell you how much he loved you. And you said it back—softly, automatically.

Later that night, you two lay in bed, facing each other in the dark. He whispered one more apology, then fell asleep with his hand over your waist like a promise. And you stared at the ceiling. You weren’t sad. You weren’t angry. You were just… tired. Tired of trying to be the whole relationship. Tired of reminding him who you two used to be. Tired of convincing yourself that love should be this hard all the time.

And the worst part? You realized you didn’t feel much of anything anymore. No ache. No flutter. No rage. Just quiet. Like your heart had packed its bags long before your hands ever would.

Next week was normal, it felt natural. But two weeks later Namjoon was leaving again. And with him, his word of trying too. And your empathy and understanding were no longer there. Because words meant nothing anymore. Because love can survive almost anything— except being met with indifference

< Two weeks ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with nothing.

No fight. No harsh words. Just a missed message. A day passes. Then two. You didn’t text first. You told yourself it wasn’t a test—but of course it was. Not the childish kind. Not a game. Just a quiet question you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud:

If I stop trying… will he even notice?

The weekend blurred. You worked a long day at the gallery, came home to a half-empty apartment, cooked yourself pasta you didn’t finish. The wine bottle you two opened earlier that week still sat on the counter, uncorked and flat. You kept checking your phone, out of habit more than hope. But there was nothing.

No hey, how’s your day?

No sorry, been crazy, thinking of you.

Not even a meme, a song, a voice note.

It felt surreal. The kind of surreal that doesn’t hurt yet, just itches at the edges. Like something vital is missing but you don’t realize it until you go to touch it.

On the third day, You ran into Sophie, your coworker of years, the one you almost tell everything. You two chatted about curation and studio space until she tilted her head and asked, “How’s Namjoon?”

You smiled too quickly. “Busy.”

Sophie nodded, awkward. “You two are so… I don’t know. Solid. I love that.”

You laughed, soft and brittle. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You didn’t mean to lie. You just weren’t sure what the truth was anymore.

That night, you lay in bed scrolling through old photos of the two of you. Namjoon at the park in spring, lying in the grass, one arm shielding his face from the sun. Namjoon holding a cat that didn’t like him, grinning anyway. Namjoon in your old kitchen, burning pancakes, laughing while you mocked him. It used to be like that. We used to be like that.

At 1:23 a.m., you turned off your phone. Not out of drama, but fatigue. Not to make a point. Just because the ache of waiting was heavier than the ache of stopping.

He finally texted on the fourth day.

Namjoon: Hey. Sorry, this week’s been brutal. Everything okay?

You stared at it.

Not I missed you.

Not I’m sorry for going silent.

Just… a check-in. Like you were a loose appointment on a calendar he’d finally flipped back to. You could’ve said so many things. But all you wrote was:

You: All good. You?

He replied twenty minutes later.

Namjoon: Tired. Always tired lol.

You didn’t write back.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even sad. Just… done.

Not the kind of done that comes from bitterness or rage. The kind that comes from knowing. From finally understanding that what you’d been holding together with two hands for months was already slipping through the cracks, because he wasn’t holding it with you. Because loving someone isn’t enough if they don’t love you back in the same language, with the same weight.

And sometimes, silence tells you everything you need to know.

< Three days ago. Seoul, Korea >

The apartment was too quiet when Namjoon came home. It was almost midnight, but every light was on. He kicked off his sneakers by the door, half-listening to the click of the lock behind him, the low hum of the refrigerator. He spotted you at the dining table, still as glass. Your coat was still on. Your hair pinned up like you hadn’t touched it since morning. There was a glass of wine in front of you, mostly full. You weren’t drinking it.

“Y/n?” He stepped toward you, rubbing his temple. “Hey. Today was a nightmare, my phone died in the studio, then we lost the mix and—”

“Namjoon.”

The way you said it. Low. Level. Like a wire pulled tight. He looked at you properly now. And he saw it. Not the exhaustion—he was used to that. But something else. Something quieter, colder. Final.

He straightened. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him with eyes that looked like they’d already wept and dried a hundred times in silence.

“We need to talk,” you said.

He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 11:43 p.m.

“I leave for Tokyo in six hours,” he said gently. “Can this wait?”

“No,” you said. “It can’t.”

At first it was small things. Your voice low, steady, almost rehearsed. It started with you asking questions.

Did he know how long it had been since you spent a whole day together? Did he remember the last time you two laughed without checking the time? Did he remember you, even—outside of the girlfriend title, outside of the steady, convenient role you played in the margins of his life?

He got defensive. You got louder.

And then it all came out… The missed dinners. The forgotten promises. The way he used to look at you like you were art, and now you felt like a painting nobody wanted to take.

“You think I’m being dramatic,” you snapped. “But I’ve been trying for months, Namjoon. You didn’t even notice I was disappearing.”

He paced. Ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not true. Don’t make this into—”

“What?” you shouted. “Into what it is?”

“I’ve been doing everything I can to keep things together—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’ve been doing everything you can to keep your life together. Your job, your music, your deadlines. And you expect me to just—what—applaud from the sidelines while I shrink myself smaller and smaller so I don’t get in the way?”

Namjoon threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you want from me anymore, Y/n!”

Your voice cracked. “I want you to do something!” He stared at you, stunned. “I want you to stop making me the only one sacrificing,” you said, trembling. “I want you to stop treating this like a luxury—like love is this extra thing you do when your calendar clears.”

“I’m not choosing work over you.”

“You are,” you said. “You just won’t admit it because your dream looks noble, and my hurt looks selfish.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. “So what, you want me to blow up my career? Throw a tantrum? Cancel everything and make myself the bad guy—what, to prove a point?”

You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Not always. Not recklessly. But yes—once in a while, yes!” He opened his mouth, but you didn’t stop. “I want you to risk something! Just once. Not because I asked. Because you want to. Because being here, with me, matters enough to make other people mad. To screw up your schedule. To miss a flight. To let someone down who isn’t me.”

His mouth opened. Closed. You could see it—he wanted to fix it, say something, anything, but there was nothing left that words could fix.

You went on, quiet now, your voice laced with every scar.

“I’ve missed meetings. I’ve rescheduled events. I’ve lied to clients and board members because you needed me. I’ve left rooms I fought to be in. I’ve given things up—not because you asked me to, but because I love you. And I thought… if I just held on a little longer, you’d meet me halfway.” Your voice broke then. “I don’t want perfection. I don’t want you to quit. I want you to want me enough to inconvenience yourself.”

Silence. It was heavy, crushing.

Namjoon looked away, jaw clenched. “So what—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t keep doing this alone.”

He looked at you like you’d struck him. “You’re not alone. That’s not what this is.” He shook his head, searching for words. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you whispered. Silence fell between you two again. You turned from him, brushing your hands down the front of your coat like you were smoothing your own rage. “You love me when it’s easy,” you said. “When I’m quiet, supportive, soft. When I don’t ask you to make space. But the moment I need more, I become a burden. An inconvenience. You treat me like a child who needs attention, not your partner who is asking you for a basic thing.”

“That’s not what this is,” he said, stepping forward. You didn’t move. He lowered his voice. “Y/n, I’m under so much pressure right now. I didn’t think—”

“I know you didn’t think,” you said. “That’s the problem.” Your voice broke again, and he flinched. “I thought we were building something. I thought this was real. But now? Now it feels like I’m holding all the weight while you fly above it all. And you don’t even look down.” Namjoon was silent for a moment. “Say something,” you said, almost begging.

He ran his hands through his hair again. “I can’t fix this tonight. I have to go. I have a flight—”

“I know,” you said softly. “You always have to go.”

He stepped toward you. “Please. When I get back, I’ll fix this. We’ll take time. I’ll plan something. I’ll make this right.” You didn’t answer. He reached for your hand. “Y/n… please. Say something.”

You looked down at his fingers touching yours. But you didn’t hold them back. Because this wasn’t a pause in the storm. This was the end of the rain. He’d leave. And you’d still be here. Alone. Picking up the pieces of a love that had been cracking for months while he sprinted toward a future that no longer had room for you.

“Just go, Namjoon,” you whispered.

“I’m coming back,” he said, almost desperate now. “I’ll fix this—”

But you turned away. Not because you wanted to hurt him. Because you knew: you’d already left a thousand times in your mind. You were just finally listening to yourself.

The tears didn’t come right away. Not that day, or the next. Because this wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that arrived in an instant. This was the heartbreak of staying too long. Of trying too hard. Of loving someone who didn’t even realize they were letting go. You looked around the apartment—your shared apartment—and thought of all the promises you had made in silence. All the ways you had made yourself small to keep you two alive. And then you walked to the closet, pulled out your suitcase, and continued what you had started days ago in your head.

The slow, deliberate act of leaving.

The familiar click of the key turning in the lock was supposed to bring relief — a signal that he was finally home. Instead, it felt like the first note of a dirge. Namjoon pushed open the door, the creak sharp in the stillness. The air inside was colder than he remembered, stripped of warmth. His boots echoed on the hardwood floor, too loud in the silence that swallowed the apartment whole.

He set down his luggage by the door, eyes searching the space instinctively for some sign of life. The small collection of framed photos on the wall — now oddly bare — caught his eye. His breath hitched. The couch where you two used to curl up together was devoid of the usual scatter of blankets and pillows. The side table was clear except for a lone coaster. He moved deeper in, heart thumping unevenly, the pit in his stomach widening. The soft glow of streetlights filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows over the empty rooms.

In the kitchen, his eyes darted to the counter. The bottle of wine from three days ago — gone. The small dishes you always left soaking in the sink — all cleared away.

His throat tightened, a sudden chill crawling over him. He stepped into the dining area. There — a half-packed suitcase sat on the chair, its contents sparse, folded with a cold kind of care. Clothes he didn’t recognize, a scarf you must have left behind, and the space where your things used to overflow. His hands shook as he reached toward the fabric, but recoiled before touching it.

Suddenly, a cold wave of panic swept over him, dragging his breath into a tight, ragged gasp.

“No,” he whispered, voice trembling.

He stumbled back, clutching the wall to steady himself. You’re gone. The weight of it crashed down like a falling building. He pulled out his phone with shaking hands, desperate to hear your voice, see any sign that this was a mistake, that maybe you had a last minute trip, an emergency. Maybe it was a bad dream.

He dialed your number. Ring. Ring But the line never connected. A terse message flashed on the screen.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

He pressed buttons frantically, trying again, but it was the same.

His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs. He sank to the floor, hands pressed over his face as tears began to fall. His breath came quick, shallow, uneven. A tightening gripped his chest. His vision blurred. He tried to focus on something — anything — but the room spun, the walls closing in.

Please, please, he thought, don’t let this be real.

But it was. The apartment, the ring, the suitcase — everything was proof. And now, the cruelest truth of all: he couldn’t reach you. You had cut him off completely. You didn’t want to see him. Panic seized him fully, and he couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked his body as he crumpled into himself on the floor. He gasped, his hands shook as he reached toward his drawer to grab the little box that was under all his mess. The small velvet box, its lid slightly open. The engagement ring gleamed like a painful secret. He was supposed to asked you this week. You were supposed to be here. “I’m sorry.” he sobbed, his voice breaking through the silence.

He closed his eyes, wishing desperately for a second chance, a sign, anything that could undo the emptiness you left behind. But the only sound was the echo of his own heartbreak.

How could he fix it?.

Namjoon sat on the cold floor for what felt like hours, clutching the engagement ring box like a lifeline. The panic slowly ebbed into a crushing weight — exhaustion threading through his grief. Finally, wiping the tears from his face with trembling hands, he forced himself to stand. He needed to find you.

The cold night air stung Namjoon’s cheeks as he stepped out of the apartment building. His legs still trembled from the panic attack that had clawed at his chest moments before, and his fingers trembled as he pulled the small velvet box from his pocket again—the engagement ring, a symbol of everything he thought he could fix but had only ever endangered. He didn’t know what he expected when he arrived at the gallery — maybe to find you there, or maybe just to stand in the place that had once held your laughter, your quiet moments of shared wonder. It was worst. You were actually there.

The gallery’s lights were low, the air tinged with the faint scent of turpentine and old paper. Chairs had been stacked and art pieces carefully covered, but the quiet hum of closing time lingered like a fragile bubble waiting to burst. He stood just inside the door, clutching the small velvet box in his palm, as if it alone could hold together the pieces of everything breaking inside him. You sat behind the receptionist desk, your shoulders slumped beneath the weight of exhaustion. The sharp lines around your eyes had deepened, etched by months of sleepless nights and silent compromises.

When you saw him, a flicker of surprise and something colder flashed across your face. You said his name quietly, without invitation.

“Namjoon.”

He swallowed hard, stepping forward. “Y/n, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for everything — for the time I missed, the promises I broke, for making you feel like you weren’t enough.”

You didn’t meet his eyes. “Namjoon, I have a lot of work—.”

“Please—”

“I don’t want to hear you. I’m not in the mood.”

“Y/n.”

“What?!” you exploded, looking at him. “I don’t want to hear more words. I’m tired of hearing you out.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “But I mean it, every time. But this — us — it’s the most important thing in my life. I’ve been a fool to let everything else swallow me up.”

Your fingers drummed on the desk, sharp and impatient. “You say all the right things when you want something. But what about the times you didn’t? The times I was waiting, and you were gone?”

He bit his lip, desperate. “I was caught up, I know. But I want to fix it. I want to make it right.”

You looked up then, eyes tired but steady. “Fix it? Namjoon, you can’t fix things with words. Your words don’t mean anything anymore.”

“I’m willing to try,” he pleaded. “Every day, every moment. I’ll change — I’ll be better. I swear it.”

Your laugh was bitter. “You say that like it’s a choice. Like you can just flip a switch.”

“I know it’s not that simple. But I’m trying — I’m really trying.”

Your gaze sharpened, a flicker of something distant in your eyes. “Trying feels like a job you clock out from. Like it’s not me you’re fighting for, but your own guilt.”

Namjoon’s throat tightened. “I want it to be you.”

You exhaled slowly. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding here?”

He reached out, but you pulled back, a wall rising between the two of you.

“Y/n, please. I love you. I know I don’t deserve your patience, but I’m begging you — don’t give up on us. Not like this.”

Your eyes shimmered with tears now, but your voice was cold. “Namjoon, I’m done.” you said. “I’m tired of being the only one who shows up. I’m tired of carrying us when you’re too busy to hold my hand.”

The words hit him like a blade.

Namjoon closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I’m sorry I made you doubt us.”

You shook your head, voice shaking. “It’s more than doubt. It’s exhaustion. I’m worn down, Namjoon. So worn down.”

His lips pouted, he tried to clean his tears. “I don’t want to lose you— ”

“You already did.”

There was a silence. Hard. Cold. The way you looked at him, like a decision was already made. Like leaving him was something you had planned for months and finally got the courage to do it. It break him.

He took a deep breath. Then, in a fast and crude way took your hand to put the velvet box you already knew very well.

“If you’re leaving,” he said, voice breaking, “take this with you. It’s yours. Always was.”

You stared at your hand, your throats tightened. And you thought how of a bitch he was for making you do that.

“It was never mine.” You pushed to his chest with anger. Leave

He wanted to beg, to get on his knees and fight for you. But the way you were looking at him. The way you were so exhausted, the way you were angry. He knew he couldn’t make you change your mind in the moment, not when you were so out of reach with your mind and heart— so far away from him.

And just like that, the distance became unbridgeable.

< Three months later. Seoul, Korea. >

The city had softened by spring. The cold that once clung to the buildings like regret had lifted, replaced by light that poured between high-rises and cracked sidewalks like apology. You crossed the street with your coat half-buttoned, a coffee in one hand, the hem of your skirt brushing your legs with each careful step. Your heels clicked a quiet rhythm, one that no longer needed to keep pace with anyone else.

You had moved. Not far — just far enough to start again. A new apartment, a quieter part of town. You still worked at the gallery, but now you curated independently, traveling to other cities for new artists, giving talks where your voice didn’t tremble anymore. You were learning how to live without waiting. You didn’t think about him as much anymore — not like you used to. But sometimes, still, in the stretch of silence between waking and sleep, he would appear in your mind like a fading note of music. Still familiar. Still unfinished.

It didn’t hurt that much anymore. Because you knew he regret it. He was still looking for a way of calling you, sometimes sending you coffee or things you had forgotten in your shared apartment. You hadn’t being able to unblock him, not really looking for another conversation where you knew would just revive everything that had happened. Specially since it was still new. But you tried to keep your mind busy and away from him.

And it was working— at least a little bit.

That day, your last meeting ended early, and you found yourself walking through a museum you hadn’t visited in years. No one knew you were there. No one expected you. You wandered slowly, the hush of the gallery pressing gently around you like a blanket. And then — like muscle memory — you turned the corner and froze.

There he was. Kim Namjoon.

Standing alone in front of a large canvas, hair longer, posture more closed. He looked like someone who had learned how to carry regret without crumbling under it. He saw you immediately. And before you could make a run, he was walking slowly to you. Standing just in front. And you could have left. Should have. But you didn’t. You two stood there in silence for a beat — not the old silence, thick with grief and expectation. This one was gentler. Like you two were ghosts in a place that had once belonged to both.

“Hey.” you said softly.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

Another pause.

You nodded toward the painting. “You still come here?”

“Sometimes.” His voice was rough. “It’s quieter than my apartment.”

A sad smile tugged at your lips. “It always was.” Silence again. “I heard about your solo project,” you said, eyes meeting his. “The foundation. The benefit shows. That’s… big.”

Namjoon shrugged, sheepish. “It felt like the first thing I did for someone other than myself.” You nodded. Then he said it — gently, carefully: “I miss you.” You didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything. He looked down. “I wasn’t brave enough.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “No,” you finally said. “You weren’t.”

He blinked. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” your voice was soft. “But I think I spent a long time trying to forgive you before you’d even asked for it.”

He looked like he might cry — but didn’t. You stood there, letting the quiet settle in again.

“I’m sorry.”

Finally, you smiled and took a step back. “Take care of yourself, Namjoon.”

He gave you a nod, tight and broken. “You too.”

You turned to leave but he was quick to grabbed your wrist. You looked back confused. Namjoon had a broken gaze and looked nervous. like he was about to break.

“What are you—.”

“Before you leave. I need to say it. Finally. I need to do something.” You didn’t move. “I’ve been waiting days around your gallery wondering how to tell you this and I found you here just like this… It can’t be casual— I need to tell you” he sighed, eyes getting glassy. “You left, and I didn’t stop you. I didn’t even reach out— Not because I didn’t care. Because I was a coward. I thought if I stayed quiet, if I didn’t fight… I wouldn’t lose. But I did.”

“Look Namjoon—“ You looked away but he kept talking, cutting you off.

“You asked me to risk something and I didn’t. You asked me to do something and I stood there like a goddamn statue. I was an idiot, I’m thought— I don’t know why I didn’t fought harder and I regret it every second. But I’m here now. And I’m risking everything.”

You frowned confused. “What exactly do you think is left to fight for?” you said, voice like a bruise. “There’s nothing now, Namjoon.”

He stepped closer—just one step, but it felt like a hundred miles. He kept holding your wrist “You, you’re the only thing left I want, even if it’s your hate and resentment. Even if you just want to punch me in the face and scream at me or give me the silent treatment. I’ll take it, I swear I’ll take it. I’ll take anything from you, anything I can have… And I see it now—I see you. Everything you gave. Everything I didn’t.” His voice cracked. “You told me I was losing you. And I just let it happen. I kept waiting for something to change on its own. But love isn’t autopilot. It’s not maintenance. It’s war. It’s showing up.”

You shook your head. “There nothing anymore. Why are you telling me this now?”

He didn’t blink. “Because this time, I’ll risk being wrong. I’ll risk hearing no. I’ll risk everything I should’ve risked when you still believed in me— I love you,” he said. “And I’m not asking you to forget what I didn’t do. I’m asking you to give me one chance to do something now. To fight for you the way you fought for me. Because I swear to god, Y/n— I’ll risk everything for you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was holding its breath.

You looked at him like you didn’t recognize him. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe now, this time … he was someone new.

i’m so in love with open endings rn

now bitch why tf i can’t write more than 1k paragraphs tfff???? i had to delete so many shit and make the paragraphs bigger i hate itttt

but anyway here’s a namjoon silly little story that i was going to make it a long fic with lot of parts but thought it would be better as just one. i hope you like it >_< my man fr (let’s hate him on here a lil bit tho)

also, i studied art history for a month so don’t quote me on the comments of the artist cuz i don’t know shit i was just trying to be quirky and shit,, also with the books 😓🙏🏼

#bangtan x reader #bts x reader #bts one shot #bts fanfic #reader x namjoon #reader x kim namjoon #reader x rm #rm x reader #kim namjoon x reader #namjoon x reader #knj x reader #knj one shot #namjoon one shot #namjoon fanfic #kim namjoon fanfic #kim namjoon #namjoon oneshot #namjoon

645 notes · View notes

seokiesprettygirl · 11 months ago

Text

Kim Fucking Namjoon | KNJ

Please proceed with caution. This is a 18+ nsfw piece. I won’t spoil anything here. Had this in my head since I saw those pics from Hoseoks party. Haven’t spelled checked and haven’t written like this in ages so I hope it makes sense and is good enough!

‘You are out of your mind! You know exactly who will be at that party. I am not going!’ You answered your best friend sitting on your bed whilst she was going through your wardrobe.

‘Please, please I am begging you! You know Hoseok invited me? He called me and made sure I will be there! What if tonight is the night?!’ Yu-jin pouted at you, with a begging hands.

‘What do you even mean THE night?’ You rolled your eyes at her and threw yourself back at the bed.

‘What if he kisses me tonight? What if he finally makes a move and I won’t be there because you won’t go!’ Her voice was really desperate and she was trying to hide all of the excitement she was holding inside.

‘You can still go! Just without me. I wasn’t invited, I was supposed to be your plus one anyway’ you answered sighing loudly. You wanted to go, but you also knew who you could bump into at this party. The guy who you worked with few times and who also happens to be a best friend of your best friends crush. Its not that you hated him. But you definitely weren’t fond of him and wanted to avoid him. The man was trouble. Every time you had to work together he would come up with excuses or would refuse to cooperate. He was always late and he just simply annoyed the fuck out of you. Luckily the feeling was mutual. Because Hoseok told Yu-jin that he wasn’t keen on you either.

Kim Namjoon. Tall, incredibly wide shoulders and dark hair. Smoky, sleepy dark eyes and the perfect jaw line. Perfect looks, yet so fucking annoying.

‘Please, please. I promise I will keep you away from him and I won’t leave you on your own for too long’ she was about to say she won’t leave you at all but you both knew that it won’t be the case. Because the second Hoseok will wave at her she will run and leave you behind. And you couldn’t blame her. He was really good looking, he was successful and he did treat her really well. There was never a game that he would play with her. His intentions were pretty clear to everyone.

You rolled your eyes and sat back up on the bed.

‘Fine…’ you decided. Why would you avoid a great party, a little boogie and a drink because this jerk might be there? And even if he is, its not like he will come to harass you. It will be fine. If you will have to converse you will be civil. You bet he will be late anyway, like he always was.

‘I love love looooooove you’ Yu-jin jumped on you and tackled you down onto the bed ‘You are the best’ she giggled right into your face. You and Yu-jin have been friends for years, pretty much since school. You never left each others sides, even with careers going on and moving out of your family homes you were always there for each other. Even when her dad passed, you took care of their family and helped cook for them for few months. You were inseparable so it was natural for Yu-jin wanting to be on a very important party of her probably future boyfriend. Maybe even husband.

‘Pick my outfit though’ you moaned and pushed her off yourself. She sprang up to your wardrobe and she already had eyed out black dress with long sleeves and pair of sneakers paired with it. It was the cool kind of outfit you could never pick yourself but she was a master in this. She was the cool stylish one who would buy and gift you tons of stuff that she knew you could pull off but were too scared to experiment yourself.

You both arrived in front of the building and got out of the car. You have straightened your dress and fixed your hair. Both of you checked your make up and were ready to go in.

You have showed your invitation at the door and went on the top floor of the building in the lift. You were nervous. Yu-jin was excited. As always the absolute opposites. You took a deep breath as the lift reached the top floor, the door dinged and you could heard loud music already blasting. Yu-jin left first and you followed her, another person asked for the invitations which you both showed and received a bracelet to be let in. It was long until you heard the man squeak and run towards the two of you. His hair done wet like style, denim outfit, chunky shoes and shades. He did look like a king of this party.

