purplemoon7

[purplemoon7]

The Sound of You

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Kim Namjoon records the little pieces of you—the hums, the soft-spoken thoughts, the joy in your laugh—and turns them into a love song only he gets to keep. One night, he lets you hear it… then lays you down and makes you feel every note.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Namjoon x Black!Reader (Married AU)

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 3.5k

Warnings! FLUFF! soft and sensual intimacy, married domestic bliss, established relationship, Namjoon being hopelessly in love (as always), NSFW! SMUT (18+), soft dom!Namjoon, switch!reader, unprotected PIV (they're married, praise kink,

You don’t know it yet, but you’ve been the star of Namjoon’s favorite playlist for months.

It starts like any other Tuesday night—slippers too big for your feet, your curls wrapped up in that old satin scarf with the loose seam, and a mug of lukewarm ginger tea you keep reheating and forgetting. There’s jazz floating from the living room speaker, mingling with the scent of bergamot and the soft scratch of a pen as you journal in bed.

Namjoon is somewhere in the house, probably in his studio, probably lost in his head, probably thinking of you.

You hum to yourself as you write—an unconscious melody you don't think much about, a hybrid between something you heard at the shop today and your favorite song. Just something to fill the quiet.

But he’s listening.

Of course he is.

You don't notice the soft creak of the bedroom door or the way he hovers for a second before slipping inside. You don’t see the fond smile tugging at his lips or how his hand stays curled around something behind his back.

"Whatchu doin'?" he asks in a sing-song voice, all deep and casual, and it make your skin warm.

You glance up at him, grinning, replying in the same tone. “Writin'.”

“Mm.” He tilts his head, dark eyes playful. “What’s the topic tonight? The meaning of life? How to get out of going to the grocery store?”

You snort, and the smile he gives you in return is so soft, so sweet, dimples deepening as it widens.

He rounds the bed and plants a soft kiss on your temple. You close your eyes for a beat. That’s your favorite thing—him, his kisses on your skin.

He pulls back, but your eyes stay closed.

“You okay?” he asks after a beat, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. His voice is always gentle with you, but there’s something extra tender in it tonight.

“Mm,” you hum, leaning into his touch. “Just tired. Long day.” You open your eyes and offer him a smile. “How was your day?”

“Long.” You make a noise of sympathy, and he smiles, tucking a stray coil under your scarf. “But I like it when we’re tired together.”

You giggle, and it’s the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. That’s a lie, though; he thinks everything about you is beautiful.

“Okay, I think you’re getting sappy again,” you tease, but it comes out more affectionate than you intended.

“Hey,” he says with mock offense. “I’m not sappy. I’m—”

“A sap,” you interrupt, and then you’re giggling again, and so is he, and you’re so caught up in it, you don’t notice the way his eyes flick to the recorder still clutched in his hand, a secret smile playing on his lips.

When you finish laughing, he kisses your forehead, lingering for a moment before pulling away. “You hungry?” he asks, eyes on you.

“Not really,” you say. “Why? Are you?” He shakes his head, but he looks at you like there’s more he wants to say, so you add, “I can make us something if you’re hungry.”

“No, I’m okay. I just wanted to make sure you ate.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “I ate,” you assure him.

He eyes you skeptically, and you roll your eyes again, laughing as you do. “I swear!” you say, holding your hands up. “Scout's honor.”

He narrows his eyes. “You were never a scout.”

You shrug. “Well, I would’ve been a great one.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I bet,” he says fondly, and then leans down and kisses the spot behind your ear, and your eyes flutter at the feeling.

Just then, you remember your cold cup of tea, already nudging your mug toward him. “Can you reheat this for me?” you ask, looking up at him with puppy-dog eyes.

He chuckles, takes the mug, and disappears down the hall giving you a glimpse of something silver in his hand. You don’t think twice about it.

Not until ten minutes later, when the tea is back in your hands and he’s crawling into bed beside you with something clutched in his palm—a small recorder, silver and square, like one of those journalist gadgets from old dramas.

“…What’s that?” you ask as he climbs the bed.

His smile is still sweet, but now it’s got something extra to it—something sly and mischievous. He settles next to you under the covers, but instead of pulling you into his arms like he usually does, he stays on his side, his head propped in his hand.

“What's what?” he asks innocently, but his eyes are twinkling in the light. You raise your brows, looking pointedly at the thing in his hand. He pretends to follow your gaze, his lips tugging up. “Oh,” he says, “this.”