‘Its so good to see you both! So glad you made it! Yu-jin, you look so good baby’ he commented on her looks. He always showered her in compliments and it was great to see her being treasured. ‘You both do. Thank you so much for coming. Cocktails are on this side, snacks on the other. Yu-jin I will grab you in a bit okay? I need to welcome all the guests. Get yourself a drink and I will be right with you okay?’ He was so reassuring, made sure she felt special and taken care if. She nodded and smiled widely at him. He always took her words away, she was so stunned around him, so shy. Not the Yu-jin you know. You both swiftly moved away to the cocktail bar. You scanned the room to see if there was anyone who you known. There were few people that you knew of. No sight of him. Thank fuck. You ordered your cocktail, and as you were just chatting to the bartender and then Yu-jin patted your shoulder.

‘Im so sorry..’ she whispered and you knew what was coming. But just as you promised yourself at home, you wouldn’t let this spoil your night. You were here for Hoseok and your friend and a little bit of good time. You turned around and then he was, at the entrance that you and Yu-jin just were few minutes ago. Top to bottom dark jeans, oversized t-shirt, long hair dark hair. Slightly overgrown. He was talking to Hoseok and scanned the room himself. He stopped at you. Your eyes locked for just a second. Fuck. You were hoping to go by unnoticed.

There she is. He thought already annoyed at your sight. Fuck, she will be as annoying as always he thought to himself.

He moved away from Hoseok and moved towards a group of men standing on the side. He didn’t break the eye contact though. He was still staring at you. And you couldn’t let him win. He made you so competitive. Fuck he is so annoying even from so far away. You rolled your eyes and turned around back to the bar. You took a big sip of your cocktail.

‘Its fine Yu-jin, we both knew this is going to happen’ you said to your friend and continued on sipping on your drink. You definitely needed liquid courage to be able to walk about and dance on this party, in the outfit you were in, in front of a guy you really disliked. You moved along with the drink and your friend and she spotted few people she knew and wanted to say hello to. And all you could feel was his eyes on you. Even when you weren’t facing him, you could just feel him staring. It was uncomfortable but at the same time it has given you this weird confidence.

Eventually Hoseok came and grabbed Yu-jin as he promised and he basically didn’t leave her side the entire night. They would go up together to different people and he would introduce her. They did disappear at some point completely, you lost them and panicked a little. She promised not to leave you for good and as you were turning around to look for her, you were stopped by him.

Kim Namjoon. Fuck. He appeared right in front of you. Out of no where.

‘Nice to see you’ he hissed through his clenched jaw. You could hear his teeth grind. Why is he here and talking to you. You thought it was obvious to avoid each other and maybe pretend you don’t know each other at all. Why was he polite? You weren’t buying his bullshit.

‘Im afraid im not able to say the same’ you looked down on him. You took another sip of your drink for extra courage. No way he is going to spoil your night.

‘As polite as always I see’ he hissed back and moved away. He went around you and ordered a drink from the bartender. Of course, he couldn’t avoid you because you were stuck like a leech to the bar. You grabbed your drink and moved away. It didn’t take long and someone approached you. Also quite tall. Piercing in his lip, tattoos on his arm. Dark clothes, thick chain around his neck, drink in his hand.

‘I was told to take care of you’ he whispered to your ear. You froze. What the hell?

‘Who are you and who told you that?’ You were surprised, it wasn’t him so you weren’t completely closed off to talk to anyone else. Anyone but him.

‘Yu-jin told me to hang around for a bit. Her and Hoseok went.. to his studio. I think he will finally make things official’ you were stunned. Who is this guy. He was nice and sweet and he knew details about your friend. Wait Yu-jin told him what? ‘Jungkook’ he added at the end. Jungkook. Jungkook. You tried to remember if she ever mentioned anyone with that name. He put his hand on your waist. You froze again. ‘i was supposed to keep Namjoon away’ he added. Yu-jin im going to kill you, you thought to yourself but you were happy to take any help at this stage. You turned around to him, keeping his hand on your waist and smiled politely.

‘I see. I also see you have been let in on all my secrets’ you chuckled and continued on your cocktail.

At that very second, when you were chuckling whilst Jungkook hand was resting on your waist Kim Namjoon has turned around from the bar to look around. Scanned the room and saw exactly that picture. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his drink a little bit too hard, he broke the glass and spilled the whiskey that was in it. It didn’t look like he hurt himself. He apologised to the bartender and ordered another drink. You noticed in the corner of your eye that he was still staring. It didn’t take long for him to approach. Of course, he couldn’t stay the fuck away could he?

‘Jungkookie, i didnt know you had a date’ he chuckled at the sight of the two of you.

‘I don’t have to tell you everything do I?’ He answered and grabbed you a little closer. You were staring at Namjoon, and he was staring staring at you. The surroundings became unbearable and steamy.

‘I didn’t know you knew each other’ you gasped and wrapped yourself around Jungkook. He wasn’t expecting that so he smirked a little when he felt your body getting closer to his. Namjoons jaw clenched again.

‘For years now’ he answered and scanned you and Jungkook up and down. He knew. He smelled it. He found out this was only a play. If Jungkook didnt smirk with a triumph like that maybe he would have been fooled. ‘Enjoy you two’ he raised his glass slightly and moved away. You could have breathing again, so you exhaled loudly.

‘What the fuck is wrong with the two of you? You really do hate each other’ Jungkook commented, partially amused at the situation and sipped on his drink. The music stopped and Hoseok appeared around the main area of the party. All lights on him.

‘Thank you for coming everyone. We will play few songs from the new album now. I hope you enjoy’ he bowed down and he went away. The music started, the lights went off again. And you felt really warm. Incredibly warm. You needed a breath of fresh air or water at your neck. You looked around and spotted a corridor leading to the bathrooms. You started walking towards it. As you started moving, you felt a pair of eyes on you. And after that movement in the corner of your eye. You rushed towards the bathrooms, closed the first door behind you and you could hear the steps behind you. You entered the bathroom and instantly opened the tap to spray some water on yourself. Then you looked at your self in the mirror for a brief moment. The door opened right behind you. And there he was. Kim fucking Namjoon.

‘What the fuck is your problem?!’ He hissed at you, half shouting and walking towards you. His movements slow but he was confidently putting one foot in front of the other, staring directly at your face in the mirror. His face seemed emotionless at first, but then his brows furrowed and his lips turining into a smirk.

‘What the fuck is YOUR problem?! This is ladys room by the way’ you answered with the same anger as he brought in. He had no right to follow you, he also had no right to be in womens bathrooms. Yet, somehow he didn’t care about either of those facts at all.

‘Why the fuck would you act like this?’ He kept walking and nearly shouting at you. The temperature raising in the room. The tension growing like crazy because this fucking idiot was right there shouting at you. You hated his guts but at this right moment, he was insanely hot. The angrier he was getting the more you felt yourself getting wet. What the fuck. Its the most annoying guy you know, why would he make you feel like this?! ‘Why would wear something like this?’ He hissed again when he didn’t get an answer ‘and the Jungkook theatre?! Are you out of your mind?’ He continued and pointed outside when he mentioned Jungkook. What the hell was I wearing? How dares he even mention something like this. Why would he care who you were hanging out with and what was your plan.

‘Why are you even here? Why do you care?!’ You answered completely confused and out of breath as you were still really warm and dizzy.

But it was about to continue because he was now right in front of you. Nearly leaning over your, staring directly into your eyes. You were furious and so was he. Your breath started to pick up a faster pace, you noticed sweat on his forehead and him aggresively licking his lips. You bit your bottom lip seeing him all angry like that. It was insane. The air grew thicker as he kept just looking for something in your eyes. Some kind of answer, maybe a hint or sign. And something in that tension broke because he smashed his lips on yours and sat you up on the sink.

‘What the fuck?!’ You hissed and you pushed him away, trying to slowly slide down th esink. He was so annoying. So annoyingly hot. So annoying. No no. You cant be this weak. You have your rules and you know better than this. Better than to be swayed by a guy who despised everything about you and you about him. And then he came back, smashed his lips against yours AGAIN and you didn’t refuse this time. Fast breathing, his hands on your legs, smoothly making their way up. His tongue down your throat, your hand on his neck and the other in his long hair. Steamy. Steamy was the feeling, the room, the way he kissed. You were both really grabby about each other now. Both really hungry of the other, hungry of touch. He picked you up holding your ass and he walked with you to a cubicle and he shut the door behind him. He sat on the closed toilet and he sat you on top of him facing him. You bit his lip and moved to his neck, slowly licking and kissing up towards the back of his ear and he whined. This single act made him whine out loud. His hands explored your ass and when he got bored he moved under your dress and moved your underwear to the side. His tongue again back deep down you throat, and the second he touched you, you whimpered into his mouth. Hearing you moan made him smrik, still deeply entertained by your lips and mouth. He really wanted to play the long game but the anticipation and tension between the two of you for weeks has made it impossible. He slid his two fingers inside you and as he did so, you moaned into his mouth and he stopped kissing you.

‘You slut’ he hissed and you completely ignored what he just said to you. You slid his trousers slightly, just enough to gain access and pulled his rock hard dick that was ready for you there and there. He didn’t expect it, he opened his mouth and stared at you for a second as you started going with your hand up and down the length of it. He moved his fingers again and felt how wet you turned. You threw your head back when he started moving again. Fuck. Fuck you. You gained a little bit of clarity in your head.

‘I hate you’ you said irritated straight into his face.

‘I know’ he responded and he took his fingers out of you. He moved your hand away from his cock and lifted you slightly, his trousers fell lower down to his knees and he placed you on top of him. You poked your hand under yourself to aim him right and he just let go of you and you fell right onto him, his dick sliding into you at a fast paste and your body jerked trying to adjust to him. He gasped quietly and looked deep into your eyes. You locked your eyes with his as he slowly started moving inside you. The more pace he picked up, the more you couldn’t hold your facial expression. You leaned into him, attacking his lips and moaning in between his movements. He finally came to his senses and places one hand on your hip and the other on your ass and as he started ramming into you, you bouncing on top of him he kept kissing you back, he kept kissing your chin and your cheek, whatever was closer at the moment. His grip tightened on you and he picked up the pace even more, the both of your breathing loudly. He squeezed your ass and he felt you squeeze around him inside you. And as you closed your eyes and whispered ‘so close’, he picked up the pace to an insane speed and you were on the edge for a minute and then he switched one of his hands and squeezed your breast. That did it, you jerked your head to the back and closed your eyes moaning insanely loud and him kissing your neck helping you ride your high. And when you did and did see the stars, you looked down on him but the pace didn’t stop. You felt him slowly twitching and then you remembered, there wasn’t a condom break. There was nothing. You stopped him and got yourself off him, your juices slowly going town your leg. He looked at you with the biggest disgust at the same time with insane admiration. And then he pulled your hair and brought you all the way down to your knees and he opened your mouth with his finger and stuck himself in your mouth. No warning, no word. He was so close he needed to finish, and you were so hot, so slutty for him. He started fucking your throat and you let him, you put your tongue on top of him and sucked him off. It didn’t take long for him to come. You heard him grunt and moan and he finally came all the way down your throat. You swallowed everything you received. Your cheeks red, pink nose, hair messed up. You looked fucked. You were fucked. And you remained on your knees as he pulled himself together and then he helped you up, he tried putting your hair back to its best but he failed. And when you were about to unlock the door of the cubicle without a word he put a hand on yours and stopped you. He leaned you on the door and kissed you. But not harsh and aggressively like he did before. He kissed you like he really meant it, with care and he cupped your face and stroked it. He looked into your eyes, moved you to the side and left. He left you there. Without a word. Kim fucking Namjoon. What the fuck was that? You thought to yourself when you came to your senses and walked out. Checked yourself in the mirror and you did look fucked. You tried putting yourself together with the bits you had in your bag, but who were you fooling.

As Namjoon left the bathroom fixing himself and trying to look put together, Jungkook spotted him and approached him

‘Where have you been?’ He asked staring him down.

‘Just needed to fix some things’ he answered cryptically and moved on. Went towards the bar and ordered another drink.

Not long after you came out of the bathroom and Jungkook clocked what needed fixing. Based on the state of you he put 2 and 2 together and couldn’t stop giggling.

Yu-jin couldn’t find you. She really needed to tell you the good news and you were no where to be found. And then finally she found Jungkook giggling to himself.

‘Where is she?’ She asked.

‘Oh, uhm, just there’ he pointed at you leaving the bathroom trying to brush your dress down. He giggled again. ‘What the fuck happened to her?’ Yu-jin asked.

‘Namjoon’ Jungkook responded and moved away to find Hoseok.

‘We have a lot to talk about’ she said the second she approached.

‘I have no idea what youre talking about’ you were playing along, not about to tell your best friend you just fucked with the very man you were trying to avoid.

‘Me and Hoseok! Official!’ She jumped in place and you felt relieved because it was long time coming and also gave you the time to hopefully have her forget what she just saw.

‘Im so happy for you!’ You answered and hugged her. ‘Celebratory drink?’ You asked. You desperately needed to drink.

‘Lets get itttt’ Yu-jin was in the best of moods and decided not to ask about anything for now. For now.

The party went along, most of the guests disappeared and because Yi-jin wanted to close with Hoseok, you were tagging along.

‘We will just check if we took everything from the studio and will be right here okay?’ Your best friend announced and you nodded.

‘I will wait downstairs’ you added and went into the lift. Still deeply thinking about what happened few hours ago in the bathroom and trying to put the whole story toghether in your head you have made your way towards the lift. Of course. Your luck. Who was in the vert same lift?! Kim fucking Namjoon. The door closed, nobody else inside and he just approached you. Pushed you to the wall and kissed like there was no tomorrow.

‘Jagiya…’ he whined into your mouth. You were in shock. I mean the kissing was great but the name calling?

‘Namjoon are you drunk?’ You asked and he moved him slightly to the side, breaking the kiss.

‘No, i am really not. I just cant stop thinking about you’ he admitted, scratching the back of his head.

You didn’t know what to think about it. He was annoying and always late. But the chemistry the two of you had wasn’t normal. And you couldn’t just skip it, forget it, move on from it.

‘Fine, lets go home’ you said and you put your hand out so he would hold it, but he didn’t.

‘Let me ask you out properly first. Hoseok will rip me apart if he will find out… i will call you tomorrow?’ He asked. His eyes locked with yours, his facial expression was different too. He turned… sweet? Kim fucking Namjoon, annoying and always late. The man who infuriated you for the past few months and also the very same man who grunted few hours ago as you sucked him off, was now sweet and charming and… you loved it? What the fuck was wrong with you.

‘If you won’t, the ship will sail. There is only one chance with me’ you teased him and you left the lift and he followed. And you have met Hoseok and Yu-Jin staring at the two of you holding hands, with their mouths wide open. No fucking way.

‘So the part was what was actually needed huh?’ Hoseok smirked at the two of you and grabbed Yu-Jin closer to himself. You have immediately let go of Namjoons hand and he has taken two steps to the side from you. You looked at Yu-Jins face and you were expecting her to be surprised or angry or something. But she was just smiling. It all looked like they have planned all of this all along.

#bts #namjoon x reader #hoseok #fanfiction #fanfic #smut #rm #kim namjoon #jung hoseok #jhope #rm x reader

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tsukisrants · 2 years ago

Text

The Babysitter - Kim Namjoon

pairing: kim namjoon x afab! reader

word count: 5.2k

warnings: age gap (reader is 18 and nam is 27), babysitter!namjoon, daddy kink, dom/sub undertones, spit kink, verbal humiliation, degradation, praise, choking, face-slapping, hair-pulling, rough oral sex, rough sex, size kink, spanking, slight breeding kink, creampie.

snippet: “little girl isn’t so little anymore, huh?” he says, smirking as he gets closer to you.

"This is so ridiculous," you mutter. As you tidy up the room, folding the clothes that have been piled up for days, you repeat to yourself that all of this doesn't make sense. You're not a child anymore, and it's not fair for your parents to continue treating you as if you were one.

A babysitter. As if you were still eight years old. You sigh heavily, running a hand through your hair. You move it away from your face and turn to look at yourself in the mirror.

You're an adult now. But your parents don't seem to truly realize that.

They'll be away for the weekend and they don't trust leaving you alone at home completely. You, who were looking forward to enjoying some time for yourself, find yourself having to succumb to their paranoia and let this little dream of peace be swept away by the arrival of this damn babysitter.

"He's not a real babysitter, Y/N. It's just Namjoon, that dear boy, doing us a favor and keeping you company. Stop acting spoiled," you hear your mother's voice repeating incessantly, like an unstoppable litany that accompanies you with every step you take inside your room.

Namjoon. You haven't seen him in a long time now. A few years older than you, he earned some pocket money helping your parents with household chores and being your babysitter.

When you were eight, and he was seventeen. But now? Now you're eighteen, and he's twenty-seven. It even surprises you that he agreed.

He came back to town for some reason unknown to you, and your parents immediately roped him in (although your mother keeps insisting that he volunteered). Just the idea of seeing him again terrifies you, embarrasses you. He was your first crush, the one you hid behind walls to watch him do chores, the one who made you blush to the point where you could feel the skin on your cheeks burning.

You were truly pathetic, following him around like a lost little puppy.

But you were just a little girl at the time. Now, you are not anymore. So, as you change for the evening, you curse your parents and their stupid trip and their stupid fears.

You put on a pair of shorts and a hoodie and, with an expression of pure disdain, you leave your room, determined to hide there soon enough. As you descend the stairs, you hear voices echoing through the house.

Absentmindedly, you adjust your glasses, and immediately feel a shiver run through your body when, among two familiar voices, you hear a very different one: deep and raspy. It must be Namjoon.

You take a deep breath, then enter the living room. He’s there.

The three of them, immersed in conversation, don't realize you finally left your room and joined them. You take advantage of these moments in which they still haven’t noticed you to look at Namjoon as best you can.

He's a man now. Far from the boy you remember. He's tall, imposing. Beautiful. Incredibly beautiful, breathtakingly so. So beautiful it hurts.

Disheveled hair, powerful hands, and broad shoulders. Just looking at him, you feel small. Lost in admiration, you don't realize that your parents have stopped talking to him and that all the three of them are now looking at you.

You blush under their gaze. Under Namjoon's burning gaze. He looks at you from head to toe with an expression you can't decipher, and you nod a greeting, moving your head and attempting a smile.

When Namjoon returns your smile, for a brief moment you feel like you've returned to being that little girl who timidly asked her big brother (because that's what you were used to calling him) to help with homework, or to pick you up and carry you from one room to another when you pretended to be too tired from school to do it yourself.

He spoiled you like never before, and you're not sure if you can find traces of that sweet and sensitive boy on his face anymore. You’re not sure you mind.

As you two go on with what seems to be your own little staring contest, your parents leave the room to go get their bags and eventually leave. You stand in front of him, unsure of what to do or say.

He beats you to it, and his voice makes you squirm on your feet.

“Little girl isn’t so little anymore, huh?” he says, smirking as he gets closer to you. His words embarrass you, and once again you feel your cheeks burning.

One of his hands finds its place in your hair, tousling it just like he used to do when you were a child.

"Namjoon!" you exclaim, slapping his hand away. He tilts his head to the side, a mocking expression on his face. "Y/N!" he responds, mimicking you.

Then, he bursts into laughter. The thunderous sound caresses your body, and without even realizing it, you find yourself laughing along with him.

"You're not a kid anymore either," you let slip. In response, his smirk intensifies, and you roll your eyes.

Namjoon is about to reply or retort, but your parents interrupt him before he can do so. Your mom approaches you and hugs you, and you find yourself reminding her once again that she's not leaving the country to go to war, but for a love escape with your father. She silences you, and while your father chuckles and says goodbye to Namjoon, she shows all her concern and bids you farewell with another never ending list of recommendations.

When your parents finally leave the house, you release a sigh that you didn't know you were holding back.

You enjoy the peace that echoes in the house, but it doesn't last long: when you turn around, you are greeted by the sight of Namjoon sitting with his legs spread wide open on the couch, scrolling through his phone. You remain still for a moment, feeling insignificant in front of the scene before your eyes.

Namjoon doesn't pay attention to you, too busy fiddling with his phone. That is until he moves his head to push his hair away from his face and meets your gaze. "I'm ordering something to eat, kiddo. What do you prefer?" Namjoon asks, tapping the couch with his hand to signal you to come sit next to him.

You struggle to find an answer at first. Then, mumbling some excuses, you approach him. "I'm not a kid," you reply, before letting yourself fall onto the couch, keeping a few inches of space between your bodies.

Namjoon simply raises an eyebrow and nods in response. It's not convincing at all, and you huff, exasperated.

Adjusting your sweatshirt and pulling its edges to cover your legs as much as possible, you think about his question. Eating now seems impossible to you. Your stomach is in turmoil because of him, and you hate yourself for it.

You thought you had grown up, but now it doesn't seem that way anymore. Not with him so close. Namjoon makes you feel small and helpless just by being close to you.

And your mind starts to wonder how smaller you’d feel with him towering over you. You shake your head and push that thought away, shivers running down your spine just from thinking about him touching you.

"Pizza. Pizza will be good," you mutter, while also scrolling through your phone to try to distract yourself, at least a little.

Namjoon nods and orders for both of you. You're grateful that the search for food has kept you somewhat occupied. Namjoon is now looking at you.

You can't read his expression, but you only know that it weighs on your body.

As he looks at you, he tilts his head to the side, hinting at a smile. You talk for a while: he tells you about his travels, his adventures around the world. You get lost in listening to him, and between one story and another, there are jokes and small provocations.

But at the same time, lost in the conversation as you are, you feel time stand still: or rather, go back. When it's your turn to speak, you regain the enthusiasm you had when you were just a child, and his eyes don't miss a single movement of yours.

You swim in the pleasure of having all the attention on you, for you.

"You've grown up well, little princess," he murmurs after a while, and Namjoon messes up your hair again. You roll your eyes, sighing heavily.

"Stop it, I told you! I'm not eight years old anymore, you know?" you retort, and you almost stand up to stomp your feet on the ground out of frustration. Namjoon chuckles before running his tongue over his soft lips.

"Believe me, Y/N, I've noticed," he murmurs, as his eyes roam your body from head to toe, caressing your skin. You blush, and feel a warmth starting to build in your lower abdomen.

"But that doesn't mean you can't be my little princess, right? Like the old times, little one," Namjoon says, and his eyes start to darken, his gaze becoming more intense. You watch him discreetly adjust his pants, and your eyes widen at the thought of what that might mean.

Is he... getting turned on by this? Are you turning him on? But it can't be, not while he's talking to you like this. Yet, the scene in front of you seems clear enough.

You don't dare to do much, but you allow yourself to dream, to hope. You hope he might want you the same way you seem to be dreaming of him. You try to argue back, to find a way to respond to him, but you are interrupted by the doorbell ringing, snapping both of you out of your thoughts.

As you go to stand up and answer the door to the delivery person, you are stopped by Namjoon. His hand grabs your wrist, squeezing it tightly. He holds you in place, standing in front of him. His hand is so big that it completely immobilizes your wrist, wrapping around every inch of it.

You furrow your eyebrows and tilt your head to the side, confused by his gesture.

"Where do you think you're going?" Namjoon growls. "T-to open the door?" you respond, hesitantly.

"Not dressed like that, you're practically naked," he retorts, standing up himself. Still holding your wrist tightly, Namjoon is in front of you: your head at the level of his chest.

"I'll open it. You go get some glasses. Come on, go," he adds, before letting go of your arm and passing by you, leaving you alone in the living room. You hear him talking to the delivery guy, and you think back to the scene you just experienced.

Namjoon got jealous. He acted out of jealousy, and although it would usually annoy you, you can't help but smile and feel gratified. And maybe, a little excited too.

You hurry to do as he told you, driven by the desire to please him. You quickly move from the living room to the kitchen, grab two glasses and a couple of napkins, and return to the living room, placing everything on the coffee table in front of the couch. Namjoon joins you shortly after with the pizza boxes in his hands.

"Well done. Some things never change, huh? You'll always be my good girl," Namjoon praises you, and you almost choke on your own saliva, coughing like an idiot. He doesn't say anything, but you can't miss the satisfied expression on his face as he sees your reaction.

He places the boxes on the small table and then sits on the floor, on the carpet, motioning for you to do the same.

Of course, you comply. Obediently, you do as he says and sit next to Namjoon. He rewards you with a smile and a wink. In order to escape the pressure of this whole scene, you dive into the pizza, taking a bite and keeping your gaze low on the cardboard in front of you.

For a while, you eat in silence, exchanging light chatter and simply enjoying each other's company.

Then, Namjoon clears his throat.

You've finished eating by now, and you remain seated on the carpet with the TV on to keep you company. You look up to understand what he wants, and he chuckles, leaving you even more perplexed.

"You've got something on your face," he murmurs, pointing to your face. "Where?" you reply, alarmed, trying to hide your face behind your hands, embarrassed.

"I'll take care of it," Namjoon replies, slowly approaching you. You startle, and try to shake your head to let him know that there's no need for him to bother, and that you can take care of it yourself. But he doesn't accept objections.

"Let me do it, little one. I'm here for that, right? Namjoon is here to take care of you," he whispers, before grabbing your face with one hand and forcing you to look at him. A faint hiss escapes your lips at his words, and you wonder why his tone and way of speaking have such an effect on you. He rubs his thumb on your cheekbone before sliding it over the reddened skin of your face.

"There you go," Namjoon says, rubbing his thumb against the corner of your mouth. At this point, you're not even sure if you really got dirty. You realize that you don't care at all.

Not if Namjoon has his hands on you. "Be a good girl, Y/N, come on..."

You furrow your eyebrows, with your heart beating wildly.

You don't understand what he really wants, or maybe you don't want to understand.

"Open your mouth, baby. Clean up daddy's fingers," he urges, rubbing his thumb over your parted lips. You gasp, and suddenly you feel unable to breathe properly. You can’t believe your ears, can’t believe that this is actually happening.

You can’t believe you like it so much. You can’t believe it feels so fucking good.

“N-Namjoon-ie… I-I… what?” you mutter, confusion flooding your mind. He shakes his head, his expression stern and disapproving of your choice of words.

“That’s not my name, is it? What do you call me, little one?” he asks, finally shoving his thumb past your lips, rubbing it down your tongue before sliding it out your mouth and smearing spit over your lips and chin. You take a deep breath before finally giving in, arousal taking control of your body.

“D-daddy, please…” you stutter, shaking under his soft touch. He curses under his breath, his tongue poking at his cheek before sliding across his lips, wetting them.

“Please what, Y/N? What does my princess want?”

Fuck if you know. There’s not a single coherent thought in your mind right now, so you try to mumble out an answer of some sorts, only coming up with a few pleads and moans. He huffs out a laugh, so condescending and mean in the sweetest way possible.

“W-want you to…to take care of me. Daddy, please, take care of your little girl, just- whatever you want.” You are a little ashamed of the desperation with which you utter these words, but you can't stop yourself. Even the shame burning in your stomach is pleasurable: it arouses you to feel this way, desperate and pathetic for him.

And he likes it too, judging by his reaction. Judging by the curse he lets slip and the way his chest rises and falls quickly, his breath labored and out of control.

"Is that really what you want, sweetheart? Are you sure? Daddy wants to do bad things to you. All kind of dirty, nasty things to your tiny little body." You nod. Trembling like a leaf, you move closer to him, needing to have him by your side. The warmth emanating from his body is comforting, and you feel desperate to have him touch you.

"Do whatever you want to me, I trust you. You've always taken care of me, always. I-I want you to take me. Make me take it, make it hurt, anything.” Your words greatly gratify him, and are enough to make him snap definitively.

With one hand he grabs your neck, using his hold on you to bring you closer to his body. Then, your lips collide.

The moment they touch, you will never forget it.

"Fuck, babygirl, you taste so sweet," he grunts against your mouth, his hand around your neck tightening until you gasp, out of breath, and moan against his lips. Your hips move out of your control, trying somehow to meet with his.

“I’ll make it hurt, doll. Daddy will hurt you so good,” he says, and while he still is choking you, with the other hand he grabs your hair and pulls at it, forcing your head to follow his movements. Your neck is exposed, and his mouth is on you almost immediately.

His tongue flows freely over your skin, his teeth scraping against your neck before sinking in, biting you hard.

It hurts, damn it. So fucking painful, and you moan loudly, trembling uncontrollably on his legs. He bites you, sucking on the skin of your neck. The undeniable mark that you belong to him to mark your skin.

He abandons your neck and, moving away from it, Namjoon takes a few seconds to admire his artwork. He smiles satisfied, before pushing two of his fingers against the bruise forming on your skin. You flinch, gasping in pain that runs through your body.

"Thank me. Say thank you to your daddy for hurting you, come on. Show me how well you've grown, use your manners." Your eyes roll back into your head for a moment, as you breathe heavily at his words.

Your panties become increasingly wet, your pussy throbbing and begging for mercy. "T-Thank you, daddy. Thank you for hurting me, thank you..."

You’re fucking mess: there’s a drop of drool sliding down your swollen lips, your neck is exposed and your hair is all messy from when he pulled it.

“My pretty little slut, so well behaved. Daddy’s proud of you,” he says, before moving forwards to kiss your forehead. You smile at his gesture, your hands finally moving to touch him: you grabs his shirt and hold it in your hands, keeping him close to you.

“So desperate, aren’t you?” You nod, because there’s no point in denying the truth. You truly are desperate for him, and you like it. He’ll take good care of you, you just know it.

"What do you say, little one, do you want dessert? You've been good, so if you want, daddy will let you take his cock in your mouth, what do you say?" he whispers, stroking your cheek with his thumb, before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

As soon as his words register in your mind, you find yourself begging him. God, if you want it. You want to feel it in your mouth, you want him to use you, you want to make him feel good, to make him enjoy it, to be good for him. You want him to look at you with that look full of admiration, of desire.

You want his eyes always on you.

He smiles at your eagerness, before scooping you from your hips and forcing you to follow him near the couch. He sits there, legs wide open. You’re still on the floor, kneeling prettily between his spread thighs.

He grabs your hair and pushes your head down against his crotch, the gesture so harsh that you gasp against the fabric of his pants. You feel his hard cock against your face, and you nuzzle on it, moaning loudly.

While you rub your cheeks and nose against his clothed cock, he closes his legs, squeezing your head between his powerful thighs. It’s hard to breathe, but you manage.

“Just like that, little slut. Choke for me, smell my cock, fucking nuzzle on it.” In contrast with his words and harsh behavior, he pets your hair like one would do to a pet, making you cry out.

“Daddy, want it in my mouth, please…” Namjoon groans, before releasing your head from where it was being pushed down.

“Open up, stick your tongue out,” he orders as he unzips his pants, pulling his cock out of the confines of his black boxers. It’s so fucking thick, the tip wet and shining with pre-cum, veins popping as he slides his hand up and down his cock. Tongue out, you let saliva slide down from it till falls down your chin and even down to the carpet. He slaps his cock against your tongue, again and again.

He rubs the tip of it against your face, tracing it and smearing his juices over your skin, making your face all messy. “You look so slutty, little one. My princess so full of cock. Can’t wait to fuck your pussy,” he moans as he pushes your head down, forcing you to lick his length from the tips and then downwards.

“Take daddy’s balls into your mouth, pretty girl. Choke on them,” Namjoon says, forcing your mouth to open up to suckle at them. You do as he says, moaning helplessly and sucking on them, rubbing your tongue against the sensitive skin. While you do that, Namjoon keeps touching himself, grunting and moaning loudly.

Then, he stops. He quickly grabs his shirt and takes it off.

Now shirtless, he looks even hotter than before. He takes his cock away from you, and you cry out your disagreement, whining and protesting softly.

Your words die on the tip of your tongue when his hand collides with your cheek. He slaps you right on the face, making it turn to the side while you hiss in pain, tears filling up your eyes.

“Don’t you fucking dare act like a spoiled brat. You take what I give you, when I give it to you, do you understand?” When you fail to answer him out loud, only nodding your agreement, he shakes his head, making a clicking sound with his tongue. “Words, sweetheart. Do you understand?” Namjoon repeats, grabbing your chin harshly and turning your head to face him.

“Y-yes, daddy. I promise I’ll be good.”

Now it’s his turn to nod, before gently petting your cheek, right where he hit you a few moments before. You rub your cheek against his hand, almost purring. “Sweet little kitten,” he whispers, before bending down and grabbing you by the hips, forcing you to stand up.

“Strip.” Namjoon orders, falling down against the couch, going back to touching himself as he watches you.

Slowly, you comply: you strip under his burning gaze until you stand there completely naked, squirming in your place and blushing. He moans at the sight of you, his hand moving faster as he teases one of his nipples with his hand for a while.

He’s so hot it hurts. You feel the stickiness between your legs dripping down your thighs, and you rub them together to try and ease some of the pressure you’re feeling. He notices, and motions at you to get closer, before sliding down the couch and getting comfortable.

“Sit on daddy’s face, doll.”

Your legs almost give out as you hear him utter those words. You immediately comply, approaching him. When he notices your hesitation, unsure of what to do, he smiles sweetly at you. Then, he grabs you by the hips. As if you weigh nothing, he lifts you up and helps you straddle his face. It's embarrassing, and you blush deeply. He moans beneath your body, biting the inside of your thigh. You flinch, your hands immediately finding grip in his hair.

When his tongue finally meets your wet pussy, the moan that escapes you is almost pornographic. Your body trembles, and he starts licking you as if you were the most delicious and succulent dessert in the world. His tongue rubs against your skin, tasting you. His nose rubs against your pulsating clitoris, and the sensations you feel don't compare to any past experiences.

Namjoon is completely ruining you. Drops of your pleasure slide down his chin, and he licks your pussy with an unprecedented hunger. He pushes his tongue inside your warm little hole, fucking you with it, sinking into you again and again. You feel that, with one hand, he continues to pleasure himself.

With the other, however, he surprises you: he spanks you, hard. The pain is enough to send you close to orgasm. "More, p-please..." you whisper, lost in the immense pleasure he is giving you.

He obliges, spanking you again, with even more force. As he hits you, you start to feel your legs shake from where they're wrapped over his head, and you start to call out "daddy!" in a litany, trembling under the force of the pleasure you're feeling. “C-can I cum? D-daddy! Daddy, please, l-let me cum, please, please…”

He grunts, fucking you even harder with his tongue. His hands grip at the flesh of your ass so tight it hurts, so tight you know there’s gonna be marks of his touch all over your skin. “Do it. Cum on daddy’s face, princess.”

You tremble uncontrollably, your body filled with waves of pleasure. Namjoon fucks you with his tongue while you come for him, showing no mercy. You pull his hair, using the grip you have on it to keep yourself anchored to reality.

In the end, your body gives in and, overstimulated, you collapse forward, hot tears streaming down your cheeks.

He drinks your juices: your warm, sweet juices. He drinks your orgasm and licks away every trace, before slipping out from under your body and letting you fall onto the couch, your face pressed against the pillow and your naked body exposed.

"Now it's my turn, little one. Daddy is going to fuck this little pussy of yours, break it, rip it in a half," he warns you, kneeling on the couch and grabbing your hips, positioning you as he wants: face down, with your ass pulled up and exposed for him. He grabs his cock and slaps it against you ass, before rubbing the tip of it against your wet folds, hissing in pleasure as they hug his cock, begging him to shove it inside.

“Hold your cheeks open for daddy, princess. I wanna watch as I destroy this puffy little pussy. Wanna ruin it, make it all sloppy with my cum.” You moan and follow his orders, grabbing your cheeks and pulling them apart, exposing your holes to him and making your own pussy gape as it begs to be filled.

“Ruin me, daddy. I want you to fuck my pussy, please? Please, daddy? Mess me up, use me…”

He doesn’t make you repeat yourself. Holding his cock at the base he guides it against your gaping hole before pushing inside. He’s inside you in one deep and hard stroke. All the way inside of you, your pussy hugging his cock in a tight fit.

“Such a tight little pussy for me,” he praises you, watching closely as his dick opens you up. Namjoon spits down on you, making it even wetter.

“F-feels so good, love your cock…” you moan, hips moving on their own to meet his strokes. Namjoon fucks you hard and fast, his cock stretching you to your limit as he pounds into you restlessly, hard and fast.

It’s so fucking loud: you’re so wet that your juices are covering his cock, sliding down the length and balls, the sound of it so obscene and dirty.

"You're such a whore, little one. You really love getting fucked, don't you? My cock-hungry little slut, that's what you are. A pretty princess with her pussy wide open."

His words are sharp, accompanied by the relentless and merciless thrusts of his cock burying itself in you, enough to make you see stars. You can't even ask for permission or warn him this time.

As soon as his fingers slip between your legs to tease your swollen and needy clitoris, you come for him, gripping his cock like a glove. Caught in spasms, you feel your own drool dripping down your chin, and your eyes roll back.

You've never cum so hard in your entire life.

“You’re squeezing my cock so hard, baby. Making daddy feel so fucking good, good girl,” he praises you, bending down to leave a kiss on your head. He fucks you through your orgasm, and now is his turn to chase his pleasure.

He uses your body. His much bigger figure completely dwarfs yours, and you feel helpless under him: he could do anything he wanted and you wouldn’t be able to stop him. Not that you’d ever try to deny him anything, of course.

You’re his sweet little girl for a reason, after all.

“I-I’m gonna cum soon, love,” he grunts, sweat falling from his forehead as he slides his dick down your cunt.

“I-in me, daddy… Cum in me, breed my pussy.” Namjoon starts to feel the pleasure take over his own body, and now he acts solely guided by his instincts. Everything in his body is yelling at him to pump you full of cum, breed you and force you to take it all.

But before doing so, he slips out of your body, grabbing you by the hips and manhandling you with extreme ease, forcing you on your back with your legs wide open. He gets between them and buries himself back inside your pussy, going back to fucking you.

“Want to watch your face as I dump my load in you, babygirl,” he says, and one of his hands find his rightful place by grabbing your neck. Your mouth falls open, and he moves forward to spit in it. When you immediately swallow, the lenses of your glasses wet with droplets of his spit, it’s a sight he cannot resist.

Forcing his cock deep inside your pussy, he stills. Shaking uncontrollably, he cums.

“Take it. Fucking take my cum, every single drop in this slutty hole, fuck. Fuck, baby, you’re my little cum-dump, that’s what you are,” he moans, bending over to kiss you while he chokes you, hips still moving in tiny little movements as he tries to push his cum as deep as possible inside of your cunt, fucking it into you till he hasn’t emptied himself completely.

“T-thank you, daddy…” you whisper, a big, fucked out smile on your pretty face. He smiles, too, kissing the tip of your nose. “Thank you, too, my beautiful princess. You’ve been so good.”

You smile at the praise, hugging him tightly. He buries his face against your neck, breathing heavily. You rub his back, and you start to feel your eyes get heavy.

“Can we sleep like this? Want you inside.” Namjoon nods, kissing your temple.

He shifts both your bodies until he’s on his back and you’re seated comfortably over his body, his softening cock still buried deep inside of you. You smile, and slowly start to drift away. He watches you sleep for a while, before his eyes finally give out, too. You sleep like that: tangled into each other.

After all, one is never too old to have a babysitter.

#kim namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x y/n #kim namjoon #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon x y/n #namjoon #rm #y/n #rm x reader #oneshot #bts fic #bts #bts x reader #bts rm #bts smut #namjoon smut

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eclipixels · 2 months ago

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Melon Milk

Kim Namjoon x Reader

Content: You bother a K-pop idol, but he accidentally ends up falling for you

Requested by @nichiyadraw

[700]

Your palms sting from wiping your face too roughly, your eyes swollen and sore. It’s past midnight. The Seoul street is mostly quiet. Neon convenience store lights flicker above you, and the buzz of a nearby streetlamp is the only company you expect.

Until someone crouches beside you.

“You okay?”

You flinch. You hadn’t heard anyone approach.

When you glance over, you see a man, tall, broad-shouldered, in a plain black hoodie pulled halfway up his face. Despite the mask, you can see his eyes. Warm. A little worried.

You blink, clearing your vision. “I’m—fine.”

You’re not. Your voice cracks on the lie. He doesn’t call you out on it. Just shifts slightly and holds something out to you. Melon milk. You stare at it.

“I—I already have one,” you say, lifting the bottle in your hand. It’s unopened.

The stranger’s eyes crinkle slightly. “Then you can have two. It’s the superior flavor anyway.”

You sniff, let out a broken laugh. “Debatable. Strawberry supremacy.”

That earns a low chuckle. He finally sits beside you on the low concrete edge, setting the second milk down between you. The two of you are quiet for a while.

You wipe at your eyes one last time. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess.”

He shrugs, voice soft. “Everyone gets to be a mess sometimes.”

You’re still holding the first bottle when you finally speak again. “My boyfriend broke up with me.”

The words fall out like glass, still sharp.

“Ah,” he says gently. “The crying makes sense then.”

You glance at him. “Do you always offer melon milk to sobbing girls outside convenience stores?”

“Only the ones sitting alone in the dark,” he says. Then he adds, almost sheepishly: “And only if I have enough for myself.”

You smile. It’s small, but real. It takes a while, but your breath eventually evens. You both sit in silence, watching late-night taxis roll by. The kind of quiet that feels safe. Solid. Like he’s not trying to fix anything, just letting you exist.

You sneak another glance at him. He still hasn’t taken off the mask or the hoodie, but that voice… deep, calm. Familiar.

Is that…? No, there’s no way. It hits you like a lightning bolt. Your heart skips. Kim Namjoon.

Your eyes widen slightly. Your brain races through every video you’ve ever made, the reaction videos, the ‘he’s so fine, I can’t function’ compilations your subscribers clipped from your livestreams.

God. If he knew.

You look away quickly, clutching the melon milk. “You don’t know who I am, right?”

He blinks. “Should I?”

“No,” you say way too fast. “Absolutely not.”

That earns another soft chuckle. “Noted.”

The moment stretches again.

Finally, he turns toward you slightly. “Do you want to talk about him?”

You shake your head. “Not tonight.”

He nods, like he understands. After a long pause, he says, “I don’t know what happened, but if he let you go, I think he’s an idiot.”

You suck in a breath. Your eyes sting again, not from sadness, this time, but from the quiet sincerity in his voice.

“I think,” Namjoon continues, fingers fidgeting slightly with his bottle cap, “some people don’t know how to hold something good when they have it. Doesn’t mean you’re any less worth holding.”

You exhale shakily, tears falling again, quieter this time. He lets you cry. No questions. No awkward advice. Just melon milk and moonlight and the most unexpected comfort from the very person you thought was untouchable.

When you finally stand, he does too.

“Thanks for…” You gesture vaguely. “All of this.”

He nods. “Sometimes, strangers are easier than friends.”

You open your mouth, hesitate. “Would it be weird if I asked to see you again?”

He studies you, then offers a gentle smile.

“I think I’d like that.”

#namjoon x reader #namjoon #kim namjoon #kim namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x you #kim namjoon x y/n #rm #bts rm #rm bts #bts #rm x reader #bts rm fanfic #bts namjoon #namjoon x you #namjoon x y/n

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kittenan · 3 months ago

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No Subtitles in Bed

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader x Kim Namjoon Genre: Erotica, Polyamory, Language Kink, Possessive Love, Voyeurism, Slow-Burn Tension, Soft Dominance, Jealousy, Dirty Talk, Fluff Word Count: ~5k Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY, Minors DNI) Warnings: Explicit sexual content (threesome, oral sex, penetrative sex, double penetration setup, possessive behavior), language barrier, jealousy, light marking, voyeurism, dirty talk, alcohol mention, shower sex, unprotected sex, intense emotional dynamics. Please read responsibly! Summary: Stranded in Seoul due to a visa crisis, you, a freelance photographer, enter a marriage of convenience with Jeon Jungkook, a gorgeous but guarded music producer who barely speaks English. Your survival-level Korean and his broken English create a tantalizing language barrier, sparking tension in and out of bed. Enter Kim Namjoon, Jungkook’s charming, fluent friend, whose translations ignite a wildfire of desire, turning him from observer to equal partner in a steamy, possessive triad. A/n: If you don't like the idea of multiple partners, poly au, polyamory relationships then DNI. I have already mentioned in warnings and Genre.

The Seoul summer was relentless, humidity clinging to your skin as you stood outside the government office, a marriage certificate trembling in your hands. Jeon Jungkook, your unexpected husband, stood beside you, his dark eyes flicking from the paper to your face. His jaw was tight, lips pressed thin, but his hand hovered near your waist, a silent claim.

You’d come to Seoul a year ago, chasing a freelance photography gig after a messy breakup back home. South Korea’s vibrant chaos had been a fresh start—until your work visa renewal hit a snag. A friend’s desperate pitch—“Jungkook’s solid, he’ll marry you to keep you here”—and your own reckless impulse led to this moment. You barely knew him. A few coffee shop meetups, his shy smiles, and broken English weren’t enough to prepare you for this. Marriage.

Jungkook was unfairly gorgeous—black hair falling into his eyes, a brow piercing catching the sunlight, tattoos peeking from his sleeve. “Good?” he asked, voice low, accented. His English was halting, your Korean worse—annyeonghaseyo, kamsahamnida, menu items.

“Yeah, good,” you whispered, heart pounding. You’d hesitated at the desk, pen hovering, imagining your ex’s smug face if you got deported. This was survival, not romance. Right?

Jungkook muttered—“aish”—frustration clear. He grabbed your hand, firm but gentle, pulling you toward his car. “Where?” you asked, stumbling after him.

“House,” he said, then something in Korean. You didn’t understand, but his intense gaze made your stomach flip. You nodded, choosing to trust him, asserting your own resolve to make this work.

Jungkook’s apartment was sleek—dark wood, minimalist, scented with his woody cologne. You stood in the living room, clutching your camera bag, as he handed you a bottle of soju. “Drink,” he said, clinking his bottle against yours. “Good for… nervous.”

You laughed, tension easing. “Yeah, I’m nervous.” You took a swig, the burn grounding you. Silence fell, heavy with unspoken questions. How do you live with someone you can’t fully talk to? Share a bed?

One afternoon, you tried communicating. You pointed at a kimchi jar, attempting, “Kimchi… jotayo?” (I like kimchi). Jungkook grinned, correcting gently, “Joahe.” His smile was disarming, but when you mispronounced “saranghae” (I love you) during a playful language lesson, his eyes darkened, and he stepped closer.

“Yeppeo,” he murmured—pretty—his gaze lingering on your sundress. You blushed, feeling the heat of his attention. “Thanks,” you said, then boldly touched his arm, testing the waters. His breath hitched, and he kissed you, hungry, hands sliding to your waist. You felt his arousal through his jeans, moaning softly.

He growled in Korean, hands under your dress. “Wait,” you panted, pulling back. “What did you say?”

Frustrated, he tried, “You… mine. Want to… fuck.” The bluntness burned, his accent making it filthier. You wanted him, but the language gap was maddening. “We need help,” you said, asserting control. “Someone to translate.”

Jungkook groaned, grabbing his phone.

“Namjoon,” he said. “He... help.”

Kim Namjoon arrived the next morning, all dimples and broad shoulders, a leather notebook in hand. His English was flawless, his voice deep, and when he shook your hand, his thumb lingered. “Jungkook says communication’s tough,” he said, settling on the couch. Jungkook sat beside you, thigh pressed to yours, hand possessive on your knee.

“It’s everything,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “Talking, living together… intimacy.” You glanced at Jungkook, who watched you intently. “I want to understand him. Especially in bed.”

Namjoon’s eyes twinkled. “In bed too?” Jungkook muttered, grip tightening. Namjoon chuckled. “He’s frustrated because he can’t tell you how much he wants you. He’s passionate but stuck.”

“Tell him I want him too,” you said softly, leaning into Jungkook. “But I need to know what he’s feeling.”

Namjoon translated, and Jungkook smirked, whispering in your ear. Namjoon said, “He says your body will understand his, even without words.” Your thighs clenched.

That evening, Namjoon stayed for dinner, translating Jungkook’s stories about his music producer job. You shared your photography passion, showing them a photo of Seoul’s neon streets. Namjoon’s praise—“You capture the city’s pulse”—felt intimate, and Jungkook’s hand tightened on your thigh.

Later, Jungkook pulled you onto his lap, kissing your neck. Namjoon watched, his gaze heavy. “Tell me,” you gasped as Jungkook’s hands roamed.

“He loves how you taste,” Namjoon said, voice husky. “Wants to mark you as his.” Jungkook’s teeth grazed your collarbone. You moaned, noticing Namjoon’s arousal through his jeans. His desire amplified yours, and Jungkook’s smirk suggested he noticed too.