You nod, and your brow furrows. “What is it?” you ask again.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just smiles. And presses play.

Your voice spills into the room. Soft and unfiltered. You’re humming—off-key, a little breathless, probably while folding laundry or talking to yourself in the kitchen. The next clip is you reading out loud from your favorite book—the same chapter you always go back to when your soul feels heavy.

You hadn’t even realized he’d been near you then. You sound different through the recorder—dreamy, soft around the edges, like your voice had melted into the walls.

You blink. “Namjoon…”

“Wait,” he whispers, nudging closer. Another clip plays. You’re laughing—full, unrestrained, that specific laugh you only let loose when you think no one’s watching. The one that sounds like you’re gasping for joy, because it caught you by surprise.

There are more clips of you—singing loud and off-key in the shower, humming in the car (that one road trip you wnt on together), muttering to yourself in another room.

Your voice fills the room, and Namjoon's eyes fill with something sweet as he watches the confusion melt into awe as he lets you in on the little project he's been working on since you became his wife.

His eyes find you again, and there’s a small, proud smile as the next clip plays. He must’ve recorded this one a few weeks ago, when he had to stay at the studio all night, and you missed him so bad, you took a cab to pick him up, and the two of you ended up "sleeping" in his office.

The moans and soft whines that come through the recording are unmistakably yours. Your eyes go wide, and your hand flies to your face in shock. “Namjoon—”

“I love how you sound when we’re like that,” he cuts in, his voice so gentle as you feel your cheeks heat up. He pulls your hand from your face and threads his fingers through yours. “All of it. The little sighs, the moans, the way you breathe my name.” His eyes are so sincere, you forget to be embarrassed. “It’s my favorite song in the world.”

You blink, and he pulls his thumb across your cheek, soft as a cloud. “And I love how soft you are when you’re happy. And the way your voice gets all low and raspy when you wake up. And—” he breaks off, shaking his head. He pulls you into his arms and buries his face in your neck. “Your voice,” he breathes against your skin, “it’s my peace. It’s what I want to hear before I fall asleep. The last thing I want to hear every night. I used to fall asleep with a podcast or white noise. Now I use you.” He smiles. “You’re my favorite sound in the world.” He kisses your neck, your collarbone, then looks up at you again. “And I wanted to make you something to remind you of that.” His smile softens. “So I made you a playlist. Of all the different ways you sound. So you can hear it too.”

You’re silent, trying to process. It’s sweet, the most romantic thing he’s ever done for you, and you can’t believe he’s been putting this together without your knowing for all these months.

You blink rapidly, trying not to cry as your heart melts in your chest. “That sounds… very creepy and very romantic.”

Namjoon laughs, the kind that rumbles in his chest and makes your knees weak. “I asked myself if it was creepy. Then I realized I’m in love with you and we're married, so it cancels out.”

You shake your head, grinning even as your heart hammers. “You’re insane.”

“I know,” he whispers, reaching out to brush your coils off your forehead. “Insane for you.” You roll your eyes at the cheesiness, but your heart is doing somersaults in your chest.

You can’t remember the last time someone listened to you just to hear you. Just to be near the parts of you that weren’t polished or filtered or pretty.

You feel a lump form in your throat, but you swallow it back down and say, “Thank you.” And then, softer, “I love it.”

Then you surge forward and kiss him. There’s no warning. No hesitation. Just your mouth on his, urgent and tender all at once, like your heart couldn’t contain it any longer.

He catches you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you fully into his lap. You melt against him, your arms around his shoulders, and you feel his smile against your mouth.

He breaks away, his nose brushing yours, his eyes searching. “I love you,” he murmurs, and a heat blooms in your stomach at the intensity with which he says it. Like he'll die if he doesn't lay the words at your feet. His own sweet death.

“I love you too,” you say, and you sound breathless, but you can’t help it. This kind of devotion has a way of taking you apart so he can put you back together.

You lean forward and capture his lips again, and this time it’s slower, deeper.

His large hands cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks in that reverent way of his. When his tongue slides against yours, it’s not rushed or sloppy. It’s intimate. You want to crawl inside him and never leave.

He moans into your mouth, low and warm. His teeth drag along your bottom lip, gentle but teasing, and then he sucks it into his mouth, savoring it. Hungry but patient.

And then he’s leaning back, pulling you with him until you're sprawled over his chest, your hands planted on either side of his head, your knees framing his waist.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding up under the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—and tracing slow, lazy circles into the skin of your back. His other hand settles on your thigh, warm and steady, stroking slowly up and down, squeezing gently on the softness there.