The first bedroom translation was chaotic and searing, with you taking the lead to set the pace.

You straddled Jungkook on the bed, his shirt off, muscles flexing as you kissed down his chest. His Korean murmurs drove you wild, but you needed clarity. You guided his hands to your breasts, showing him what you wanted, your confidence growing. “Namjoon,” you panted, “what’s he saying?”

Namjoon sat by the bed, gripping the armrest, hand on his thigh. “He wants to worship you,” he said, voice strained. “Says your skin’s so soft, he’s losing his mind.”

Jungkook tugged your panties down, growling. Namjoon translated, “Your pussy’s so pretty, he could stare forever.” You whimpered as Jungkook’s fingers teased your clit, slow and deliberate. Namjoon’s breathing hitched, his hand slipping inside his pants, stroking himself.

“Tell him to taste me,” you said, bold. Namjoon translated, and Jungkook’s eyes flashed, his tongue flicking your clit. You moaned, guiding his head, reveling in control. Namjoon’s voice was rough: “He wants to ruin you, feel you come on his tongue.”

You came, vision blurring, Jungkook’s fingers curling inside you. Namjoon groaned, stroking faster, his sounds mingling with yours. Jungkook kissed you, lips slick. “Mine,” he said, then in Korean. Namjoon translated, “You’re his. Only his.”

But Namjoon’s hungry and disagreed gaze lingered, hinting at more.

Weeks blurred with sex and translation. Namjoon was there nightly, his presence electric. Jungkook fucked you possessively, leaving faint marks, while Namjoon’s voice wove through, translating every filthy word. Namjoon often touched himself watching, his arousal heightening yours, and Jungkook’s harder thrusts showed he also enjoyed the dynamic.

One afternoon, alone with Namjoon practicing Korean, tension shifted. Jungkook was at the studio. “Say ‘bogoshipo’,” Namjoon said. “I miss you.”

You said it, and his eyes softened. “Good. Soon you won’t need me.” His voice was wistful.

“I’ll always need you,” you teased, but his gaze sharpened, brushing hair behind your ear. “Don’t say that,” he murmured, thumb grazing your cheek. You froze, body responding.

The door opened. Jungkook’s eyes narrowed, seeing Namjoon’s hand. He snapped in Korean. Namjoon replied calmly, but Jungkook pulled you to him. “Mine,” he said, kissing you hard. Namjoon translated, “You belong to him. I need to stop touching.”

“It’s not what you think,” you said, touching Jungkook’s chest. “I want you both… but we need to talk.” Your insistence on clarity showed your growing agency.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. Namjoon’s eyes were unreadable. Jungkook spoke, and Namjoon translated, “He wants me to translate tonight. And… touch you. But he’s scared.”

You reached for Jungkook’s hand. “I’m yours. Both of yours, if you want that.”

That night redefined boundaries, a wildfire of trust and desire.

Jungkook had you on your hands and knees, his cock buried deep in your pussy, each thrust deliberate, stretching you deliciously. His hands gripped your hips, leaving faint marks. He spoke in Korean, voice raw. You sobbed, overwhelmed, sheets fisted.

“Namjoon,” you gasped, “what’s he saying?”

Namjoon knelt in front, shirt unbuttoned, stroking his thick cock. “He wants to fuck you until you’re his forever,” he said, voice hoarse. “He’s jealous of how much you need me.”

Jungkook slowed, pulling you against his chest, hands cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples. “Touch her,” he said in English, accent heavy. You nodded, desperate. Namjoon’s fingers found your clit, rubbing slow circles, the dual sensation dizzying.

Jungkook’s thrusts deepened, Namjoon’s fingers matched his rhythm. Jungkook growled, and Namjoon translated, “He wants to ruin you while I make you scream.”

You were close, trembling. Namjoon’s hand grazed your throat, thumb on your pulse. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, unprompted. “I’m falling for you.”

The confession pushed you over. You came, walls pulsing around Jungkook, screaming. Jungkook groaned, guiding you to the bed’s edge. “Take her,” he said to Namjoon, a challenge. “She’s ours.”

Namjoon hesitated, then kissed you softly, grabbing lube. Jungkook spread your thighs, still inside you. Namjoon’s fingers prepared you, sliding into your rim, stretching gently. “Relax,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder.

Jungkook thrust slowly, Namjoon entered your ass, the fullness intense but thrilling. They moved in tandem, Jungkook’s deep thrusts alternating with Namjoon’s careful ones. You sobbed, caught between them, every nerve alight. Namjoon’s hand returned to your clit, and Jungkook growled, “Ours.”

You came again, convulsing, their names echoing. Jungkook spilled inside you, then Namjoon, their releases hot. They held you, Jungkook’s arms tight, Namjoon’s hand in your hair.

“Saranghae,” Jungkook murmured. Namjoon translated, “We love you, in every language.”

Morning light filtered through the curtains. Jungkook kissed your forehead, Namjoon’s voice soft. “He’s sorry if he scared you,” Namjoon murmured. “But not sorry for sharing you.”

You laughed, content. “What now?”

They exchanged glances. Namjoon spoke, “We want you with us. Both of us.”

That evening, over soju and samgyeopsal, you discussed the triad. “I love you both,” you admitted, heart racing. “But I’m scared. What if I hurt one of you?”

Jungkook squeezed your hand. Namjoon translated, “He says we’ll fight, but we’ll fix it. You’re worth it.”

Namjoon added, “I was loyal to Jungkook, but I love you too. We’ll make it work.” His vulnerability—admitting his fear of overstepping—deepened your trust.

A month later, you signed a second marriage license, a private ceremony for three. Namjoon’s hand shook, but his smile was radiant. You exchanged simple bands, a silent vow.

Life with Jungkook and Namjoon was a vibrant dance of heat and tenderness, each moment weaving you closer. Your Korean had improved enough to catch Jungkook’s playful “Yeppeo” when you wore his oversized shirt, or Namjoon’s flirty “Bogoshipo” when you returned from a photography gig. The language barrier was no longer a wall but a bridge, crossed with laughter and lingering touches.

One humid evening, Seoul’s skyline glittering from a rooftop date, the air crackled with desire. Jungkook’s possessiveness flared when a stranger’s gaze lingered on you at the bar. He pulled you against the rooftop railing, his hands firm on your hips, lips grazing your ear. “Nae yeoja,” he growled—my girl—his cock hard through his jeans as he pressed into you. Namjoon stood close, his broad frame shielding you from view, his fingers brushing your arm, eyes dark with intent.

“Mine,” Jungkook said in English, then glanced at Namjoon, smirking. “Ours.” Namjoon’s lips curved, and he leaned in, whispering, “Let’s show her.”

Back at the apartment, the tension erupted in the cramped shower, steam fogging the glass walls, hot water cascading over your skin. Jungkook grabbed you up, your legs wrapping around his torso, his back pinned against the cool tiles, his inked chest glistening, droplets clinging to his tattoos. His fingers teased your folds, slow and deliberate, grazing your clit until you whimpered, nails digging into his biceps, leaving faint crescent marks. Then Namjoon stood behind, his taller frame pressed close, lips brushing your shoulder, his cock hard against your lower back.

“Fuck, Namjoon... Jungkook,” you gasped, head tipping back. Jungkook’s smirk was wicked, his fingers circling your clit. He murmured in Korean, voice low and guttural, vibrating against your throat as he kissed the sensitive skin there.

Namjoon’s hands joined Jungkook’s, one sliding to your breast, thumb flicking your nipple, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider. “He says you’re so wet, he can feel you dripping for both of us,” Namjoon translated, voice rough with arousal. “That he wants to take you apart.”

You moaned, hips bucking, desperate for more. “I want you both,” you panted, bold, reaching back to graze Namjoon’s cock, then forward to stroke Jungkook’s through the water’s slickness. Their groans mingled, Jungkook’s possessive, Namjoon’s hungry.

Jungkook’s eyes flashed, and he nodded at Namjoon, a silent agreement. “Tell him I want to please you both,” you said, voice steady despite the heat. Namjoon translated, and Jungkook’s gaze darkened, his fingers slowing to let Namjoon take the lead.

Namjoon turned you gently, your back now against Jungkook’s chest, his hands steady on your hips. Namjoon’s lips claimed yours, his kiss deep and slow, tongue teasing yours as he lined himself up, his cock nudging your entrance. “Breathe,” he murmured, pushing in slowly, stretching you with a delicious burn. You gasped, clinging to his shoulders, Jungkook’s lips on your neck, sucking a faint mark.

“So tight,” Namjoon groaned, his thrusts careful but deep, filling you completely. Jungkook’s hands roamed, one pinching your nipple, the other sliding to your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with Namjoon’s rhythm. The dual sensation—Namjoon’s cock, Jungkook’s fingers—sent sparks through you, your moans echoing off the tiles.

“Switch,” Jungkook growled, his voice raw. Namjoon slowed, kissing you softly before pulling out, leaving you aching. Jungkook spun you to face him, lifting one of your legs to wrap around his waist, the water making your skin slick. He thrust into your pussy, hard and deep, his cock hitting that perfect spot. You cried out, nails scratching his back, Namjoon’s hands now on your ass, spreading you wider for Jungkook.

“Yeppeo,” Jungkook murmured something in korean, eyes locked on yours. Namjoon translated, his breath hot against your ear, “He says you’re so pretty, taking us like this.”

You wanted more, wanted them both. “Let me please you,” you said, bold, sinking to your knees despite the cramped space, water splashing around you. You took Jungkook’s cock in your mouth first, savoring his low groan, your tongue swirling around the tip. Namjoon’s hand tangled in your hair, guiding you gently as you switched, taking Namjoon’s thicker length, your lips stretching around him. His moan was deep, hips twitching as you sucked, Jungkook stroking himself beside you, eyes burning.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Namjoon panted, voice strained. Jungkook growled in Korean, and Namjoon translated, “He says he loves watching you take us both.” He continued. "And me too."

You alternated, pleasing them one by one, your hands stroking whoever wasn’t in your mouth, the water amplifying every sound—your moans, their groans, the wet slide of skin. Jungkook’s thighs tensed, his hand tightening in your hair as he came, his release hot on your tongue. You swallowed, then focused on Namjoon, sucking harder until he spilled, his cum mixing with the water, his fingers digging into your shoulder.

They pulled you up, laughter soft as they steadied you, the shower’s heat making you dizzy. Jungkook kissed you, tasting himself, while Namjoon’s lips found your temple, his touch gentle. “Saranghae,” Jungkook murmured, and Namjoon echoed, “We love you.”

They cleaned you up, Jungkook’s hands gentle with the soap, gliding over your skin with reverent care, his fingers tracing the marks he’d left, a soft smile breaking through his usual intensity. Namjoon’s teasing came as he rinsed your hair, his long fingers massaging your scalp, murmuring, “You’re glowing, you know,” his voice warm with affection. They took turns drying you, Jungkook wrapping you in a fluffy towel, patting your skin with deliberate tenderness, while Namjoon knelt to dry your legs, stealing playful kisses on your knees that made you giggle. Wrapped in towels, they guided you to bed, Jungkook tucking you against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, Namjoon sliding in behind, his arm draping over your waist, fingers interlacing with Jungkook’s. Their warmth chased away the night’s chill, their soft whispers of “saranghae” lulling you, already dreaming of the next time.

Winter blanketed Seoul, the apartment warm with coffee and cinnamon. You woke tangled in sheets, Jungkook’s arm heavy across your waist, Namjoon’s breath on your neck. The bed was chaos—pillows scattered, a sock on the headboard—but it was home.

Jungkook stirred, nuzzling you. “Joheun achim,” he mumbled—good morning. You smiled, understanding. Namjoon chuckled, adding something that Jungkook didn't even say. “He says you’re too pretty for 7 a.m.,” he teased.

“Liar,” you laughed, swatting Namjoon. He kissed your knuckles, eyes soft. Jungkook pulled you closer, grumbling, “Nae yeoja”—my girl—then tugged Namjoon into the pile. “Uri yeoja”—our girl.

You giggled, squished between them. “Ridiculous,” you said, heart swelling. Namjoon traced your hip. “But Yours,” he said, flirty. Jungkook nipped your earlobe, possessive. “And you are Ours.”

You made pancakes, Jungkook stealing batter, Namjoon sighing while reading book. When Jungkook pouted, you fed him a piece, syrup on his lips. “Naneun neoreul saranghae” you said, the word easy now.

They echoed it, and you knew this—messy, heated, tender—was forever. A year later, you planned a trip to Jeju, a photo series capturing their love. Seoul’s streets still judged, but in your shared bed, no translation was needed.

A/n: This wild idea sparked when I stumbled upon a post and I couldn’t shake the plot from my mind. Not sure if it landed perfectly, but I had a blast writing this shit! 😈🤪

Imp. Update: Please check out this post and support.

Do Follow my backup account : @kittenan2

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts x reader #jk smut #jk x reader #namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #rm x reader #rm smut #bts poly au #poly bts x reader #3somme #polyamory #kim namjoon #jeon jungkook #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction

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spiceofvy · 1 year ago

Text

BTS - Teaching an innocent reader

requested by: @dambaepuff

cws: gender neutral reader, nsfw, this made me blush while writing it, dirty talk, (soft) corruption, praise, could be read as d/s if you squint, slight degradation (jin), blowjobs (jin, yoongi, jimin), handjobs (hoseok, namjoon, taehyung, jungkook), implications of the reader also receiving pleasure, mentions of porn (taehyung), mentions of masturbating in front of someone (jungkook), mentions of edging (jungkook)

Seokjin: Surprisingly he gets off the most on the idea of „taking your innocence.“ Also kinda the meanest about it as you try your best to get as much of his dick in your mouth. „Aww, you really never did this before. It's so obvious, so cute.“ „Helps“ you by pushing his hips up, not enough to choke you but just enough to startle you a bit as he suddenly shoves himself into your mouth deeper. He is not super vocal as you suck him off, as he is too high on his power trip, locking his eyes with your teary ones. His hands caressing your hair, petting your cheek, wiping your tears. „You can do more, I know it. Try harder for me.“ Encourages you to move your head on his dick, hearing you sigh around his cock as you feel his dick twitch in your mouth. He gets close to his orgasm faster than he realizes and pulls you away at the last second, coming all over your face. After he slips down from the couch onto the floor with you, wiping you clean with his shirt as his usual sweet persona returns. „You did amazing. So good for your first time. I‘m so proud. Made me feel really good.“ Gives you such great aftercare after.

Yoongi: He is oh so gentle with you. So understanding, almost tooth rotting sweet, reassuring you the whole time. „Don‘t worry about doing anything wrong, I will tell you exactly what to do.“ Helping you kneel down on the pillow he laid before his studio chair, so you don‘t hurt your soft little knees while you suck him off. He’s stroking your hair as he opens his thighs shuffling just a little bit closer, putting you face to face with his dick. „C‘mon no need to be shy, open my pants, little love.“ Chuckling at how hands shake just a little bit, as you reach for him you blush getting darker as you undress him. Secretly or not so secretly he puts all of his attention on how he likes to get pleased. He's not just teaching you how to give someone head, he is teaching you how he likes it. Where to suck, how deep to take him. He’s getting the biggest power rush from knowing that you are leaning all of this for him. Because you want to please him. Want him to feel good due to what you are doing. Ruining you for anyone else. „So good, keep doing. You know what I like, don't you?“ Pulls you onto his lap after he has come, holding you tightly, while he in turn makes you cum on his skilled fingers.

Hoseok: Oh he has so much fun „teaching“ you everything you need to know to make someone feel good, especially if that someone is him. Likes taking it nice and slow while he leads your hands down his body, cupping them in his when and slowly moves them over his dick. Shamelessly moaning in your ear, and cooing at how you blush. „Shouldn't it be me who is shy? I am the one who is naked after all. Cutie.“ Helps you jerk him off, showing you the moves. He has so many sinful yet sweet words of praise for you. „Keep going love, show me what you learned.“ Tells you when he feels close, whispering to squeeze harder, go just a bit faster, to not let go. „Doing so good for me, feeling so good. Aren‘t you listening well ?“ Squeezes you so tightly to his chest when he spills all over you, his hips twitching, riding out his orgasm. Wipes your hands clean after he comes before pressing you back onto the bed. Slowly kissing down your body, ready to repay you. Is really soft after you also came. Holding you tightly. Telling you again, and again how good you did. Just to start it all over again the next day.

Namjoon: Is so sweet and patient with you, dims all the lights so you feel less intimidated by the sight of bare skin. Hugs you tightly, laying your head on his chest, telling you to touch him whenever you feel ready for it. „Take your time, sweetheart. We‘re doing this at your tempo.“ Won't rush you, as you finally snake your hand down his sweatpants, under his underwear. Grazing his already half-hard cock, a soft sigh leaving his lips at the slightest touch worked up from anticipation. When he feels you hesitate, he takes your chin in his hand and turns your head to his, making you keep eye contact. „So good, the hardest part is done. Just touch me.“ Kisses you to calm your nerves, and moans into your mouth as you wrap your finger around his dick. Carefully you start pumping his dick, feeling his hip push towards your hand. „That's it. That's my baby. Keep going. You can do it.“ He keeps encouraging you, his hips doing most of the work. Not big on giving you direct orders, likes to teach by positive reinforcement. He comes almost embarrassingly quickly, but neither of you mind, as he hugs you even closer, kissing your cheek softly.

Jimin: Usually calm-headed in bed but the way your big innocent eyes look up at him, is doing things to him. Are awaken something in him. His eyes look dazed as he sees you sitting between his thighs, shaking trying to open his fly, but slipping. „Try again, you can do it.“ Laughs, when you blush, making you blush even more, as you sit a bit helplessly in front of his dick, eyeing it. „C‘mon you are a smart baby, aren‘t you? Try to lick it, it's intuition, I promise.“ So responsive too, getting loud so easily, as you shyly give his tip kitten licks. Buries his hand in your hair but stops himself from pushing you down, softly urging you to take something into your mouth, and more and more. Not once are you breaking eye contact and it makes him crazy. Not really helpful with advice, but his moans are enough to give you an idea of what he likes. „Look at you, doing so good for me. So perfect. Sweetest of them all.“ Comes on your mouth but immediately hands you a tissue in case you want to spit it out. Helps you onto the couch, caressing your sensitive knees. Promising to kiss them better later but first he repays you in pleasure.

Taehyung: Uses porn to help get his point across, not caring how flustered you get by the idea of the two of you watching such kinds of videos together. Sits next to you on the couch, some amateur porn running on his big-screen TV. Opens his pants and as he slowly pulls your hand to his crotch he whispers commentary into your ear. „See how he moves his hand over tip, that feels really good. C‘mon try to copy him.“ Guides your hand onto his dick, leaving you your only choice to either look at the sinful video, his face, or his cock. „Just move up and down. So good, keep going for me.“ Moans close to your ear as you do as he tells you. Pressing kisses to your cheek and neck, whispering more and more praise. As he gets closer and closer, his hips start moving on his own, working in tandem with you. The video ended already but you keep going, his sounds making you feel hot yourself, shifting in your seat. He comes over your hands, dripping onto his expensive couch but he doesn‘t care as he kisses you hurriedly. „You did amazing, what a natural talent you are.“ Kisses down your neck while undoing your pants, getting to lesson two, how to be good for him as he makes you feel just as amazing.

Jungkook: Believes in „learning by showing“, because how are you supposed to learn when you have no example to follow? Which is how you ended up with him sitting in front of you, naked stroking his dick. Telling you everything he believes you need to know to give an amazing handjob. „You need to pay attention to the base too. See?.“ He comments, as he strokes himself for you, cock shiny with the excessive amount of lube he used. Gets himself so close, making sure you get to see the whole process, „Don‘t look away. Look at me. Only at me.“ Just when he is about to come, he rips his hand away, edging himself for you. Before urging you to come try yourself, just do what he did. You can do it, he believes in you. Pulls you onto his lap, sitting chest to chest, as you reach down, shyly taking his dick into your hand, still wet with the lube. Feeling how hard and hot he is your hand. You try to imitate his moves, his eyes not leaving yours once. „Doing great, amazing. Learning so fast for me.“ Comes really fast due to his edging, and turns into a lovesick puppy afterward. He is just so proud of what you accomplished. And while he cuddles up to you, whispering sweet words, his still lube slick hands move into your pants, ready to make it even.

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dpr-moni · 4 months ago

Text

Pairing: Namjoon x reader (afab)

Genre: a little pwp but a little established something, friends-to-lovers

Summary: Namjoon accidentally sends a text intended for you to your roommate.

Word count: 3.2k

Content: sexting, shower sex, oral (f receiving)

A/N: for @rpwprpwprpwprw for asking if i have more namjoon (and making me realise that, outside of A Fine Line, I have precious little 😭) this is a repost that has been a little edited and re-titled

Coming Clean

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god,” Yeji repeated over and over as she barged into your room and sat herself on your bed. “Why is Namjoon texting me this?!”

She thrust her phone into your face and you tried to control your expression as you read.

Namjoon: I think I'm going to need a cold shower...

Namjoon: unless you want to join me...

Ok, you thought, could be worse. Wasn't that bad at all, really. Maybe. A bit suggestive, certainly random, but he had some plausible deniability--

Unfortunately, the text was only part of it. Yeji scrolled and your jaw dropped as your eyes lit on a photo that left almost nothing to the imagination. He wasn’t fully naked, but as near as dammit. You could’ve seen his erection from space. The colour drained from your face. You spluttered, choked, didn’t know what to say. And then another message came through.

Namjoon: FUCK

And in a second, both previous bubbles disappeared, replaced by ‘This message was deleted’.

Namjoon: I know you saw that... I can see you read them...

Namjoon: I’m SO sorry

Namjoon: Obviously they weren’t meant for you, Yeji

Namjoon: PLEASE forget you ever saw them

Namjoon: PLEASE

Namjoon: PLEASE PLEASE

Namjoon: I’m so so so so sorry

“Wow,” was all you could choke out.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Yeji screamed, so close to you that you thought your eardrum might burst. “WHO IS HE SEXTING?!”

The answer was you. Or rather, he was supposed to be sexting you and not Yeji. He had been sexting you recently. Doing a lot more than that, too. You just hadn’t told anyone yet.

It was an accident, really. Neither of you meant it to happen. It just did. There was nothing ground-breaking about it. Same old story: you drink too much and get a little handsy with each other because you’ve secretly kind of always liked each other; then you get more than a little handsy and then you do it again and again and, suddenly, it’s A Thing. A thing you decide not to tell everyone else about. Not exactly Austen or Shakespeare but good enough for you.

You sat on your phone as it began to buzz, hoping to hide its sudden, coincidental flurry of activity. You didn’t need to check it to know that it was Namjoon. You didn’t know why he was calling; you and Yeji lived together: of course she was going to run straight to you with this. Of course you wouldn’t be able to answer.

“I don’t know,” you answered Yeji. “It might just be some person from an app.”

She looked at you sharply.

“Why are you not also screaming?! Did you not SEE what I saw?! Are you MAD?!”

“I saw it! I saw it! But... I don’t know, he’s a grown man; he can sext who he likes.”

“Not without telling us! Ugh, the gossip! He’s depriving us! Besides, wow, who knew he was packing like that?”

You nudged her with a grin, trying to play it cool, frantically kicking your legs underwater to smooth this over.

“Let the man have a couple of secrets, eh? What's the harm? He’ll tell us when he wants to. And I think he probably doesn’t want you to know he’s packing like that. Doesn’t want me to know either,” you added hastily. “He would probably prefer that neither of us had seen that. You shouldn’t have shown me that! He’ll be embarrassed. Just let him have his secrets and his privacy, at least for today.”

“But I want him to tell me NOW! I’m going to reply to him. The interrogation is starting. I will keep you updated, if you even care.”

She was already standing and wandering back out of your bedroom.

“Sure you don’t want to interrogate him with me?” she asked, though she kept walking, knowing you would refuse.

“I’m sure; I’ve got some stuff to work on.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll fill you in later.”

She shut your door as she left and you whipped out your phone.

Namjoon: oh god i’ve done something bad

Namjoon: like really bad

Namjoon: I was trying to text you—I was supposed to send it to YOU

Namjoon: I accidentally sent a photo of my dick to Yeji

Namjoon: she definitely saw it

Namjoon: I don’t know how I get out of this. What do I say? I can’t tell her it was meant to go to you!

Namjoon: Help me

You laughed and pressed dial, hoping Yeji was focused enough on her mission to pay no heed to the sound of your voice in the next room.

“Hey.” He sounded a little breathless, his breathing a little heavy down the phone.

“Yeah, so Yeji just left my bedroom actually. She showed me what you sent.”

Namjoon groaned.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry; it was just a mistake.”

“But how do we get out of it?”

“I don’t know. I told her it might just be someone on an app; you could go with that. Pretend to have a casual thing-”

“But then if we come out and say we’re... whatever we are, the timeline won’t work-”

You shrugged, alone in your bedroom.

“That’s a bridge we can cross when we get to it. We can just say you lied to keep it a secret.”

“I guess.”

“Seriously, Namjoon, I think it’ll be fine. Yeji will find something else to obsess about soon enough, by tonight probably.”

You were trying to convince yourself as much as you were trying to convince him. You were right, Yeji would find something else to be distracted by. It probably wouldn’t erupt all over your friendship group; it probably wouldn’t get out of hand. They probably wouldn’t tease him mercilessly about it until you abruptly shouted up that it was you, thus revealing everything.

Probably.

It’d be fine.

He groaned again.

“Just such a stupid thing to do. And I’ll tell you this for free: a very effective boner killer, too.”

You laughed.

“So you don’t want me to come over and shower with you?”

“Oh, shit, I didn’t say that. My door is always open to you, you know that.”

You sighed.

“I’ve got a lot of work to do tonight so I don’t know if I’ll make it.”

“Ok.”

“But keep thinking those thoughts, ok?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh and Namjoon?”

“Yeah?”

“Send me the photo?”

You didn’t know about Namjoon but you did keep thinking those thoughts. They were driving you to distraction. You had barely read more than a page of your report in the last half-hour. You kept unlocking your phone, looking at your message thread with Namjoon, at that photo. At a certain point, it becomes more efficient to do the distracting thing first and then knuckle down. Get it out of your system so you can concentrate afterwards. It was starting to sound like a very appealing course of action.

You picked up your phone again.

You: have you showered yet?

Namjoon: No, why?

You: Can I come over?

Namjoon: Do you even have to ask?

Namjoon: (that means yes)

Namjoon: please

Namjoon: come now

Namjoon: please

You shut your laptop; Yeji was similarly sequestered in her bedroom so you were able to sneak out without rousing any sort of curiosity. Thank god.

“Hi.”

“So about this shower.”

And the door had barely closed behind you before Namjoon was kissing you, pulling you closer, running his hands up your body.

“You really want to shower?” he asked. His voice was low and gruff, his words mumbled against your neck.

You laughed.

“Transparency: I want you to fuck me in the shower.”

He responded by nipping at your earlobe.

“You gonna ask nicely?”

“No.”

He gave your nipple a tweak and you jerked against him, your hips knocking into his, drawing a quiet moan from his mouth. He grinned at you and kissed you firmly.

“That’s my girl.”

Your clothes littered the floor as they were discarded en-route.

“Why haven’t we done this already?” Namjoon asked as he hoisted you onto the edge of the counter. “Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this so much.”

“You’re a shower sex guy, huh? Noted.”

“For you? I’m an anywhere-sex guy.”

Your words were taken from you, from your mouth to his as he pressed his lips to yours and licked into your mouth. You were hot already, even before the shower began to fill the room with steam. That was the thing about Namjoon; he made you so impatient. The mere thought of him had your heart racing. A kiss was enough to get you wet. To make you hot. To have you scrabbling and scrambling to undress him. To have you gasping and moaning before he’d even touched you.

When he kissed you, your mind was wiped clean, a blank static fuzz. When he sucked hard bruises into your neck, your chest, you were nothing but animal. No shame, no overthinking, no insecurity, just pleasure buzzing all over your skin, shivering down your spine, coiling in your guts, pooling in your core.

Namjoon sank to his knees on the hard, tiled floor and kissed your inner thighs. He wrapped his arms around them, pulled you a little closer—you clutched the edge of the counter and his hair for balance—then he licked you, firmly from slit to clit and back again, into every fold and then into your cunt. You weren’t backward about coming forward and, when you had first done this with Namjoon, you had been fully prepared to tell him how to do it, how you liked it. He hadn’t needed the instruction. That first time, he’d had you reeling after a screaming orgasm within a minute.

You didn’t think you’d last even that long this time. Not with his lips around your clit, his tongue warm and wet against it, the soft pressure as he sucked, the harder pressure as he flicked, the feel of his fingers as he rocked them inside you, insistent and unstoppable. He made a mess of you and, moments later, you made a mess of him, coming over his face, your slick dripping down his hand.

He pressed sticky kisses onto your stomach, his tongue laved over your stiffened nipples, his lips pressed softly against yours and then harder, then his teeth took your lip and he bit down.

“So about this shower,” he murmured against your lips, his eyes poring over yours.

You couldn’t speak, could only nod, and he held you steady as you settled your feet back on the floor, your legs still wobbly.

The room was hot now, the water hotter. As Namjoon crowded you against the shower screen, you felt breathless, a little suffocated but you didn’t know if that was down to the steam or to Namjoon. He ran his hands all over you as you kissed, your bodies pressed tightly together, his flushed, leaking dick trapped between you.

Where Namjoon made you impatient, he seemed to have an unlimited supply of patience. He soaped you up, every inch of you, and you realised how intimate this was; it suddenly wasn’t just sex. He was touching your body with a different kind of care and attention now. Sex was imminent but this moment, this moment wasn’t about sex really. He turned you around, gently, running his hands down your back and over your backside, all the way down to your feet and all the way back up. He pressed a kiss to your soapy shoulder and wrapped his arms around your waist. His lips then found the shell of your ear.

“Baby, you’re fucking beautiful,” he whispered and a spark rushed down your spine.

You turned your head and kissed him, trying to say with your body what you couldn’t find the words for. And then,

“Can you fuck me now?”

Because your heart may have been gripped tight in the fist of your feelings but your cunt was empty, aching, and much louder.

He grinned, his hands squeezing at your glutes, kneading, then pushing you forward a little, smoothing up your back and along your arms, placing your hands flat on the tiled wall, braced. He held you like that, in suspense, in anticipation, his hands here and there, his lips first on your hip, then the back of your neck, his body distant, then pressed close.

You begged because you had learnt that he liked it. That he liked it when you sounded a little breathless, a little whiny, your voice catching as you asked him, please, please, to fuck you.

“Namjoon... Please?”

You dipped your head, pressing your forehead to the wall, your fingers scratching down the tiles as you continued to clench, your soft, wet walls coming together around nothing. Still.

“Just one more time, baby. Just ask me one more time.”

“Please fuck me. Namjoon, ple- ah, fuck—hnn-”

It was familiar now, the pressure of the stretch as he pushed inside you. You swore quietly again as he bottomed out and dragged backwards, slowly, torturously slowly. He kept a hard grip on your hips, keeping you or him steady or both. The steam swirling around you, the clean, fresh scent of Namjoon’s soap, the water hitting your skin, Namjoon’s lips on your neck as he thrust a little harder now, squeezing past your g-spot, making your legs tremble—it was overwhelming.

You were transported. No longer just in the shower in Namjoon’s apartment. No longer was this just sordid nor was it mundane. It was you and Namjoon. A thing that had lain dormant in you, something you hadn’t seen coming until it happened and then you couldn’t believe that it hadn’t happened before. This was what you had been looking for. Yes, him fucking you, yes, the way he kissed you and the way he knew which buttons to press, yes, his dick hot and heavy on your tongue, thick and slightly curved and fucking you just right. Yes, all of that but more, too.

You had not talked about where this was going, what you were to each other, but now you knew and your heart grew three sizes, straining against the vice of your ribcage, thudding heavily against it, making your head dizzy with a rush of blood.

Namjoon grunted behind you, his breathing becoming laboured. Your name fell off his lips as though it had always lived there. His fingers found their way forward and onto your clit, rubbing in circles that started slow and got faster and faster as you made your way to a second orgasm.

He wasn’t far behind, his thrusts hard and rhythm faltering before he came with a long drawn-out curse. He pulled you backwards, held you tight against his chest and you were grateful for the support, not sure if you could stand.

“As good as the fantasy?” you asked, panting, your head tipped sideways and up to look at him.

He kissed you, deep and slow, making your knees weaker, your hands gripping tight at his arms around your waist.

“Better. Way better.”

You twisted and wrapped your arms around his neck. He kissed you again, pushed you backwards, your body meeting the wall. He sucked on your bottom lip, nipping lightly with his teeth, then he opened his mouth and you rolled your tongue with his, still able to taste yourself on him. You traded kisses, still under the persistent patter of water, still hot and wet and soft against the unyielding tile. Namjoon murmured your name against your lips.

“What should I tell Yeji, huh?”

“Oh, you’re thinking about Yeji right now? Maybe you did send that text to the right person...”

Namjoon headbutted you lightly.

“I’m worried,” he confessed.

“About what?”

His eyes were penetrating as he looked at you, trying to see into your mind, know what you were thinking. He did it when he needed reassurance, when he wished he could be more confident about what he had to say. You kissed him, brushed his hair back from his forehead, touched your nose to his.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he said, voice still quiet until the rush of the water.

“How is it ruined?”

He shrugged, a small twist in his mouth.

“If people find out...”

You shrugged back, larger and surer than he.

"I never minded people knowing. You were the-”

“No,” he said, pulling back and looking at you quizzically. “What are you talking about? It was you who suggested keeping it a secret.”

“Not at all! It was you!”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“Well, if it was neither of us, then why are we keeping it a secret?!”

You looked at each other, aghast, bewildered. Then you laughed. You kissed his shoulder and he returned it on your temple.

“So should we just tell people now?”

“What exactly do we tell them?”

“That depends on what you want this to be, I guess,” you answered, acting casual as if your very breath weren’t sparkling in your lungs, making it hard to breathe, making the little shower cubicle airless as the two of you screeched up to a subject you’d been so easily avoiding.

“What do you want it to be?”

“I want to be with you. Like, for real. Relationship shit.”

The sigh of relief that came from Namjoon was so large it was almost comical. He kissed you. Wrapped his arms tight around you and moaned into the kiss. “Thank god. Me, too. Me, too.”

“So it’s settled then.”

“Settled.”

You nodded at each other, once, firmly, and then went back to kissing under the water.

Later, you sat with Namjoon in his bed, resting between his legs, your back against his chest.

You: btw, Namjoon meant to send that photo to me

Yeji: um

Yeji: WHAT

You took a photo of the two of you, Namjoon’s topless torso visible, your heads close, your smiles respectively bright and bashful. You sent it to Yeji.

Yeji: WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You: yeah it’s kind of a thing

You: that we’ve been doing

You: for a bit

You: probably going to keep doing it some more, tbh

You: some more or a lot more yk

When she didn’t reply, you assumed first that she’d had a heart attack. Then that she was busy letting every single person she’d ever met know about the two of you. If you needed news spreading, she was the one to go to.

“So now everyone knows,” Namjoon said, nuzzling against your neck, dropping light kisses against your skin.

“Everyone knows,” you replied, tipping your head slightly to give him better access. “Oh, also,” you said, suddenly remembering, “everyone knows about your big dick, too. There’s no way Yeji kept that back.”

He laughed, hearty and full.

“I think I’m ok with that, actually.”

#namjoon x reader #rm x reader #bts x reader #namjoon fanfic #rm fanfic #bts fanfic #namjoon smut #rm smut #bts smut

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iveneverbeenhere · 5 months ago

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💧Drying sleepy Namjoon’s Hair💧

Genre: FLUFF

A/N: Late Valentines post. I’ve been sick 🤧

💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧

“Your little grass patch is growing out again.”

“Mhm.”

His lashes tickled your knees as you slowly kicked your legs in a back-and-forth motion. Both of his hands placed on the back of your legs smacked a beat along your calves. Droplets of water fell from his buzzcut like a freshly watered grass field; they slid down his face dripping down to your legs due to his proximity.

“You wanna schedule an appointment?”

“Mhm.”

He could barely focus with your hands on him. Rubbing the warm towel on his soaking scalp in a gentle back-and-forth fashion. He felt his eyes begin to droop as his hands began to stop their thumping beat; transforming into a gentle hold as he loosely gripped onto your right leg. His breaths evened out into a deep hymn.

“You’re not listening are you?”

“Mhm.”

You give a small sigh as you look down to wipe the excess droplets off his face. His face chases your hands, unable to hold himself up.

“Let’s go to sleep, Hun.”

You take such good care of him.

💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧💧

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starboy-97 · 5 days ago

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namjoon has a gentle way of loving. his voice soft, a light hand on your back, that one smile reserved for just you. he doesn’t need to make a show of it. he simply is your safety. your peace.

he does his job well, holding himself confidently, meeting every round of small talk with intellect and poise. he's a true professional, captivating everyone without even trying.

he knows how overwhelming it can be, a room of industry professionals, amidst the made-up faces and false niceties.

so he keeps an eye on you, always attuned. whispered words. inside jokes. small secrets kept between the two of you, no matter who's around.

that's the thing about namjoon, he loves mindfully. no matter the moment, no matter the setting, you are always his first thought.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

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1343401 · 6 months ago

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captive desires m.list

synopsis: after the passing of her grandparents, myah inherits their mansion, the only home she’s ever known. but when she stumbles upon a hidden basement, she uncovers a chilling secret: her grandparents weren’t just caretakers, they were notorious hybrid hunters, and the seven hybrids they captured are still alive. horrified, myah vows to set them free, but the hybrids have a darker plan. in a twist of retribution, they demand she care for them in exchange for their freedom. now, trapped in a deadly game of desire, control, and obsession myah must decide how far she’s willing to go to survive and whether she can resist the pull of the very creatures her grandparents sought to control.

pairing: bts x reader

started: 02.06.25

status: ongoing

word count: 37.0 k

warnings: depictions of violence, smut (eventually), death, family trauma, mentions of blood, slight yandere-ish behavior

0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

taglist: @moonxxlover @sassy-snassy @kameko-ko @jnghs @captainhoook @yoonjoongles @canarystwin @sathom013 @gracefulsakura98 @jungshaking @haileyisboring @pookieb99 @starlight-1010 @svnbangtansworld @ihatesnakeu7 @dachshunddame @iyeeeverydee @multifandomfreakster-blog @peachmarien @dawnzephyr @ukndtwme @steddie-steddie @plainoldalexis @vantelover07 @justasadb1tch @seomta @shakespeare-in-the-park7 @mar-lo-pap @chroniclesofbts @borahaetelevision @charlielecrayongris @minjianhyung @wannaghostbts @therealjaken @kpopdreamer95 @selfishlittlebeing @official-angi @calmyourtitts7 @wonder-and-wildflowers @cosmotannie @flowinj @riu

join taglist!

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inthelow · 9 months ago

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THE LIST — BTS OT7 (introduction).

Pairing: fashion girl f!reader x ot7!bts

Summary: after finding out that some girls have a list of their hookups and how they rank them on different aspects, the boys are eager to know their scores and show you how they can be better than the others.

Genre: literally porn with a plot; a lil fluff but mostly smut and crack

Note/warning: there’s a lot of sexual talk, jokes and scenes so if you don’t like it please get out bc it’s mostly that lol, the porn will start in the first chap this is the intro cuz i love to write shit and silly jokes;; also, it does have a lot of plot twist shit and some delicate themes that i’ll be warning next chapter since i love to write complex female characters so yeah, porn with a lot of plot actually.

Masterlist: introduction, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

“Can you keep scrolling?. This foreshadowing trend is getting boring.”

It was a beautiful Saturday night in Korea, the end of summer was coming and most people were taking advantage of the amazing weather to go out and spent time outside. People would believe one of the biggest bands in the whole world would be enjoying their money and going outside with friends or travelling to other places, maybe even practicing or creating new projects for their careers, Bangtan wasn’t doing any of that. The seven guys were in your apartment watching TikTok videos for the last hour. It was almost midnight and they were still in your home just wasting time.

You had invited them to have dinner with other friends to celebrate Thanksgiving in October, a weird tradition none of your friends in the country celebrate but that you had begged them to do it since it was a cultural tradition for you. Of course, it was easy to convince them with dinner, the group had stayed longer that you had planned as always.

“It’s getting late” you mumbled, stretching your arms tiredly.

“Yeah, you’re right” Jin yawned “. I’m getting hungry again, should we order something?.”

They didn’t know how to take a hint.

“Maybe you should, uhm, como se dice… Calabaza, calabaza, cada uno pa’ su casa. Don’t you think?.”

“Bitch, you’re Canadian not hispanic” Jimin rolled his eyes.

“You’re half Korean, you don’t have a hispanic bone in your body” Taehyung said.

“Read a book.”

“Thought she was American.”

“Oh my god” they were so annoying “. Can you guys go home?. The dinner finished like three hours ago.”

“Home is so far” Ho-seok shook his head “. Can I crash here today?.”

“Hell, no.”

“Mean.”

“Should we watch a movie?. This app is slowly killing my brain” Namjoon said with disapproval.

“What if you guys watch a movie in your own home?.”

“Your TV is bigger” Yoongi muttered.

“Dude, you’re a millionaire, buy a bigger one.”

“I don’t believe in bad investment.”

“I’m gonna slap you.”

“You sofa is comfortable” Jungkook talked, sleepy “. I don’t want to move.”

You sofa was a “L” kinda of furniture. Him and Jin were laying in one and Taehyung and Yoongi in the other part. Namjoon, Hobi, Jimin and you were sitting on the floor, all of you separated in different parts around the furniture, your head touching Jungkook’s knee.

You sighed annoyed before giving up, luckily you didn’t have to work tomorrow so you could stay up longer than usual. The eight of you decided to eat the leftovers of the evening and while Jin went to the kitchen to warm the food, one video caught the attention of everyone in the room. There was a guy in the TV talking how some girls had a list in their notes app about all the boys they had slept with and how they rank them on different aspects, he talked how he wanted to know his ranking and ask a friend who he usually hookup with to know his score. The story wasn’t that hard to understand since it was short and fun but what caught the attention of everyone in the room, mostly the boys, was knowing that some girls do that.

“That’s not true” Jungkook chuckled “. Who would make a list like that?.”

Everyone turned their heads to look at you. Jimin started laughing when you just kept quiet.

“Oh, my god. You have one?.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you kidding me?” the younger seemed to wake up completely, he took a seat next to you immediately “. You have a list, what’s the ranking?.”

“I won’t talk about this with you guys” you laughed at their curiosity.

“Why no?” Taehyung pouted “. I want to know too.”

“Because it’s weird.”

“Why would you have a list if you’re not going to talk about it?” Jimin insisted.

“I said I won’t talk about it with you all, I spill with my girls all the time” you smiled innocently “. Have to share the knowledge.”

“You know how fucked up this would be the other way around?” Yoongi asked.

“Men just hate seeing women in male dominated fields.”

“You’re so dumb” Jimin rolled his eyes “. Just tell me the ranking you have and why I’m the number one.”

“Oh, my god” Namjoon threw him a pillow “. Shut up.”

“Yes, thank you. Can you guys never say shit like that again?.”

“I’m curious!” Taehyung whined “. Why can’t we know?.”

“Why would you wanna know?.”

“Wouldn’t it be fair?” Jin appeared from the kitchen, a plate of food in his hand “. Wouldn’t you like to know if we had a ranking about you?.”

The guys pointed at him and his good argument. You knew he was right.

“Touché” you giggled“. Where is the food?.”

He rolled his eyes “Go grab it from the kitchen.”

Everyone stood up to do grab a plate of food from the kitchen and some Soju bottles you had in your fridge. Soon you were all sitting on the floor doing a little round while eating, you knew they weren’t going to let the subject go. You weren’t uncomfortable talking about your hookups with the boys but it was a little weird to know that you’ve had written about almost every guy in that living room in your notes app where you had ranked them and giving some opinions about how good or bad they were when you fucked them.

“So you’re going to tell us?” the younger smiled cutely, trying to convince you.

“Nope, so shut up.”

“Come on” Taehyung whined again ”. I need to know.”

“You guys don’t have bad ranking, it’s not a big deal. You don’t need to know, you were good ” you tried to argue, letting it not be a big thing “. It’s just a comment on how it was, I have bad memory.”

“But it is, I need to know what you wrote about it” he argued back.

“No, you don’t.”

“What about a deal?” Jimin talked, you looked at him confused.

“No.”

“It’s not that” he smiled machiavellian “. You’ve been trying to get into that art project with Jacquemus, right?.”

“First, it’s not an art project, it’s a deal that I’m trying to do to expand my brand” you corrected him “. Second, what about it?.”

“Yeah, that, whatever” he giggled when you looked annoyed “. What if I casually introduce you to Simon and you talk about the business deal with him?.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Well, I have an event with Tiffany & Co’s next week and he casually happens to be in it” Jimin shrouded “. You can come with me as my stylist.”

Oh, he was tempting.

You had been in the fashion industry since you graduated. Getting a job in a fashion magazine where you got to know more about the business and then successfully opening your own clothing brand where you got to sponsor a lot of celebrities around the world, Bangtan being one of them, actually them being one of the first ones to support your little business when you started. Their company had been the first to contact you to use your brand when Taehyung was capture wearing some of your cute sweaters back in 2018. Of course, you were already friends before that, when you guys bonded in some event back in that year and had spent nights sleeping with each other you had become really close friends so it wasn’t a big deal for you that he wanted to take some of your clothes when he found you working one day, of course you didn’t know the big deal it would be after that. You had to thank him a lot when people reached for your brand after that. And the thing was, people didn’t know that you were actually that close, and they didn’t need to, they would say you had slept your way to the top and it wasn’t true, you had slept around before it.

“You swear?.”

“Pinky swear, baby” he showed you his finger for you to grabbed it.

“I better get the invitation tomorrow.”

“It would be the first thing you see in the morning.”

you sighed, surrendering “Just the ranking of you guys.”

“Everything we want to know” he shook his head “. I’m getting you a meeting with the owner of the company you want to buy or whatever.”

“I don’t…” he was good at annoying you “. It’s not a meeting, you’re just introducing me to him.”

“Still enough. Once I introduce you, you’re gonna get the deal. You’re a good shit-talker.”

“I hate you” he smirked “. Three questions each and we don’t talk about this ever again.”

“Our rankings, two questions each and we don’t talk about this again.”

“Deal.”

You both intertwined fingers and everyone cheered like it was some of the biggest deals made in history. You rolled your eyes, almost comically before grabbing your phone.

“Okay, what do you guys wanna know?.”

“How many people do you have on your list?” the first one to ask was Namjoon.

“Thirty-nine.”

“Damn.”

“Shut up, if you had a list you probably would have like three thousand.”

“Not true” Yoongi defended himself “. I can count them with my fingers.”

“And you will have to multiply them by ten.”

“She’s right, you’re kinda of a whore” Taehyung nodded “. A silent whore though, I’ve barely know your hookups.”

“Anyway” the rapper changed the subject “. Is it actually a ranking of who was the best?.”

“It’s not” you denied “. I just have the names of the people I have slept with and, you know, I just ranked them for different topics and write some comments” you smiled “. It started because I wanted to sleep with all zodiac signs and then I just keep going to remember how it was.”

“That’s crazy” Jin commented “. What topics?.”

“So only four of us are on the list?” Hobi questioned.

“Five actually” you blushed for the first time in the night.

“Wait, what?” the boy frowned “. I know about Tae, Jimin, Namjoon and Jungkook.”

“Surprise” Yoongi smiled.

“God” you shook your head “. So, yeah, I mean, it happened like six months ago.”

“I mean, everyone knew it was gonna happen eventually” Namjoon nodded.

“Weird you guys never talked about it” Jimin pointed out.

“Not that weird actually, they barely talked about their hookups” Taehyung said “. But everyone knows they’re sluts.”

“Ouch?” you chuckled “. We were kinda drunk, it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“You didn’t answer my question” Jin took your attention.

“Why you wanna know so much?. You are not in the list” Jimin laughed.

“I want to know how bad are you guys.”

“Please, I probably have a ten out of ten score” the dancer said confidently “. Is a ten out of ten score, right?.”

“Yes and It’s not that big of a deal, to be honest” you shrugged “. It’s just how good you were, notes about what was the best and some comments.”

“Can I read it for you?” Hobi said with excitement.

“No, and you just finish your questions so shut it.”

“Okay, I wanna know my ranking and comments” Jungkook said with obviousness.

“Yeah, for everyone” Namjoon said.

“Just read it for us” Jimin nodded.

“You actually want me to read you rankings out loud?” you questioned.

“Duh.”