“I wanna ride you,” you pant against his mouth, breath hot between you.

Namjoon moans—actually moans—at your words, his hand on your thigh giving a hard squeeze before he moves it to your hips. His fingers tighten at the small of your back, breath hitching.

“Yeah,” he says, voice already wrecked. “Yeah, baby, whatever you want.”

He’s already pushing your shorts down your hips with shaking hands, his lips ghosting over your collarbone, your shoulder, any part of you he can reach while you shift to help him.

The fabric pools at your knees before you kick them off, and then his hands slide over the curve of your ass, giving it a soft squeeze that makes you shiver. Your thighs go up in flames when he slides a hand between them, dragging his knuckles against the wet lace there.

You gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Already wet for me?” he asks, a smirk in his voice as he mouths down your neck.

You nod, your breath coming out in short little bursts. “Mm.”

“Mm,” he echoes, and you can feel him smile against your skin. His middle finger strokes you through your panties, teasing your clit, your thighs shaking as he drags it up and down your slit. The wet fabric rasps against the sensitive skin, and you hiss, your head dropping forward to rest on his shoulder.

He sucks in a sharp breath at your reaction, his body tensing under you. “You're sensitive,” he mumbles against your skin.

“Mhm,” you agree, grinding your hips down, chasing that pressure.

“You ready for me?” he rasps, and you nod, pushing up onto your elbows so he can pull his sweats down and kick them off. He never takes his eyes off you as he does it, not wanting to miss even a second of you.

You drink him in. The thick muscle of his chest and shoulders, the sharp line of his collarbone, the veins that run down his arms.

You sit back, reaching down to stroke him. He sucks in a breath, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of him as your fingers slide down his length. You watch as his stomach flexes, his hips jerking, his throat bobbing.

“Fuck, baby," he breathes, and you look up at him in time to see his eyes flutter closed, his head dropping back. "You're so good to me,” He’s a sight—eyes glossy and heavy-lidded, lips swollen from your kisses, his cheeks flushed the prettiest pink. You want to fuck him until he’s incoherent. Until he can't think of anything but you.

You shift, straddling one of his thighs, the rough muscle of it rubbing against your clit through your underwear. His hips kick up, his cock brushing against you, and you gasp at the contact. You want him inside you. So. Fucking. Bad.

You roll your hips, grinding on his thigh as he pants beneath you. He watches, fascinated, as you ride his leg, your fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt to bring it up and over your head, tossing it across the room.

He doesn't hesitate before palming one of your breasts, rolling your nipple between his fingers. You whimper, and his eyes go dark at the sound. “God, you're beautiful,” he groans, and then he's sitting up, pulling your breast into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue makes you cry out, your fingers threading over his buzzcut as he laves at your skin with soft, tender strokes.

When he pulls away, he's smirking that boyish smirk you love so much, before he kisses the valley between your breasts. You sigh, your body melting under the sweet, steady heat of his hands, his mouth.

"I want it," you moan, rolling your hips.

"Yeah?" he murmurs against your chest, his fingers moving to tug your panties to the side, dragging his finger through your slit. "Want my cock, baby?"

You nod, biting your lip.

And he's never denied you anything, not since the moment he met you.

He grips himself at the base, a shiver rolling through him at his own touch, and then he’s stroking your entrance with his tip, teasing.

“Namjoon…” you whine, trying to move down onto him, but he’s got you firmly in his hands. He laughs, the sound raspy and delicious and going straight to your core.

“Patience,” he murmurs, his tongue sweeping out to wet his lips. “Gonna give it to you, baby. I promise.”

You groan in frustration, but the sound quickly turns to one of relief as he notches himself against you and slowly, slowly presses forward. His eyes close, his mouth dropping open on a moan, and you feel him shudder under you, his grip tightening on your hips as you sink down, down, down.

You moan too, the fullness making your head drop back, your walls fluttering around him, adjusting. You feel yourself stretch to accommodate him, feel every inch as he fills you, slow and deep, until your hips are flush against his.

It’s so much. So full.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your voice high and shaky. Your thighs tremble around him, and Namjoon’s hands find your hips, gripping you steady, his breath ragged as his wedding band indents into your skin, leaving a mark.

His eyes are fixed on you, glassy and wide, “Shit, baby,” he huffs out. “So fucking wet.”

“Mm… yeah,” you moan. “Just for you.”