“Wait, why am I getting nervous?” the younger frowned “. I wasn’t bad, right?.”

“I know I wasn’t bad, we had a lot of sex, you wouldn’t have sex with the same person if-” Tae stopped himself mid sentence “- Why did you give me that look?!. Was I bad?!.”

“Oh, my god” Yoongi rolled his eyes “. Just read it.”

“As you wish.”

“Why are you scrolling that much?” Hobi sat next to you “. Wow, Taehyung you were her number twenty-four.”

“Get away” you pushed the dancer.

“I want to know too” Jin sat behind you to look at your screen “. Oh, wow.”

“Read it!.”

“Okay, okay. It’s very explicit.”

“Even better” everyone complained at Jimin’s comment.

“Is everyone sure…?”

“Yes!.”

You giggled at their impatience before looking at your phone. You couldn’t read that out loud, you fake gagged at the thought of doing it. It was easier when you were drunk and talking with your girls and not sober with seven boys trying to know who was best at fucking you.

“Shit, I can’t, it’s weird” you sighed “. By the way, I need to clarify that there is no person in the list that has a ten out of ten, there is just one guy that has nine point five out of ten and is none of you” everyone booed “. So if you feel that you’re low, believe me you’re not” Ho-seok smiled amused when you gave him your phone “. Okay, you read it.”

“Hurry up!.”

“Taehyung, eight out of ten. Big dick, he fucks really good when he’s mad and is usually very intense in the act. Comments: he’s down to try almost any weird shit, finger play goes crazy.”

Taehyung got up, smiling and bowing to the boys who pretended to throw up at the information.

“You heard it, baby girls. I’m big dick.”

“Shut up.”

“You can call me ‘big dick’ from now on, guys.”

“Let me read the parenthesis” Jin took everyones attention.

“No!, wait…”

“(He seems to always finish first and sometimes doesn’t care if you do).”

Everyone started laughing, Taehyung got all red and you hid your face with your hands, embarrassed

“That was one time because I had to catch a plane!. You told me it was okay…”

“I knew Tae wasn’t a giver” Jimin clicked his tongue “. Should give him a two out of ten.”

“By the way, everyone has a parenthesis” Jin smiled “. And it seems it’s the bad things.”

“Wow, you rated one guy two out of ten” Hobi chuckled “. It says ‘Bad eater, small dick’. Damn, you’re mean.”

“Don’t read that!” you threw him a pillow.

“I wanna know mine!” Namjoon interrupted.

“Let me go by order, Jungkook is number twenty-eight” the dancer talked, the younger look attentively “. Jungkook, seven point five out of ten.”

“Ha!” Tae laughed at him.

“Great sex, one time he made me come thrice in less than one hour, he’s really hot when goes dominant guy. Comments: his stamina is crazy, can fuck for hours, good at being submissive.”

“I want to know the parenthesis!.”

“Three times in less than an hour is crazy” Ho-seok muttered.

“Lacks self respect” Jin giggled.

“What?. What it does even mean?” Jungkook frowned.

“Uhm, you know” you cleared your throat “. I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, you’re cute. Is… you know?” you went silent.

“Stop stalling” the younger was confused “. What did you mean by that?.”

“Babe, you have never say no to anything I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“And?.”

“Oh” Yoongi chuckled “, I get it.”

“What it’s wrong with that?” Jungkoon asked.

“Dude, she’s a fucking freaky” Jimin said “. There are things even Tae probably said no to.”

“That’s true” the idol nodded “. And you’re not that freaky, Kook. Lack of self respect.”

“I mean, for me is great but people might take advantage of you” you grimaced.

“Didn’t you do that?” Jimin questioned.

“And why wouldn’t I?.”

The guys laughed and Jungkook sat back thinking about the comment.

“Okay, me next!.”

“Right, you” Hobi read the list “. Number thirty-four, Jimin. Eight out of ten too.”

Knows how to move and how to get you in the mood immediately, weirdly good at quickies. Comments: loves face riding as much as me, after care it’s amazing.

“You listen to it, whores!” Jimin sang excited “. I should have the ten out of ten. What can even be the bad comment?. Too much after care?.”

“Gets to much into it, forgets to keep you in the mood.”

Everyone started to made fun of him.

“So basically, you don’t know how to entertain her. You bored her” Yoongi sighed “. Oh, you’re that bad, uh.”

“It didn’t say that!.”

“Jimin is bad at sex…”

“Shut up, six out of ten.”

“I was seven point five!.”

“Next one is Joon” Hobi read “. Number thirty-five. Oh, wow, after Jimin.”

“Why would you say that?” you shook your head.

“I’m just reading, baby” he chuckled.

Namjoon, seven point five out of ten. Knows how to talk you through it, good dick. Comments: he’s hot. (loves cowgirl but doesn’t know when to change it, got tired of it.)

“That’s it?” the leader whined “. Why that low then?.”

“I mean, it was great” you tried to not put him down “. But we had sex once, it wasn’t that mind blowing… But it was great!.”

“What she’s trying to say is that you’re mid” Jimin smiled.

“Shut up, you bored her to death.”

“My god, can we just finish this?” you complained.

“Let’s give it up for Yoongi” Taehyung clapped “. I’m going to give it a guess and said one out of ten.”

“That’s why his hookups never come back” Jimin added to the joke.

“They only fucked once and Yoongi seems lazy, has to be lower than me” Namjoon said.

“I can’t believe you put me the same score as Namjoon and you guys only fucked once” Jungkook complained.

“Believe me, it’s a good rank. It doesn’t say you’re bad” you defended.

“Yoongi is number thirty-nine” Hoseok read “. Wait, he was your last one?.”

“Damn, was he that bad you had to go celibate?” Jimin joked.

“I’ve been busy and, honestly, I’ve been fucking a lot this last couple of years” you chuckled“. And since it was mostly mid or bad sex, I wanted mind blowing sex before stopping for a while.”

“And you chose Yoongi?.”

“He just happened to be there” you shrugged.

“Ouch?.”

“So now you’re looking to settle down?” Taehyung questioned.

“I don’t know yet but I’ve sworn celibacy, I will wait until a worthy opponent comes along” the guys laughed at your dumb comment but you were serious.

“Yoongi is nine out of ten.”

“What?!.”

Yoongi chuckled, playing with the end of his shirt while the other guys were shocked. You laughed a little and Hobi decided to continue.

Knows how to make you come, he’s hella good with his fingers. Comments: tongue technology theory confirmed, squirted for the second time ever

“Wow, okay, we didn’t need to know that” Hobi made a disgusted face.

“The only bad thing it says is that you could be better in after care” Jin told him.

“Could be better in after care?” Jimin opened his mouth, offended “. That’s the only bad thing?. How- I can’t believe it.”

“You only fucked once and you put him nine out of ten?. Oh, my god, so I was that bad” Namjoon seemed like he was about to do a tantrum.

“I can’t believe it” Jungkook whispered.

“Fucking shit. Okay, and that’s all” you grabbed your phone “. Let’s not speak about this ever again.”

“But…”

“The deal.”

“Ugh” Taehyung pouted.

“Just one last thing” Jungkook grabbed your attention “. Who has the nine point five out of ten?.”

“Why is that important?.”

“I just want to know the comments” he said, he was serious.

“Antoine Lafleche” Hobi said.

“How do you…?”

“The only thing it says was ‘Wow’. Took my attention.”

“Yeah, well, he was” you smiled slightly “. Met him when I travelled to Paris for the exchange of my fashion program” you sighed “. We spend the last week of my course together, it really was ‘wow’. Sadly, we never exchanged numbers or anything.”

Jungkook nodded before standing up “well, I hated the ranking. We should head home now, it’s late.”

“You’re right” Jin stood up too “. By the way, this was really fun.”

“For you, I can’t believe I had an eight out of ten. I can’t believe Yoongi got ranked better than me!” Jimin started complaining.

“Don’t talk about it!” you whined “Shit, just get out.”

Of course you knew they would talk about it, probably even complain and argue how one was better than the other. What you didn’t except was for them to make a bet. That night you went to sleep while the guys arrived to their complex, thinking about that list after the silent road to home was almost to quiet, everyone thinking how many other girls had ranked them as low as you.

“Seven point five” Jungkook snorted when he sat on the couch “. Not even an eight.”

“I feel you.”

“Shut up, you fucked once. We did it many times and she gave me the same score as you?” the younger groaned, annoyed “. This is unbelievable.”

“I can’t believe Yoongi has a nine out of ten. One more point than me!” Jimin complained “. She was probably too drunk and thought it was good.”

“That’s an insane comment” the rapper rolled his eyes “. And not my fault you guys don’t know how to actually be good in bed.”

“Well, at least I have a big dick” Tae shrugged.

“Can you guys shut the hell up” Jin rolled his eyes “. You’re all bad in bed, we get it.”

“Please, you would get a two out of ten” Jungkook said “. When was the last time you got laid, grandpa?.”

Jimin laughed “yeah, you would probably be the lowest.”

“I don’t know, I kinda trust Jin. He seems to have game” Taehyung nodded.

“Stop being weird” Ho-seok chuckled.

“I would get that ten” Jin said with confidence “. You all had comments, I would just get that number and none of that shit reviews.”

“I can’t believe a guy name Antoine got a ‘wow’, the fuck is that supposed to mean?” the younger rolled his eyes.

“That he was that good” Jimin hummed “. I’m gonna get that ten out of ten” he mumbled “. It’s gonna be a ten out of ten and period, no more comments, just that good and speechless.”

“You already have a eight out of ten, give up” Yoongi told him with annoyance.

“So what?, you think I can’t get a better score than you?.”

“I think you just can’t get good in bed” the rapper barked.

“Stop” Namjoon rolled his eyes “. She said she’s on celibacy or whatever, she won’t sleep with you guys.”

“Wanna bet?.”

“Yah!, stop betting shit” Taehyung scolded his friends.

“I’m just saying, I want it to make it more fun” he shrugged.

Jungkook snorted and shook his head “make what more fun?.”

“I mean, I will get that ten out of ten no matter what” he talked like it wasn’t a big deal “. I just thought it would be fun if we all actually had one more chance, you know?. To see who’s actually better.”

“You’re a weird shit, you know that?” Ho-seok crossed his arms.

“And you all are still thinking about it.”

The room went silent, everyone actually thinking about the deal. But it wasn’t just a deal, after that score, the guys were a little hurt, mostly their egos, they knew they were good in bed, they had a lot of people confirming that but to know that they weren’t the best at it was a little but hurt, even more when they were now in the top of the world. They wanted to show you that they could get that perfect score, and if they had to compete with someone for that, who was best that each other?. They were the best of the best, they were going to change that ranking.

“I actually don’t care” Jin laid back on the sofa “. But I’ll get that number ten just for fun.”

“You’re on” Taehyung immediately stood up “. I know her more than you guys, I’ll get that number.”

“You know her more and you still got that eight, sit back down” Jimin rolled his eyes.

“Are you really doing this?” Ho-seok shook his head.

“If you are that afraid of getting a bad number, back off” Namjoon made fun of his brother.

“Please” the dancer scoffed “. One night and I’ll get that ten, seven point five.”

“Don’t call me that!.”

“I don’t care about competing with any of you” Jungkook said “. I’ll work hard for that number, and I’ll get it.”

Yoongi snorted “I had one drunken night with her and she gave me a nine, give me ten minutes sober and I’ll get a fucking hundred.”

“Game on, baby!.”

You shouldn’t have shown them the list. Or maybe it was for the best?. Celibacy life wasn’t for you anyway.

this is me revealing as an insane ot7 😔🙏🏼

this is gonna be a flop but i was watching this guy on tiktok talking about this girl that rank him in bed a nine and how he lacked self respect and i was laughing so hard and then i was like waittt this is a good idea for a porn plot and then a bts edit appeared and i was like yea i need to write about it so here we are

this is gonna be like a lot of smut and i’m not that good at it but i wanna try it lmao so just for funzies and giggles u know

anyway next chapter soon hehe, i will also be editing and posting/editing the masterlist soon<33 just was too excited to post this

2K notes · View notes

gguk-n · 10 months ago

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Cinematic Sparks (Kim Namjoon x Lewis Hamilton's sister!Reader)

Face claim- India Armateifio. Pictures from Pinterest

Series Masterlist

y/nhamilton

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y/nhamilton A weekend well spent😌😌

mercedesamgf1 you should spend more weekends with us🥹🥹 user1 the hamilton's have great genes❤️❤️ user2 so pretty!!😍😍 user3 the first picture😍😍 user4 how is she so pretty even without make up??😩😩 lewishamilton stop telling dad I don't take you places😤😤 y/nhamilton lewishamilton never bc its the truth😡 lewishamilton y/nhamilton that's why I don't take you anywhere🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️

y/nhamilton

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y/nhamilton I coquettified him!!🎀🎀

lewishamilton take that picture down😡 y/nhamilton NO🫢 nicorosberg that's why you're my favourite Hamilton ❤️❤️Liked by the Author mercedesamgf1 why didn't we think of that?🤔 user5 I want a brother like Lewis🥲 user6 Lewis I get you ma brother, my sisters crazy just like yours😥 user7 she looks so perfect doing anything😫😫 user8 we love you Y/N. Never change for this industry🤣🤣 user9 user8 what industry? f1? user8 user9 she's an actor, she starred in a lot of movies and shows😀

y/nhamilton

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y/nhamilton Exhausted from all the promo but I hope you guys will enjoy seeing me in the new Netflix original

user10 I just watched it and I love it❤️❤️ user11 effortlessly pretty😍😍 user12 her interviews are riveting😘 user13 her chemistry with her co-stars is unbelievable🫢🫢

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y/nhamilton Rejuvenating my soul in Seoul

user14 OMG!! YOU LOOK SO GOOD IN A HANBOK❤️❤️ user15 That caption is bomb 😩😩 user16 I ran into her the other day and she was the nicest person and we took pictures and even gave her autograph🥹🥹 y/friend/user best girls trip everrrr🥹🥹 y/bff/user wanna go back!!!❤️‍🩹🥲

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gossippage Dispatch Korea released pictures of a couple saying they are Y/N Hamilton and RM of BTS. The outlet says that they were spotted a couple times spanning months going in and out of RM's Hannam-dong apartment. The couple or their agency are yet to confirm anything

user17 obviously namjoon pulled her, I mean look at her😩 user18 you can't even see their face, it's utter bs😤😤 user19 they are grown adults, if they date then they date user20 I hope it's true, I wanna see Namjoon at races🥹 user21 it's funny how 7 time world champion's sister's dating some one who cannot drive🤣🤣 user22 I think it's true, RM just followed her🥲🥲

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y/nhamilton All the time I spent with you was the best. I'll be looking out of the window wistfully waiting for my husband to return from the war😭

rkive I'll be back soon❤️ lewishamilton what do you mean husband?? 😡😡 georgerussell63 incase any one was wondering, Lewis is pacing the mercedes hospitality like a mad man nicorosberg he's a gent, we love him❤️ sebastianvettel he's so much better than the other guys you've brought home❤️ lewishamilton sebastianvettel there were others???🥲😤 y/nhamilton lewishamilton you act like I am 5😫😫 user23 y/n and namjoon dating was not on my 2023 bingo🫢🫢 user24 the boyfriend namjoon pictures are killing me😭😭 user25 she's us, waiting for our husbands*cough*JungKook*cough* user26 love the Hamilton siblings😂😂

rkive

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rkive My favourite person to take to museums

y/nhamilton I'm the only person you take to museums🤔 rkive y/nhamilton bc that's the only time you shut up😌 y/nhamilton rkive 😤😡 user27 he really said f u to the company, I do what I want😂😂 user28 this couple was made for us😭😭 user29 I'm living vicariously through them😭😭 user30 cutest couple ever❤️🥹 user31 ewww you ruined your feed for her🙃🙃 urarmyhope ❤️

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winterzsurprise · 9 months ago

Text

Lover's Oath [1]: I met the devil by the window

Pairing: BTS x reader

SUMMARY: “I'd spoil you rotten, put you in the nicest, most expensive clothing and I'd still have more to spend on you for an eternity.” Jin whispered into your lips like a promise. If it weren't for your lust addled mind, you'd believe him. “You like wealth, princess? I have plenty. My coven has a dragon, he'd spoil you rotten, he’d stop at nothing to give you everything you'd ever wanted.”

Or alternatively, your friend’s only solution to you being a broke college student with a family to feed is to attend a private feeding party where the most affluent vampires are in attendance to drink fresh blood in exchange for money and get yourself in trouble with the infamous Kim Coven.

Tags: Supernatural AU, Mythical Creatures AU!, SMUT, Cunnilingus, Magic slick (Seokjin passed out from it lmao), Blood sucking(obvs), not beta read.

Words: 5.1k

I just found this one collecting dust in the vault so I decided to post it here since it'll be a shame if I don't post a 5k words worth work. Its supposed to be the first chapter for a mythical creatures and reincarnation au bts x reader story but I immediately hit a wall.

I'll prolly pick it up in the future idk.

Title from "Devil by the Window" by TXT

Masterlist || NEXT>>

Never in your life have you ever thought a single sheet of paper could weigh so heavily in the palm of your hands like it holds the heaviness of your future.

Depending on your answer, it does.

The card was a vibrant crimson with a nice golden design of modest swirls as margins for the text that are coloured in silver, the material no doubt expensive. It was an invitation to a private feeding after all, how could it look shabby when only a selected few are given the opportunity to attend?

And by ‘selected few’, you meant people from affluent backgrounds and some unfortunate people desperate for money.

It was obvious what category you’d fall into.

If you were to attend the party.

“Stop staring at it like it offended your ancestors, I'm just suggesting it.”

Soomin, your friend since high school, says with an offended look on her face.

“Where did you even get this? You don't know any vampires, do you? You didn’t ask your fiance for this one right?”

She shrugs, leaning back into her armchair. “Got a few favours and please, I am not about to go to my man asking for a pass for a sucking party. You were complaining about needing money and thought I could use some of them.”

Scratching your head, you read the card's contents with careful apprehension.

“Relax, it's not enchanted to track where it goes. It's just a normal card, you know I wouldn't force you into something if safety wasn't guaranteed.”

Before leaving the herd to pursue college far from the safety of family wards, your mother had enchanted your accessories with scent suppressors and glamours to prevent people from knowing your heritage.

You were told of horrors of the inhabitants outside the plane, both mortals and supernaturals turning over every leaf in the forest just for a whiff of a faerie like wild, mindless animals unlike the sentient beings they were supposed to be.

The blood of a faerie is as precious as its golden colour, said to restore even the weakest mortal on its deathbed to pristine condition with a mere drop, and turn a half vampire’s miniscule powers into a bottomless pit of a royal pureblood.

Faeries live in constant danger and you'd be damned if you weren’t taught to overthink everything.

“It’s anonymous and it's my name on that invite, they’ll have you wear a mask, don't overthink it too much. My aunt used to tell me ‘your body is an emergency fund, every part of you is profitable. You just need to know the right place.’ or in my case, a man.”

She says, wiggling her fingers in front of your face where a gigantic pink diamond glimmered under the light above you, an engagement ring from the werewolf she bagged from dancing against a stranger one Friday night.

It's her pride, being able to capture the attention of one of the country's most attractive bachelors. It gave her a confidence that soared so high in the skies, she had nudged the Heavens. You couldn't even blame her for thinking so, knowing you'd share the same sentiments if it were you.

But still, daring to wander around without the wards your mother has spent years of creating to keep you safe, it makes your stomach churn.

Placing the card and pushing it as far as you could, you lean back into the chair.

“I don't know… It's really risky.”

“I’m just suggesting here,” she sighs, sliding the paper back in front of you and patting it. “If all goes well, you wouldn't need to work overtime. For a year at least.”

“You saying that only makes me overthink it even more.”

She rolls her eyes playfully.

You knew she was right and the prospect of not working for a year is tempting. But a part of you frowned at the thought of risking your safety for a couple of zeroes in your bank account. Pride is such a fickle thing, so easily threatened and dragged through the mud when desperation kicks in.

But what is Pride in the face of your mountainous pending bills? Is there any use for pride when you’re drowning in the piling debt on your head?

Not to mention, your mother and little brother's living situation back in the province. Soobin needed new shoes for school, you've seen how well-worn it has been—if well-worn meant clumsily glued back soles onto the upper body for the nth time with shoelaces frizzled and pulled taut from being twisted into knots and years of washing.

Your barista, and supermarket cashier job nor your mother's job as a saleslady in the wet market reward you both enough to save for his shoe while trying to sustain both you and your family, you need more. Taking on another 9-5 job is far from the solution, if anything that’s one of the quickest ways to snuff your own light out.

Grabbing the paper with a newfound heaviness in your body, you sighed. The address encrusted in silver stood out in the seas of crimson reds, rooting your eyes onto the text.

“You asked for my help and I offer this–this somewhat long term solution.”

“But what if someone tries to track my blood back to me?”

Your mother and brother are counting on you, her salary from selling in the market aren't enough for the both of them. If you were to disappear they would sink further than you all already are, Soobin would stop attending school in favour of working. The guilt from seeing your mother bend over her back to be able to put food on the table would kill him.

It's a burdening feeling you wouldn't wish upon him. He should only know to have fun, make friends, and experience life in high school like a normal teen would.

You can't afford to put yourself in danger.

“I’ve already put my name on the list, there’s an unbreakable oath of secrecy in the staff that not even someone from the Bangtan coven can interfere with. I promise you that you'll be safe, you just need to find someone to feed on you and then you can go, easy money!”

Seeing the hesitance in your eyes, she continued.

“Sometimes you just need to live a little. There's rewards in risking, you know?”

You really didn’t want to go, every cell in your body told you ‘no’.

But then again, nor can you afford new shoes for Soobin with your minimum wage jobs.

With a defeated sigh, you looked up to meet your friend's eyes.

“How should I dress?”

He should've known better than attending parties the prehistoric council members had invited him into.

You'd think centuries of politics would render him immune to these tricky situations yet here he is, standing awkwardly in the middle of a gaudy ballroom while holding said invitation on one hand and a cocktail in the other. The old geezer who had given him the envelope was already gone by the time he realised his mistake.

The envelope was a deep hue of red, a foretelling sign of what the party might be about.

It wasn't a shock when he saw the neatly imprinted silver text on the thick crimson paper telling him of a private feeding gathering for both the fortunate and the unfortunate on Saturday.

While being a vampire himself, he never had to feed on strangers when he had his coven to fill him up for the next month or so. His age has allowed him longer intervals between feeding and at this point, he has grown nonchalant with that aspect of his life. If anything, it felt more of a bother than a necessity.

Obviously, he should've ripped it to shreds and incinerated the damn thing. The Sanguine Regis should never taint his pristine reputation by attending such a lowly event that reeked of lust and desperation of humans overly eager to be bit in exchange for money. He’s better than to be swayed by blood with the quality of a junkfood—briefly tasteful but junk nonetheless.

But a voice whispered at the back of his mind, urging him to join the small gathering. A nagging feeling tugging at him and telling him he'd miss something important if he were to dismiss the invitation. Yet when asked why he went by his brothers, he said it's to oversee the event undercover.

He could still feel the burning curious gaze of five on his skin.

Which brings him to his current predicament, fighting off the urge to yawn from the absolute boredom caused by the sight of newbloods breaking their backs to impress potential business partners and blood donors.

He silently thanked whoever thought it was a good idea to have guests wear masks or there would've been heaps upon heaps of scandals littering the front page of Naver if he were to be spotted. Not to mention, the newbloods trying to peacock their way to being sponsored by the Kim Coven.

He couldn't remember the times he had done his route around the hall, trying to avoid people vying for a morsel of attention and trying his best to not stay still in one place long enough for people to recognize him but he did know that if he were to go around once more, he's leaving once and for all.

Downing his last martini, he stood up for his last lap around the room.

Only for a dizzying scent to knock him back into his seat. It grabbed onto his throat with a tight grip, stuffing his head and demanding his attention.

It smelled like the sweetest of sin, honeyed and dripping thick on his tongue like heaven’s nectar.

A faerie’s blood, although from a half-blood, is still as tantalising as a pure blooded one.

He hears the murmurs, could feel the spawns’ auras spilling out of their body, their greed relentless and non-discriminating as it lashed out over each other, fighting to be noticed by the woman in the black bodycon dress.

You strode into the middle of the ballroom with a sway to your hips, lips painted in the hue of blood stretching into a coy smile as vampires of all ages take a step towards your direction. The dress didn't leave much to the imagination with its thin fabric clinging onto your form tightly. From the spaghetti straps hanging flimsily on your shoulders to the low dip of its collar between the mounds of your chest and the high slits on one side to reveal the plumpness of your thighs, you are mouth-watering in every way possible.

A brave sheep that wandered into a den of predators. A brave woman who’s now flashing supple flesh full of running blood underneath them.

With pouty lips tinted in crimson red and hair loosely curled on the side of your face. You were a sight to behold, a rare painting of a maiden slyly smiling at the agitated beasts in a ballroom full of her predators.

Seeing you stride in with all that skin displayed for everyone to see, a ravenous monster at the back of his mind resurfaces. Greed and possessiveness of the others seeped into his skin, awakening something he had long buried. For a moment, he swore he saw a kind smile and crinkled eyes hidden behind a white veil directed at him before he blinked and he’s back in the ballroom.

Seokjin didn't notice his feet moving, following the alluring scent beckoning him close as if hypnotised but he did see the flirtatious narrowing of your eyes as he approached. If his power is spilling over the floor and deterring everyone from daring to get in between you both, he ignored it.

In fact, he revelled in their soured faces and shivering bodies.

He wasn't one for claiming territories nor was he the type to flaunt his power but for tonight, he'll make an exception.

No one is to dare interrupt him or there will be a price to pay.

“What's a pretty faerie like you doing outside of their realm?”

He tried so hard not to stare at the delectable view of the mounds of your breast or the unblemished skin of your neck and chest but it's difficult with the view granted by his height. Your heartbeat pulsed nervously despite the flirtatious mask you so perfectly strut with.

He could practically taste your scent being this close and his throat dries up.

Fuck, you're gonna make him religious.

“The same as the other women in pretty dresses in this room, darling. Money.”

“Aren't you scared people might hurt you?” It was a genuine question, if he wasn't here to step over the pining prospects…

He didn't want to imagine how they would've killed each other for a glance from you.

You would've been ravaged, no doubt. You’re so bold for strutting into a room full of ravenous vampires. It was stupid. Impressive. It made his blood boil thinking of how you had confidently walked in and paraded yourself to these uneducated hyenas.

Seokjin could feel your fear, could hear it from the racing beats of your heart under flesh and bones. You were nervous, no doubt ready to bolt the moment you were approached by the predators, boxing and surrounding you in all directions yet you faced him head on with a false confidence he started to think is real.

If fear were to ever linger in the corner of your eyes, he had a feeling it wouldn't end well for every supernatural in this room.

No one should ever dare scare you while he’s around.

“I'm desperate. So, if you aren't trying to take me for the night, I have other guys pining for me so excuse—”

“I didn't say I didn't want you, sweetheart. I'm just trying to get to know you better.”

You stopped, looking up at him through your lashes as you stepped closer.

Lithe fingers boldly reached onto his tie pressed neatly behind his blazer—nails painted in a sinful red hue, he notes— tugging and twirling it between fingers as you stepped closer and closer, further drowning him in your delectable fragrance. Your nervous heart beats echoed in his ears and it sounded like the piper's capturing tune, your scent surrounds him like a haze of amortentia, demanding his attention on your eyes, your lips, your skin and to the dip in your waist. All Seokjin could think about was you.

For once in his miserable life, he forgot about the kind touches on his cheeks and the warm, cold grey eyes staring back at him.

Your soft flesh flashing up at him, teasing him and urging him to have a taste, to feel the rush of your blood, sweet and hot, down his throat, to run his hands over your skin and have his marks littering its unblemished surface.

Suddenly his clothes felt suffocating in the heat of his desire.

“All you need to know is that I need a name to moan, handsome.”

He could feel the thread of his patience running thin, lust leaking in and clouding his judgement. He smirked. “Name’s Jin. What should I call you then, sweet thing?”

Your arms reached around his neck, body pressing flush into his chest as you looked up at him through lidded eyes. The size difference not going unnoticed, if anything, it made him want to drive a stake through his racing heart.

“Cherry.”

He doesn't know who started it first, nor does he remember how you both ended up in a private room after the feeding contract was signed. All of the procedures blurred and all of a sudden he’s leaning down to capture you in a desperate kiss.

The doors locked behind you both as he pressed you onto its wooden material, the masks long forgotten on the floor. Seokjin felt your lust in how your scent sweetened further like heaven's nectar, grabbing onto his throat and drowning him.

It almost felt sacrilegious that he gets to know you so intimately like this, sinful how the image of someone else seems to overlap with your face modified with makeup. Almost unfair how your desires grappled with his patience like a cat with a ball of yarn making him forget all his thoughts, temptation lighting his skin alight.

Pulling away, his lips immediately zeroed in on your neck. His fangs ached to be buried onto your precious skin but he knows better than to harvest his rewards early. So instead, he sucked bruises and marked your throat yet the greediness in his chest didn't relent, if anything, it rampaged further at the sight of you littered with his marks.

They looked so pretty on you.

“You're driving me insane.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Taking your lips once again with him, you engage in a wild dance of teeth dragging over his lips and tongue clashing with yours before he’s picking you up and taking you both to the bed at the far corner of the room.

The straps of your dress falling from your shoulders shouldn't have the effect it does to him yet here he is, throat tight and mouth watering as he hovers over your pliant body, full chest spilling on the sides of your body, raising with your laboured breath with cheeks flushed with desire. His hands pushed the offending fabric of your dress to bunch over your inner thighs, eyes greedily drinking in every inch of skin being revealed to him before noticing how the thick flesh managed to look so small under his palms.

His mouth dries.

Seokjin never understood the appeal in seeing how bigger he is than his partner, but seeing how his hand laid imposing against your stomach, he burned with a desire akin to forest fires. Wild and unstoppable until he’s engulfed and eaten every part of you.

He can't wait to see how Namjoon feels about the size difference between you. The man would lose every morsel of control.

“Stop staring!”

“Why should I? You look so pretty like this.”

There's something so sinfully divine in how the fabric only seems to cover the necessary parts of your body, trying its best—and failing—to hide you from his gaze. It made him feel like the Devil about to corrupt your purity with a bite.

You whined, hand reaching for him as you flush darker at his comment.

You'd turn Yoongi into a devout worshipper who'd dedicate a thousand songs from this sight alone.

He ran his hands across your thighs, thumb inching closer to your heat under the fabric and every time it neared your breath hitches. Your heartbeat thuds a little faster, a new melody he's grown to love.

Yoongi would've composed a beautiful song to the beat of your pleasure.

“If you stare any longer, I'm going to start charging you.”

He didn't mean to laugh as hard as he did at that.

“Not much of a threat for me, sweetheart. I'm fucking rich.”

Your scent flares as you let out a soft moan and he captures your lips once more before pulling away with a smirk.

“I'd spoil you rotten, put you in the nicest, most expensive clothing and I'd still have more to spend on you for an eternity.”

You whined and it sounded like the sweetest melody he'd hear once he entered whatever heaven there is for the supernatural.

Seokjin didn't have a kink for spending money on someone nor did he imagine he'd have one, but as he drawled on, he couldn't help but imagine you in the most lavish fabric to pose for him and his coven members, to see your form covered in the softest of silk and the rarest of gems only their money could purchase, his throat tightened.

Taehyung’s designed clothes would fit you perfectly.

“You like wealth, princess? I have plenty. My coven has a dragon, he'd spoil you rotten, he’d stop at nothing to give you everything you'd ever wanted.”

You didn't react to his revelation and he takes it as a win, a silent acceptance of his coven.

“Please just touch me.”

“Where do you want me, princess?”

You take his hand, lithe and small against him, and bring it close to where you wanted him most between legs, nudging his fingers between folds and shocks shoots through his body. He groans when his knuckles meet the lacy fabric already drenched with your arousal, doused with your addicting scent.

“I want your fingers inside me, Jinnie. Please?”

If you asked him for the universe with that voice, he would learn how to shrink it and hand it over to you the next day tied with a bowstring.

Are you aware of the power you hold over him?

Instead of moving like you wanted, he let you control his wrist, watched you with rapt attention as his fingers dipped down your folds, hovering on your clenching hole before rising to nudge your clit, teasing your already sensitive self and moaning from the slightest of touch.

If it wasn't for the unfamiliar signature of a faerie in your scent, he would've thought you were a succubus.

“Look at you grinding on my knuckles so prettily, already so needy for me.”

He pressed light figures of eight on your button and drank in the sight of your desperation with rapt attention. Your hips twisted, eager for more. Tugging the fabric aside with the other hand, he toyed with your clit, using different pressures and motions to figure out what brings you the most pleasure before dipping a finger into you.

Your velvety walls fluttered around him, pulsing with need and tightening oh so deliciously on his finger. His cock stirs in his pants as he adds another digit.

Seeing you thrash around in pleasure as his fingers drove and curled inside you got his body crawling with the intense feeling of greed. He wanted to see more of you, to have you on the brink of breaking, body shaking from the unadulterated shocks of euphoria. Suddenly, the dress flimsily covering you grew more offensive than breathtaking. He eyed the material restricting his movements before pulling away from your cunt and reaching up to tug your panties off of you, discreetly tossing it into his spatial storage.

The dress is already halfway off your skin, he could easily tear them apart to replace them with a better, more expensive fabric but decided against it.

He sheds the clothing inch by inch, placing soft kisses and gentle nibbles to newly uncovered skin, leaving you breathless beneath him. Your scent flourished with your magic. It was electrifying. Intoxicating how your power seems to react so well with his.

Like you were meant to be.

Sitting back, he admired the divine artwork before him, embedding the sight into the walls of his brain. Your arms moved to cross over your breasts in an act of hiding from his gaze, making him reach down to entangle your fingers with his and pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“Don't hide from me. You look so pretty like this.”

With you finally revealed bare beneath him, he wasted no more time, leaning down to your cunt where your scent was stronger and licked.

Your flavour explodes on his tongue and he groans. Whether it was just your scent he’s tasting or your arousal he could care less, mouth latching onto your folds and tongue lolling on your erect bead as he sucked. His head buzzed, intoxicated by the fluctuating aroma surrounding him. He could die happy between your shuddering thighs threatening to close around his face, he didn’t mind it though, he can go on without breathing if only he could taste your sweet nectar.

Tasting you felt blasphemous, like he broke every heavenly rule there is by having you drip on his tongue. Sinful and outright disrespectful, and he loved it.

Heat ravaged his entire being alight, desire running rampant and restless under his skin. His fingers roamed your uncharted skin possessively, digging his fingers onto flesh and dragging them down, cupping and squeezing whatever he could reach while his mouth busied with your clit. Your hands grabbed at his head, fingers threading and entangling themselves onto his hair, confused whether to push him away or to tug him closer as you edged closer to the precipice of your high.

“I'm so close…! Jinnie please!”

With your back arched, hair laid around your head like a halo and chest glistening with sweat stuttering as you come to a close, skin illuminated by the soft lights of the room, Seokjin swore he has never seen a more beautiful sight than this.

His fangs ached once more.

“Fuck..! I’m gonna—”

He pulls away, teeth sinking into the plush of your thigh and your body seizes with pleasure, the ecstasy caused by his bite pushing you over.

Your blood is light and rich on his tongue, syrupy and honeyed, like the sweetest nectar found only in the garden of eden, the flavour heightened by your climax. Seokjin could taste the sugariness of your orgasm as if it was his own and he groaned. It was dizzying, the taste clogging his senses and stuffing cottons inside his mind as he took and took. He has never realised how hungry he was until he’s bitten into your skin.

His head swims, intoxicated by the raw magic in your blood entering his system, intertwining and entangling themselves into his own before boldly integrating with the flow of his power as if they've always been there. Energy buzzed under his fingers now erratically plunging and curling inside your cunt, further sweetening your blood as you edged between pleasure and pain from overstimulation.

Then in the midst of all the pleasure and nirvana, something clicks into place and he jerks awake from the haze.

Forcing himself to pull away, he almost black out as if he’s been taken off of life support—he feels like he did. Head blank and lightheaded, blood drunk. Even in his bleary state, he could feel it. An additional trace of your magic latching onto his own, a bond unconsciously made.

The uncomfortable stickiness in his boxers didn't go unnoticed and he buried his face into your trembling thigh, blushing for no one in particular.

He cursed under his breath before pushing himself up and wishing you both into the comfortable clothing he had stocked up in his pocket dimension before taking his phone out to be immediately greeted by the onslaught of text on his lock screen, all two hundred of them from his brothers who had no doubt felt the addition and his intense pleasure from feeding on you.

Normally, he'd be embarrassed by the thought of them knowing what he's been up to but there were more pressing matters to attend to.

For example, the bond formed without your consent and his.

There's panic and confusion swirling madly like a hurricane through the six other bonds. He forced calmness down the lines tethered to his magic before turning back to the issue at hand.

He might have to wake you up and inform you of what happened.

But when he looked up and found your eyes closed, most likely blacking out from the intensity of the unprecedented bonding and the overstimulation from a royal vampire's bite, he figured that he'd deal with it tomorrow. You looked peaceful and he found himself mirroring the same sentiment, exhaustion weighing his bones. He dragged himself up next to you, arms wrapping around your torso as if he has always been doing so.

There's still insistent tugs down the lines of his bond, demanding answers and there’s a constant buzzing from his phone but that's for tomorrow's Seokjin’s problem to solve, for now, he closes his eyes.

For the first time that year, Seokjin sleeps and wakes from the most pleasant rest he's had in centuries only to end it abruptly when he wakes up with the other side of the bed empty and he freaks.

“What the fuck do you mean you just left him?!”

“What the fuck was I supposed to do then?! If he's as high profile as you think, I don't think he'd appreciate waking up next to a one night stand! Someone who had sold herself for money no less!”

“Not all of them you—ARGH!”

Soomin groaned exasperatedly and loudly, folding over herself as she facepalms on the other armchair in your dorm's living room. Deeming it not dramatic enough, she grabs the pink throw pillow behind her and screams onto it.

Truth be told, leaving Jin earlier that morning placed a heavy weight on your heart. It felt so wrong to walk away from him, as if there's a string tying you to him and now it's pulled taut—which is a crazy statement to think about, there was no bonding ritual so how could you feel so dejected from closing the door behind you?

You have a couple of spare zeroes in your bank account now with bills paid and an expensive pair of black shoes already in transit for Soobin. Why would you be sad from leaving a one night stand?

You couldn't even believe you managed to bag someone that high in the social hierarchy. That party was a nightmare, walking in knowing all eyes would turn to you, all predatorial and hungry, it almost made you want to run back to your mother's arms. But you're an actress, theatre experience be damned if you weren't going to put on the greatest act of your life.

Fake it till you make it, you’d always think and it led to you having the most earth shattering, blackout worthy orgasm as well as owning heaps of money.

Soomin has a different sentiment though, now standing up to cross over to where you sat across her before promptly hitting your body with the pillow.

“You're. So. Fucking. Stupid!” She screams like you had pissed and disrespected her ancestors’ grave, striking with an emphasis on each word. “That man might be Kim Seokjin from the most elusive coven in the world! Number one most sought out bachelor in South Korea and the country's most powerful sorcerer and you just walked away from him!”

“How could you be so sure it's him? All we got is a nickname.”

“His name is literally Jin which is short for Seokjin and he's a vampire wizard! You said he has a coven with a dragon? Well, guess what?! That dragon is Kim fucking Namjoon! Another member of the Kim coven! That man is one of the richest in the fucking world, A LITERAL FUCKING GOD, and you just ditched his coven’s eldest!”

She swings for the last time and you weren't so fortunate the last few times—already letting down your guard when she began ranting—and it hits you square in the face. You groaned in pain, the zipper on the side of the pillow scratching your skin.

Soomin’s anger immediately dwindled as she realised her error and gasped, falling to her knees and hands already reaching to cup your face to check for visible marks, pillow left abandoned on the carpet.

“Can't be damaging the face that bagged the Kim coven.”

“No damage here.”

“Just my faith in your decision making skills. I mean,” she stands, now more subdued and more disappointed than angry, still you eyed the pillow warily. “You've been wearing yourself down to death for years, not only for you but also your family. If you were taken into the Kim Clan, you wouldn't have to worry about money anymore.”

Despite being one of your closest and longest friends, there's always been a huge difference with how you both perceive money.

You're desperate for it, clawing and digging your hands bloody through the desolate desert for a chance of finding one small nugget to sustain your family while Soomin was familiar with it—she grew comfortably living in her parents’ spoils of years of hard work but never had enough to buy the highest of quality items until her fiance came and suddenly, she had more than enough to spend for her luxury and you.

You strived and toiled for a smidge of stability whereas she revelled in anything life throws at her without worry because she has her parents to catch her if everything ever goes wrong.

She thinks of luxury as designer brands and ridiculously highly priced products that don't guarantee the greatest quality but you think of luxury as never having to worry about spending a cent over the designated budget for food shopping.

Even then, you loved her to the bone and appreciated her like a sister from another mother.

“I can't afford to be distracted right now. I have a course to finish and a family to keep alive, I can't be hanging onto blind hope.”

Soomin's eyes softened, understanding and sighed. Turning around, she licked up the stray pillow before settling back into her chair and crossing her arms.

“I'm just… I just wanted you to be happier. It's a life mission of mine to make sure I won't die before seeing you living without stressing over details.”

“I know.”

“I love you, petal.”

You laugh and she smiles. “I love you too, queen.”

#bts x reader #bts x fem!reader #bts x y/n #bts x you #kim namjoon x reader #kim seokjin x reader #min yoongi x reader #jung hoseok x reader #park jimin x reader #kim taehyung x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #rm x reader #jin x reader #seokjin smut #suga x reader #jhope x reader #jimin x reader #v x reader #jungkook x reader

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kittenan · 19 days ago

Text

We Will See... Secretary Kim [Pt. 1]

Pairings:Yapper Secretary!Namjoon x Cold Doctor!Reader Genre: Romantic Comedy, Soft Dom/Sub Dynamics, Forced Arrange Marriage(Arranged by you), Enemies(ish)-to-Lovers, Office Romance Word Count: ~6k Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, detailed sexual scenes, soft dom/sub/switch dynamics, Chaotic Wedding, Fluffy Smut, Domestic Softness, Mutual Pining, oral sex (both receiving), teasing, emotionally intense moments, forced marriage (arranged by you), alcohol mention

The ballroom sparkled like a jewellery store, with a huge chandelier hanging above that probably cost more than a house.

Glasses clinked, people laughed too loudly, and the air smelled like expensive perfume and champagne. You stood in a corner, holding a glass of sparkling water, wearing a sleek black dress that fit you perfectly. It screamed I’m here, but I’m not impressed. You scanned the room, bored out of your mind.

These parties were your dad’s thing—his way of showing off his business while calling it “networking.” You’d rather be home, reading patient files or eating ice cream straight from the tub.

And then you saw him.

Across the room, standing awkwardly by a wine bar, was a man who looked severely out of place. His black suit was decent, but clearly worn.

He was cute, though. Soft jawline. Full lips. Glasses perched on his nose like a finishing touch on a painting he didn’t know how to price. And those dimples—god, those dimples were trying to save him from the social hell he’d clearly been thrown into.

Too bad they weren’t working on the heiress currently pawing at his bicep.

She was some rich heiress—you didn’t care to remember her name—and she was all over him, touching his arm and slurring something about her yacht. He looked trapped, smiling nervously and nodding while she babbled on about her yacht and her father’s new casino in Macau.

You took another sip of your water. Pathetic.

Your heels clicked as you crossed the floor, your face as cold as ever. The heiress barely noticed you approaching—until your voice sliced through the air like a scalpel.

“Back off, princess,” you said coolly, “before you end up in the champagne fountain.”

The woman blinked at you, confusion battling with intoxication. “Excuse me—?”

“I said,” you added, stepping in beside the guy and placing a gentle but very possessive hand on his chest, “Trust me, it’s not as fun as it sounds.”

The guy made a startled noise. The heiress frowned, swaying slightly. “Ugh, whatever,” she muttered, stumbling away with her drink sloshing like a bad life choice.

You dropped your hand and looked up at the guy. He was blinking rapidly, mouth parted in surprise.

“Thanks,” he said, then in one breathless stream, “She said something about taking me on her yacht and introducing me to her Maltese and I—look, I’m scared of open water and I don’t even know how to swim that well, plus boats make me seasick.”

“And did you know this chandelier is from Prague? Which honestly is excessive, like—who needs that much crystal above their heads? What if it falls? Everyone here is acting like that thing isn’t one aggressive violin solo away from homicide—oh god, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

You tilted your head, looking at him. He was cute—messy dark hair, glasses slipping down his nose, and those dimples that wouldn’t quit.

But wow, he talked a lot. His words just kept coming, like he was trying to fill the quiet you left behind. He was interesting. Annoying. Cute.

“…You talk too much,” you said flatly.

His jaw clicked shut.

Your lips curved—just slightly—into the faintest smirk. You turned and walked away without another word, your dress sweeping behind you like the final stroke of a perfect mic drop.

He just stood there, blinking after you, still holding his untouched wine glass.

“…Wait, what’s your name?” he called, voice rising over the string quartet’s latest dramatic swell.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t turn. You simply melted into the glittering crowd, untouchable, unbothered, unforgettable.

Namjoon stood there in a daze, hand still awkwardly mid-air like he meant to offer it to you but forgot how hands work.

He was pretty sure his heart had done a weird jump thing. Like a hiccup. Or a seizure.

“Who was that?” one of the bartender asked, passing him a new glass.

“I don’t know,” Namjoon whispered, wide-eyed. “But I think I’m in danger.”

The next time Namjoon saw you, he nearly dropped his coffee mug. He’d been called to your father’s office, expecting a boring talk about schedules or contracts.

Instead, he walked in to find you perched on the edge of your father’s big wooden desk, legs crossed, sipping a black coffee like you owned the room. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and that same smirk from the party danced across your lips.

“You must be the secretary with opinions about chandeliers,” you said, your voice dry as you raised your cup in a mock toast.

Namjoon choked on air, his glasses fogging up a bit as he tried to figure out what was happening. “I—uh—what?”

Your father, a big guy with a laugh that could shake walls, chuckled from behind his desk. “Namjoon, meet my daughter. She’s... a handful.”

Namjoon’s brain stopped working. Daughter? The woman who’d saved him from a drunk heiress, who’d looked at him like he was an interesting puzzle, was his boss’s daughter?

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, looking like a confused fish.

You raised an eyebrow, still poker face, clearly enjoying his panic. “Close your mouth, Secretary Kim. You’ll catch flies.”

He snapped his jaw shut, his ears turning red. “I—I didn’t know. I mean, I’m sorry if I said anything weird at the party. I just—chandeliers, you know? They’re... shiny.”

Your father laughed again, clapping Namjoon on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to her. She’s cold as ice, but she’s got a good heart. Right, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes, sipping your coffee. “Don’t start again, Dad.”

The meeting was about a potential partnership between your father’s company and the hospital where you worked as a doctor.

They were discussing funding for a new research wing, and you were there to provide input on the medical side, scribbling notes about equipment costs and staffing needs.

Namjoon tried to focus on your father’s words, but his eyes kept drifting to you. You were writing furiously, your expression unreadable, but every now and then, you’d glance at him, and he’d feel like he was being studied. It was scary. It was... kind of exciting?

Later that week, your father called you into his office for one of his usual “talks.” You slumped into the chair across from him, already bracing for the lecture, but he had a playful glint in his eye.

“Okay, kiddo,” he started, leaning back in his chair with a grin.

“You’re 28, and I’m not getting any younger. I want to have grandkids someday, you know? Time to find a nice guy.”

You snorted, crossing your arms. “Dad, I’m fine. Love’s a scam, and I’m too busy saving lives.”

He chuckled, wagging a finger at you. “Oh, come on, don’t give me that. You’re my brilliant, beautiful daughter, but you’re living like a grumpy cat lady. I’ve got a list of guys—good ones, not just my golf buddies’ boring sons. Pick one, or I’ll start playing matchmaker.”

You smirked, leaning forward. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” he said, mimicking your smirk. “I’ve got a guy in mind already. He’s got a yacht.”

You gagged dramatically. “Gross. I’d rather marry a random stranger.”

He laughed, throwing his hands up. “Fine, find someone by the end of the month, or I’m setting you up. Deal?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “You’re the worst, Dad.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” He turned to Namjoon, who’d been quietly sorting files in the corner, trying to blend into the wallpaper. “Namjoon! Back me up here. Tell her dating’s great!”