He nods, his eyes rolling a little, his jaw slack as he looks up at you from under his lashes.

You start to roll your hips in a slow, experimental circle, a breathy moan slipping from your lips at the delicious friction it creates. You do it again, his hands on your hips to guide you, until you find a rhythm that has you both trembling.

“Shit—” he gasps, trying not to grip too hard, using every ounce of control he has.“You feel… fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You lean forward again, bracing your hands on his chest. He’s so warm beneath you, the heat of his skin like a hearth, and the way he looks at you—wide-eyed, reverent, wrecked—has your pussy clenching around him. Warm, wet and so fucking tight.

He moans at the sensation, his hips kicking up, and you do it again. Another clench, another moan.

“Stop that,” he half-laughs, half-groans, his eyes glossy and heavy. He reaches up and cups your cheeks, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Or I’m gonna come.”

“Yeah?” you ask, a smirk in your voice, your hips moving in a slow grind. He moans again, his eyes falling shut. “You like that?” you whisper, rolling your hips again, clenching again, milking another moan out of him.

You don't give him a chance to respond before you're picking up the pace, rolling your hips faster, the slick slide of your gummy walls wrapped around him, making you both moan. You're so wet, he can feel it dripping down to his balls as he bobs inside you, filling you completely.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he breathes. “So good for me, baby. So tight.” His hips are jerking up, matching your movements, his face flushed with pleasure.

You reach down and stroke your clit, moaning when the pleasure zings up your spine. It's so sensitive, it makes your thighs shake, but it feels so good, and you can't stop, rubbing slow circles as you move on him. Your walls start fluttering, the heat in your belly coiling tighter.

“You gonna come for me?” he groans.

You nod, the breathy whine you let out making his hips jerk, his own hands shaking as they find your hips again to move you faster on him.

“Good girl,” he pants, his eyes falling to where he's disappearing inside you. "Pussy's taking it so well. Come on, baby. Just like that.” He’s rambling now, his words messy and broken up by gasps. "Wanna feel you come on my cock."

You whimper, your eyes squeezing shut as your head drops forward. You focus on your clit, rubbing it faster, your hips rolling and rolling and rolling until you feel it, that sweet release, the heat flooding your belly, your thighs shaking, your pussy clenching, clenching, clench—

“Yes!,” you cry, your orgasm taking over, making your muscles go weak. He catches you, his arms banding around your back as he holds you to him, your forehead pressing to his shoulder. “Fuck,” you whine. “N-Namjoon…”

"I got you,” he breathes into your scarf, his voice wrecked and warm. “I got you, baby.” He takes over, his own orgasm building, the heat twisting up his spine, making his stomach muscles tighten.

He fucks up into you, fast and frantic, and when he comes, he makes the most beautiful sound—part cry, part moan, his eyes squeezing shut, his entire body shuddering under yours. You feel the hot rush of his release flooding your insides, whimpering at the warmth of it, the wetness.

He pants, his eyes opening, and when they meet yours, you see your future in them. Your forever. And then he’s leaning forward, pulling you to him for a kiss. You give him your mouth, your tongue sliding across his, soft and gentle and so in love.

When he pulls away from you, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to cup your cheek and smile. “Hi,” he whispers.

You smile, a little breathless. “Hi.”

He grins, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "That was fun."

“Mmhmm.” You hum in agreement.

“We should do it again,” he adds, a sly grin on his face. You laugh, your eyes falling shut again, and you press a kiss to the base of his neck.

“You’re insatiable,” you mumble against his skin.

“Only for you,” he murmurs as always. You smile, kissing the spot again, and he hums, his hand moving to trace slow circles on the small of your back.

“I want to hear it again,” you whisper into his skin, your voice small and shy. He knows exactly what you mean.

"Yeah?" he asks, already leaning over to pick the recorder up from the bedside table where he left it. You nod, and he pulls you closer, your chest on his.

He presses play, and your voice fills the room, soft and sweet. His arms tighten around you, his nose buried in your curls, your scent filling his head. And you let yourself drift off to the sound of your voice.

His favorite sound in the world.

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

Girl you write so well you have obsessed😭😭 not me here at 4am rereading these stories for the 100th time like I can't get enough of them!!!!!

Literally waiting for taehyung and his girl to get together cause everyone else is with their lady and they are just soooooo in love I love it🤭🤭 I love "love"

And also patiently waiting for jimin's story but girl you're working is phenomenal write more of these and oh wow my chest☺️ absolutely beautiful

Love you girl byeeee🤭🤭🤭🤭

I need moreee pleaseeeeeeeee more drabbles of all them🤣🤣

Omg stoppp 🥺😭 You have no idea how much this means to me—seriously, I’m smiling so hard my face hurts. You're the sweetest!!

And YESSSS Taehyung and his girl are so close I swear, it’s coming 👀 And Jimin’s story is in the works too, I promise 🤍

Thank you for being so patient and for supporting me like this. It makes me want to write even more. I’m sending you the biggest hug and so much love. You’re amazing. I’m truly so grateful 💜

[purplemoon7]

A Story Called Us

Masterlist

Fluff 💕 Angst ☠️ Smut (18+) 💦

⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓

Almost, Maybe, Us💕

more to come...

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Copyright Notice: All written content, including fanfics, original posts, and any creative works shared on this page, is my own unless stated otherwise. Unauthorized copying, reposting, or distribution of my work without permission is strictly prohibited. If you’d like to share or reference my work, please provide proper credit and a link back to my page.

Thank you for respecting my work and the work of others! 💜

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

I'm thinking of making this Husband!Namjoon thing a series. What do you guys think? I really like writing him like this.

Poetry

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Kim Namjoon reads Neruda like it's foreplay and touches you like he's got a PhD in loving you—and honestly? He kinda does.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Namjoon x Black!Reader (Married AU)

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 2.5k

Warnings! FLUFF! soft and sensual intimacy, married domestic bliss, established relationship, Namjoon reading Neruda, NSFW! SMUT (18+), fingering, soft dom!Namjoon, sub!reader, praise kink, emotionally charged intimacy

There’s a very particular kind of magic that happens when Kim Namjoon reads Pablo Neruda like it’s scripture and your only job is to breathe.

And maybe not let the way he says “I crave your mouth” send you into cardiac arrest.

You’re trying, you swear. But it’s hard.

Especially when you’re nestled between his legs like this—your back against his chest, the heat of him wrapped around you like a second skin. His arm slung over your front, hand warm and lazy as it draws circles into your skin. Each pass of his thumb over your arm is slow, absentminded. Intimate in the kind of way that turns your bones to syrup.

Your natural hair is puffed up against his shoulder, half crushed from how he’s nuzzling into it every now and then like he can’t help himself. And he really can’t—he’s been doing it all night. Soft little presses of his nose into your coils, warm hums rumbling in his throat because you’re his favorite place to rest. This is his peace.

You don’t even pretend to mind.

The book is open in his lap—The Captain’s Verses, spine worn and corners curled, like every page has lived a life. You bought it together at that little shop on your anniversary, the one with the dusty floorboards and the cat sleeping on the windowsill.

He reads it to you sometimes when the world feels too loud. When sleep won’t come. When he misses you after a long day of meetings and travel and being “Kim Namjoon” to everybody but you.

Tonight is one of those nights.

“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees,” he reads, his voice low, slow, molten with meaning. The syllables drip like warm honey, each one blooming against the shell of your ear. You shiver.

Namjoon doesn’t miss it. His lips twitch against your curls.

“You like that one?” he murmurs, his voice a touch smug.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You already know I do.”

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you like my voice when I read to you.”

You twist your head just enough to meet his gaze. His dimples are threatening to peek out, his eyes half-lidded and amused. Teasing.

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “I like your voice when you read to me.”

“Good girl.”

Your heart skips. He knows what he’s doing.

Namjoon lets the silence settle between you again, cozy and soft. The pages flutter slightly as he turns to a new poem, clearing his throat gently before he begins.

This one is quieter. A love poem disguised as longing. He reads each line with reverence, letting it linger in the air like perfume.

You close your eyes.

The words feel like they’re wrapping around you, warm and golden. His fingers never stop moving on your skin, tracing shapes you can’t name. Your breathing slows, deepens. You feel it everywhere—the book in his lap, the rise and fall of his chest against your back, the heat of him against your skin, the soft rasp of his voice rolling over your skin like a tide.

You hum, softly. “You’re distracting me.”

Namjoon pauses.

“Me?” he says innocently, dipping his head until his mouth brushes your shoulder. “I’m literally just reading.”

“Exactly.” You shift slightly in his hold, turning your head until your nose nearly bumps his. “You’re reading poetry. In that voice. While touching me like that. It’s rude, honestly.”