Namjoon froze, his eyes darting between you and your father. “Uh... I... dating is... nice?”

You shot him a look that could’ve frozen a volcano, but your lips twitched with amusement. “Wow, Secretary Kim. Thanks for advice.”

That afternoon, you cornered Namjoon in the break room. He was heating up a sad container of noodles, his tie a bit crooked, muttering to himself about work. You leaned against the counter, watching him for a moment before speaking.

“Let’s get married,” you said, like you were asking him to grab you a coffee.

Namjoon dropped his noodles. The container hit the floor, splashing sauce on his shoes. “What?”

You didn’t even blink, your expression as cold as ice.

“You heard me. My dad’s on my case about finding a boyfriend, or he’ll set me up with some yacht-owning loser. I’d rather marry you. You’re cute, and you’re the only one who said ‘dating is nice’ in front of him, so this is your fault.”

Namjoon’s face turned bright red, his glasses slipping down his nose. “I—I—I’m your father’s secretary! I can’t just—marry you! And I didn’t mean to—dating is just—argh!”

You shrugged, sipping your coffee. “We’ll see.”

He stared at you, his mouth open, as you went out of the room, your smirk practically a weapon.

A week later, you struck again. Namjoon was in the company break room, nervously heating up another batch of noodles (someone needed to teach this man to cook).

You walked in, fresh from a hospital shift, still in your scrubs but looking like you’d stepped out of a drama. He froze, clutching his chopsticks like they’d protect him.

“Hey, Secretary Kim,” you said, your voice smooth and teasing. “Still thinking about my proposal?”

“Y-Yes? I mean, no!” he stammered, his glasses slipping further. “You’re not serious, right?”

You leaned against the counter, twirling a pen between your fingers. “Marry me. It’ll save me from my dad’s terrible taste in men. Plus, I bet you’d look cute in a tux.”

He choked, coughing as a noodle went down the wrong way. “WHAT?! No! I mean, no offense, you’re cool and beautiful and kind of scary, but no??? I’m not falling for this!”

You smirked, sipping your coffee. “We’ll see, noodle boy.”

Namjoon groaned, his face burning. “Noodle boy? Really?”

You winked. “It’s cute. Like you.” You left him standing there, muttering to himself about noodles and terrifying heiresses.

Later that night, he googled “can you accidentally agree to marriage in Korea by just existing near a rich heiress?” The internet was no help.

Next threat came few days later in elevator.

The elevator was a bad idea.

Namjoon should’ve taken the stairs, but he was late for a meeting, and you were already there, looking like a spy in a tailored blazer. He pressed the “close” button a dozen times, his hands shaking.

“I’ve been thinking about your... joke,” he said, his voice high-pitched. “You’re not serious about the marriage thing, right? Because marriage is a big deal, and you’re way out of my league, and—oh god, why am I still talking?”

You turned to him, your eyes glinting with mischief. “So you’re saying you won’t marry me?”

He laughed nervously, adjusting his glasses. “No! Haha! I mean, no.”

You stepped closer, your voice low and teasing. “We’ll see, Secretary Kim. I’m very persuasive.”

Namjoon, in a panic, hit the emergency stop button, then froze when the elevator jolted to a halt. You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Uh... oops?” he said, his ears glowing red.

You leaned in, smirking. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered. Makes me want to marry you even more.”

He squeaked, pressing himself against the wall. “Please don’t!”

The third time was at another company party. You were there, looking like a goddess in a deep blue dress, winking at him from across the room as he tried to balance a tray of snacks. He spilled wine all over his shirt, his friends laughing as he muttered, “I think I’m getting married against my will.”

His friend Hoseok clapped him on the back. “To that scary hot heiress? Lucky you!”

Namjoon groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “She keeps saying ‘we’ll see’ like it’s a threat! And she called me noodle boy!”

Hoseok cackled. “Noodle boy? Oh, you’re so married.”

Namjoon stood at the altar clutching the bouquet like it had just whispered a threat.

Clad in a painfully well-fitted tux that he may or may not have been bribed into trying on with the promise of free pastries.

His glasses were fogged. His palms were sweating. His brain had long since left the building.

Namjoon was trying to calm his spiraling thoughts, but it wasn’t going well.

Breathe, Kim Namjoon. You’re smart. Logical. You don’t get manipulated by tall women in thousand-dollar heels with the emotional range of a paperclip and the eyes of a panther.

Wait.

His brain suddenly screeched to a halt.

“Did I… did I actually agree to this because she promised me free pastries?”

His inner voice answered way too quickly: Yes. Yes, you did.

“AND THEY WERE THE STRAWBERRY MOCHI CREAM ONES—MY WEAKNESS.”

He groaned under his breath, adjusting his glasses and muttering, “How am I this soft? How did I trade my freedom for a box of flaky, strawberry-filled lies? She even knew they were my favorite. She’s a tactical genius. A villainess in heels. I’m just a pastry-hungry peasant boy.”

How did I get here?

Now here he was, in front of 200 guests—half of them your dad’s business partners, half of them probably just here for the cake.

Your father, seated proudly in the front row with a silk handkerchief, sniffled into his champagne and whispered, “That’s my baby. She threatened him just like her mother threatened me.”

Namjoon’s gaze flicked across the crowd. Yoongi and Hoseok were in the back row. Yoongi looked like he was at a funeral. Hoseok was recording everything on his phone and whispering a live commentary.

“She really did it,” Hoseok whispered, eyes gleaming. “Is it legal?”

“She kidnapped him,” Yoongi replied flatly. “This is a hostage situation with floral arrangements.”

“She looks so hot doing it though—”

“Shut up, Hoseok.”

Namjoon’s eyes finally landed on you—and that’s when everything short-circuited.

You were walking toward him, designer gown cascading behind you like a fog of intimidation and expensive fabric. You weren’t smiling. Of course not. You were composed. Cold. Gorgeous. Looking like you were about to sell him into marriage and then short a billion-dollar stock.

He blinked rapidly. Did she just wink?

You did. He almost dropped the bouquet. She winked. She’s doing the “evil queen wink.”

Namjoon turned to the officiant. “I think I’m in the wrong venue.” The officiant chuckled. “No, you’re just in love.” “No, I’m being blackmailed,” Namjoon muttered to himself.

The ceremony started. You stood across from him, regal and composed, holding your vows like they were divorce papers you hadn’t decided to file yet. You cleared your throat.

“I vow…” Namjoon braced. “…to tolerate you yapping.” Rude. He pouted.

Namjoon blinked at you, caught off guard. You were being nice… in your own cold, "I might still kill you" kind of way.

Then it was his turn.

He panicked.

“I promise to… be, um… emotionally available? Even though I’m not sure how we got here. I think there was some light manipulation. Possibly blackmail. I’m still not convinced I’m not in a fever dream?”

You tilted your head slightly, as if debating whether to let that one slide.

“I—I mean, marriage is like… a well-organized filing system, right?” he stammered. “Also, your dad said I was perfect and threatened to disown me if I run away, so… yeah?”

You raised one elegant brow.

He cleared his throat and added, softer now, “You terrify me. But you also look hot doing that…” He winced. “That sounded better in my head.”

You blinked. Then smirked.

The officiant didn’t even ask. He just said, “You may now kiss the bride.”

Namjoon panicked again. “Wait, we didn’t—did we say ‘I do’? I didn’t hear it—was there a form?!” You grabbed his tie, pulled him down, and kissed him. Right on the lips. In front of the crowd. The cameras. His ancestors.

The bouquet hit the floor with a defeated thud. Hoseok cheered. Yoongi didn’t blink. Your father sobbed into his champagne, “Just like her mother.”

When you pulled back, Namjoon was redder than the bouquet roses.

“I—uh—do,” he wheezed. You smiled softly, for just a second, not even noticieble. “Took you long enough.”

Namjoon stood awkwardly in your shared apartment on your wedding night, still fully suited like he’d forgotten how clothes worked. His ears were practically on fire as he clutched a glass of water like it would protect his virtue.

“I just want to make it clear,” he said, voice cracking slightly, “don’t expect anything from this marriage, okay? This was... a situation. An emergency arrangement. A mutual understanding.”

You, reclined on the couch in a silk robe, hair messy and legs crossed like a queen waiting for someone to fan her with palm leaves, raised an eyebrow. “Noted, noodle boy.”

He blinked. “Noodle b—what—Stop calling me that.”

You turned back to your phone, completely unbothered. He stared a moment longer, then stomped off to the guest room muttering, “What did I sign up for?”

But Namjoon was the softest liar. He went full cinnamon-roll husband mode, doing the sweetest things like:

Organizing your closet by color and season, knowing your OCD would love the neat rows of blazers and scrubs. He even labeled the shelves with cute little tags that said things like “Scary Doctor Outfits” and “Ice Queen Essentials.”

Making your coffee every morning—black, one sugar, hot enough to burn a hole through the table. He’d hand it to you with a shy smile, muttering, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

Filling your car’s gas tank without being asked, leaving a sticky note on the dashboard that said, “Drive safe, meanie.”

Driving you to the hospital every day, waiting until you were inside before leaving, sometimes waving like an overexcited puppy. Once, he accidentally honked the horn while trying to adjust his glasses, startling a group of nurses.

The kicker? Every lunchbox he packed had tiny kimbap with heart-shaped carrots. HEARTS. SHAPED. BY. HAND.

You’d open it, smirk, and mutter, “This is barely edible.”

He’d gasp dramatically. “I SLAVED OVER THOSE CARROTS. You know how hard it is to cut the carrots.”

You’d reach across the table and pat his cheek. “You’re cute when you’re dramatic.”

Namjoon.exe rebooted with hearts in his eyes.

One morning, you were in a rush, bolting out the door in a flurry of scrubs and coffee, forgetting a patient file you’d been studying at home.

Namjoon found it on the kitchen counter, next to your half-eaten toast and a smudge of strawberry jam. He cursed under his breath, clutching the file like it was a top-secret mission. “She’s gonna murder someone if she doesn’t have this..”

He drove to the hospital like he was auditioning for an action movie, dodging traffic and muttering pep talks to himself.

When he arrived, he spotted you in the hallway, deep in conversation with Kim Seokjin, the hospital’s unfairly handsome neurosurgeon. Seokjin was leaning close, his hand brushing your arm as he pointed at a chart, laughing at something you said.

Namjoon’s vision went red, his inner romantic jealous hero taking over. He marched over, grabbing your wrist with a dramatic flourish that would’ve made a K-drama director proud.

“Sweetheart,” he said, loud enough to make nearby nurses jump, “you forgot your super-important file at home. Lucky for you, your husband saved the day.”

Seokjin blinked.

You blinked, your face blank but your eyes glinting with amusement. “Are you okay? You’re sweating like you ran a marathon.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a possessive but still adorable growl. “You’re my wife. I’m jealous, okay? That guy’s too handsome to be trusted.”

For the first time, a real smile broke across your face, soft and a little shy, like the sun peeking through clouds, that stayed for more than one second. “You said not to expect anything, noodle boy. But I knew you didn’t mean it.”

His voice cracked. “I panicked. You were standing next to a Disney prince with a stethoscope.”

Seokjin, sensing he was third-wheeling a rom-com climax, raised his hands and backed away. “I’ll... uh, check on my patients. You two are cute.”

Namjoon’s ears were practically glowing. “I’m fine,” he muttered, shoving the file into your hands, then adjusting his glasses to hide his embarrassment. “Just... don’t flirt with hot doctors, okay?”

You tilted your head, your smile growing. “No promises. But you’re cuter when you’re jealous.”

He groaned, covering his face. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You patted his arm, smirking. “Good thing I’m a doctor, then.”

That night, the air in your apartment was thick with unspoken tension, a delicious electricity that made your skin hum.

Namjoon sat on a bed, glasses low on his nose, buried in a book titled How to Love Cold People Without Melting. It would've been adorable if your thighs weren’t already clenching just from watching his mouth shape each word.

You stood there in the doorway, arms folded, heart beating in a rhythm you didn’t recognize. You weren’t a woman who swooned—but hell if this man, this sweet idiot who made your coffee perfect every morning, didn’t make you burn in silence.

You padded over silently and shoved the book out of his hands. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

He blinked up at you, lips parted slightly. “Uh—?”

You didn’t answer.

You pushed him flat onto the bed, straddling him with a slow, possessive grace. His glasses slipped crooked on his face, his hands instinctively landing on your thighs before jerking back like he’d touched fire.

“Y/N…?” His voice cracked, small and unsure. “What are you—?”

“Namjoon,” you purred, hands pinning his wrists above his head. “Wanna make this marriage… real?”

His pupils dilated like you’d injected something straight into his bloodstream.

“I—uh—what do you mean by real?”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a ghost of a kiss. “You know exactly what I mean, noodle boy.”

You kissed him then—hard, wet, no mercy. Tongue sliding against his with filthy, open-mouth hunger. His lips were so soft, already swollen as you bit into his lower one, dragging it between your teeth until he whimpered into your mouth.

You ground against him slowly, deliberately, letting him feel the heat radiating from you. He groaned, hips twitching under you, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re evil,” he breathed, voice ragged. “Fucking evil.”

“And you love it.”

He nodded like he was hypnotized. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

The kiss grew hungrier, messier, your lips moving against his with a pace that made your head spin. You nipped at his lower lip, earning a soft whimper that sent a thrill through you.

“You’re too cute when you make those noises,” you murmured against his mouth, pulling back to see his flushed face.

“I’m not cute,” he protested, his voice breathy. “I’m... manly. Very manly.”

“Sure, noodle boy,” you said, smirking as you kissed him again, your hands tangling in his hair.

You yanked off his shirt, tossing it over your shoulder like it offended you. Your nails scraped down his chest, leaving faint red marks that had him gasping.

His fingers tightened in the sheets as you kissed down his throat—nipping, sucking, leaving purple bruises along the side of his neck with slow, claiming pleasure. “You’re mine,” you whispered against his pulse, licking over the bite. “Say it.”

“I—I’m yours,” he gasped.

“Good boy.”

He whined. Actually whined. You could feel how hard he was through his boxers, the tip already dark and leaking, desperate.

You kissed him again, your mouths crashing. It was messy—tongues battling, teeth clashing, lips swollen and spit-slick. You let out a breathy moan into the kiss and he lost it, rutting up into you like he couldn't help it.

“Y/N, please…” His voice cracked, needy, almost fucked out already.

You slid down, slowly licking and kissing your way down his chest, teeth grazing his abs. When you reached the waistband of his boxers, you looked up.

“Don’t cum until I tell you to,” you warned.

He choked on air. “Fuck—o-okay—yes, ma’am.”

You pulled him out, his cock flushed and twitching in your grip. You licked the tip slowly, letting your spit drip down the shaft, watching him fall apart.

Then you took him fully into your mouth, deep and slow, your throat relaxing around him like a promise.

“Shit—oh my God,” Namjoon groaned, fisting the sheets. His thighs trembled as your head bobbed, your tongue swirling, lips stretched wide and obscene. You moaned around him just to hear the noise he made—high and broken and beautiful.

“Y/N—I’m gonna—I need to—fuck—”

You pulled off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting you to his cock.

“Not yet,” you smirked. “You don’t get to cum until I say.”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he whimpered.

You climbed back up, kissed him hard—making him taste himself on your tongue—and stripped out of your clothes slowly. His eyes never left you. His mouth parted in pure awe.

“You’re unreal,” he breathed, dragging his hands over your bare thighs like he wasn’t sure you were real.

You gripped his hair and shoved his face between your thighs.

“Make me cum and I’ll let you fuck me.”

He didn't need to be told twice.

Namjoon’s tongue was tentative at first, soft flicks and kisses—but your gasps spurred him on. He licked harder, deeper, his hands gripping your ass as he pulled you closer, burying himself in your heat. His moans vibrated through your core, your thighs tightening around his head.

You pulled his hair as your hips rolled against his mouth. “Fuck, yes—don’t stop, baby.”

He didn’t. He ate you like he owed you orgasms, tongue and lips relentless, eyes glazed with desperation.

You came hard on his mouth, hips bucking, body arching as you cried out his name.

And still—he licked until you were overstimulated and panting.

When you pushed him back, he looked wrecked. Lips swollen, chin soaked.

“Come here,” you whispered, climbing over him again.

You straddled his lap, teasing him with your soaked entrance. His hands trembled as he held your waist.

“Please,” he begged. “Please let me inside.”

You sank down slow, inch by inch, watching his face crumble into bliss. His head fell back, throat tight with a groan.

“You’re tight—shit—you feel so fucking good—”

You started riding him, slow at first, grinding your hips with control. His hands clung to you like a lifeline, like he was scared you’d vanish.

“Namjoon…” you moaned, rolling your hips deeper. “Fuck, you feel so good inside me.”

“Y/N—please—faster—I’m gonna lose it—”

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear.

“Be a good boy and make me cum again first.”

He came with a strangled cry the moment you clenched around him.

You gasped as you followed, the pleasure crashing over you in waves, your hips stuttering as you moaned into his mouth.

You collapsed on his chest, both of you sweaty, shaking, and utterly ruined.

He was still inside you, cock twitching weakly, hands stroking your back.

“You’re gonna have to marry me again after that,” he mumbled, wrecked and smiling.

You kissed his jaw, then his lips.

“We’ll see,” you whispered, smirking.

The room was still thick with the heat of Round One. Sweat-slick skin, bitten lips, trembling thighs—you lay half-sprawled across Namjoon’s chest, heartbeat slowly returning to normal as your fingers traced lazy circles over his ribs.

But the man beneath you? Was still hard.

Still twitching inside you.

Still very much not done.

You let out a soft breath, about to shift off him, when his arm locked around your waist and flipped you in one swift move. You landed on your back, startled, wide-eyed, staring up at your previously flustered husband.

His hair was a mess. His lips were red and wet. His chest heaved as he hovered over you, pupils blown wide with want. And oh—those glasses? Gone. Just dark, focused Namjoon.

“You said I was cute,” he growled, voice thick and low as he kissed your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse. “Said I was your good boy. But now…” His hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. “…I wanna see how good you are at taking what you give.”

Your breath hitched. Heat exploded low in your belly.

“Namjoon—”

“Shh,” he muttered, biting your collarbone hard enough to make you gasp. “You’re gonna take everything I give you, sweetheart. No teasing. No smirking. Just you. Under me. Dripping. Begging.”

He reached down and shoved two fingers into you without warning—your soaked pussy greedily taking them with a wet squelch that made both of you moan.

“Still so wet for me,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “God, you like it when I take control, huh? You wanna be ruined by the man you married out of spite?”

You whimpered, hips grinding down against his hand. “Y-Yes…”

“I couldn’t hear you.”

“Yes, fuck, yes—Namjoon please.”

“That’s better.”

He pulled his fingers out and dragged them up your stomach, watching the slick shine in the dim light. Then—he pushed the wet fingers past your lips.

“Suck.”

You obeyed instantly, moaning around them, eyes fluttering shut as you tasted yourself. Namjoon’s jaw flexed. His cock twitched against your thigh.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he said, voice like velvet-wrapped sin. “Hard. And you’re not gonna run. Got it?”

You nodded, throat dry, lips parted. “Yes—please—I want it.”

He aligned himself at your entrance and slid in all at once—rough, deep, making you arch up with a cry. His hands grabbed your thighs, pushing them up, open, exposed.

He pulled out slowly, just the tip inside, then slammed back in so hard the bed creaked.

“Shit,” you cried out, nails digging into his arms.

“That’s right,” he grunted, hips snapping in a brutal rhythm. “You take it so well. All that attitude—where’s that cold little smirk now, baby?”

You whined, your voice breaking. “F-Fuck—so good—Namjoon—”

He slapped your thigh lightly. “What did I say about calling me cute?”

He gritted his teeth and thrust deeper, angling up until he hit that spot that made your legs shake. “This is what ‘cute’ gets you.”

Every thrust was filthy, punishing, perfect. Your moans echoed in the room, high and needy, body trembling as he fucked you into the mattress.

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head again.

“You gonna cum for me like this?” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple. “All tied up and spread for your secretary husband?”

You nodded wildly, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Say it,” he demanded, rolling his hips deeper. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Y-Yours,” you gasped. “Yours, Namjoon—fuck—please—I’m gonna—”

He kissed you hard and filthy, tongues clashing, teeth dragging across your lips as he pushed you over the edge with one final thrust.

You came with a scream, your body seizing under his, muscles clenching so hard around him he nearly came too.

He pulled out just before he could finish, panting hard.

“Turn over. Ass up.”

You blinked, still dazed, but obeyed.

“You think I’m done?” he muttered. “You made me lose my mind. Now I’m gonna make you forget your name.”

He spread your legs, dragging his cock through your folds before thrusting in again from behind, this time deeper, rougher. One hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so he could kiss your throat.

Your screams were muffled into the pillow. He pounded into you, cock so thick, so deep, you felt him everywhere. He reached around to rub your clit again, not even letting you recover.

“C’mon,” he rasped. “Give me another one. Be a good girl.”

And like a good girl—you did.

You came again, shaking, sobbing, back arching as the pleasure ripped through you.

Namjoon groaned your name, pulled out, and jerked himself quickly before painting your back and ass with thick ropes of cum, his hips stuttering as he collapsed over you.

You both lay there, tangled, sweaty, your breaths mixing in the silence.

He nuzzled against your shoulder, still dazed. “Holy shit…”

You giggled. “Still think you’re more cute!!”

He slapped your ass playfully. “Shut up.”

You turned to look at him, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“I might need a Round Three.”

He groaned into your neck. “You’ll kill me, woman.”

You smirked. “Don't worry I am Doctor.”

Life with Namjoon settled into a strange, beautiful rhythm. He bragged about you to your child patients while handing them Marvel and Anime stickers, his eyes lighting up as he told them, “My wife is scary but brilliant. She’s the best doctor you’ll ever meet.”

The apartment was cozy, dimly lit with the warm glow of fairy lights strung along the curtain rod like you were too romantic to admit, and too lazy to take them down after your birthday.

You were curled up on the couch like a burrito in one of Namjoon’s oversized hoodies, legs tucked under you, a pint of ice cream in your lap. Namjoon was sprawled beside you, wearing his “husband cardigan” and gesturing wildly at the TV screen.

“I’m just saying,” he ranted, mouth full of stolen spoonfuls, “if the male lead had common sense, he would’ve known she was his long-lost childhood friend! I mean, how many people own that exact bunny keychain??”

You let your head drop against his thigh with a dramatic sigh. “You are far too emotionally invested in this drama.”

He sniffed, scooping more ice cream. “I’m just saying it’s bad writing.”

You smirked and leaned up to kiss his cheek mid-rant. It was soft. Quick. A little smug.

Namjoon froze.

“...What was that for?” he whispered, blinking like you’d just handed him a Nobel Peace Prize.

You shrugged, wiping ice cream off the corner of his lip with your thumb. “You looked cute. Like an angry literature professor.”

He blinked. And blinked again. Then his dimples made a slow, lovesick appearance like they were clocking in for duty.

“Sooooo...” he dragged out the word with a shit-eating grin, “do you love me?”

You stretched like a cat, placed the ice cream tub on the coffee table, and smirked. “We’ll see.”

He let out a scandalized, full-body gasp and dramatically flopped back on the couch like a man wounded in battle. “RUDE.”

“Adorable,” you corrected, climbing over him like a smug little gremlin and kissing his lips, slow and soft and sweet enough to make his brain melt.

“You always do that,” he mumbled against your mouth. “Kiss me to shut me up.”

“It works, doesn’t it?” you purred.

He narrowed his eyes, dimples threatening to take over again. “You’re impossible.”

You curled up on his chest, tugging his cardigan sleeve over your fingers like a menace. “But I married you.”

He chuckled, arms wrapping around you, dropping a kiss to your forehead. “Fair point.”

You both returned your attention to the terrible drama on screen. You took another bite of ice cream and wordlessly handed him the spoon.

He took it, then yapped again about how the second lead deserves rights and how justice for that dog subplot was non-negotiable.

You leaned over and kissed him again, just to shut him up.

“Do you ever plan to say it?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Say what?” you murmured, pretending not to know.

“That you love me.”

You smiled, your heart full. “Eventually.”

He groaned, pulling you closer. “You’re impossible.”

And in that moment—soft, ridiculous, wrapped in sweater sleeves and spoon-sharing—you knew something you’d never say out loud.

Not yet, anyway.

“We’ll see.” was just your way of saying I love you.

A/n: I can listen to yapper Namjoon whole day. He is such a cutie.😭

PART 2

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria

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