Namjoon’s grin is slow and devastating.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the curve of your neck. Soft, lingering. His lips barely part, just warm enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’m not doing anything,” he murmurs. “I’m just reading my book.” His mouth trails higher, his breath ghosting over your throat. Goosebumps prickle under the path his lips take.

“Mmm,” you agree, letting your eyes slip closed. “Nothing at all.”

Namjoon hums his agreement, nipping softly at your jaw. You gasp.

He chuckles, low and deep in your ear, clearly pleased with himself.

You shake your head, but you don’t pull away. You can’t. Not when his arms tighten slightly around you, not when the kisses keep coming—lazy and unhurried, trailing from the slope of your neck to the spot just below your ear. He’s not trying to start something. Not exactly. But he’s also not not starting something.

Your hands find his thigh, grounding yourself as he keeps going.

“You’re gonna forget the poem,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut again.

“I already did,” he admits, voice husky with something deeper now. “You sound better than Neruda reads.”

You laugh softly—then it melts into a sigh when he kisses that sensitive spot just behind your jaw. His stubble scratches lightly against your skin, and you feel him smile against you, knowing exactly what that does.

His hand slides from your arm to your waist, splaying across your stomach, tugging you impossibly closer.

“You feel so good,” he mumbles, almost to himself. “Always so soft, baby girl.”

You hum in response, your fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatpants. There’s no rush here. Just slow, smoldering warmth, and the quiet hush of the room around you.

The book is forgotten now, tilted sideways in his lap. One of his knees is bent, cradling you as his other foot rests against the coffee table. You’re both tangled together in a mess of throw blankets and ambient light, the glow from the lamp casting long shadows on the walls.

It’s late, but you don’t care. The rest of the world can wait.

Namjoon noses along your jaw again, then presses a kiss just under your earlobe. “We should do this more often,” he says quietly.

“Do what? Forget how to read?”

He laughs, warm against your skin. “No. This. Just… being like this.”

You smile. “Yeah. I like this.”

Namjoon nods, nuzzling deeper into your hair. His hands never stop moving—tracing circles on your waist, your hip, your ribs. All while his lips trail fire along your throat, your jaw, your shoulder.

You feel like you’re melting.

The first touch of his fingers to your thigh makes your breath hitch. His hand is warm through the cotton of your sleep shorts, and he’s careful, like he’s asking permission.

“Is this okay?” he rumbles, low against your ear.

You nod, turning your head enough to meet his mouth with yours. A kiss. Then another, slower this time. His mouth parts, and his tongue teases against yours, so soft you’d think it was an accident if it wasn’t for the way his hand tightens slightly on your leg.

His fingers curl into the hem of your shorts, just barely dipping past the waistband. He breaks the kiss, looking at you with those soft brown eyes—dark with something so tender it steals your breath.

“Words, sweetheart,” he whispers.

“Touch me,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Please, Joonie.”

Something flashes across his face then—so quick you barely catch it. Something hungry.

His hand slips lower, teasing over your crotch through the cotton fabric. His touch is gentle, but it makes you arch into him anyway, chasing that warmth. That pressure.

“Is this where you want me?” he asks, voice low. “Hm?”

“Yes,” you breathe, spreading your legs just a little more. “Please.”

Namjoon grins, dimples flashing in the low light. “Such a good girl for me,” he rumbles.

He keeps touching you through the fabric for a moment, circling his thumb around your clit, and you can feel yourself getting wetter with each pass.

“Joon,” you whisper. “Take them off.”

He hums, obedient, sliding his fingers down your thighs to hook into the waistband of your shorts. You arch your hips, letting him pull them over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Your underwear follows, and you’re left bare under his hands.

He doesn’t waste time.

His large palm cups your pussy, making you gasp softly at the sudden heat. His wedding ring is cool against your skin—a sharp contrast to the warmth of his hand, his body, his mouth. The metal glints in the lamplight as he shifts, moving to press soft kisses to your jaw again. His fingers curl and part your labia gently, spreading you open for him.

You’re his. And right now, he’s making sure you remember that.

"Fuck baby, you're so wet," he groans, low in his chest, and it makes your heart pound.

"Shit, baby," you sigh, head falling back against his shoulder. "I'm always wet for you."

He chuckles, but his eyes are dark with something more now. His middle finger traces a line from your hole to your clit, making you squirm. Just a tease. A taste of what's to come.

“Easy, baby girl,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just let me take care of you. Yeah?”

Your body reacts before your brain does. You nod, your hand reaching back to curl around his neck, holding him to you, grounding yourself in his warmth. Your skin feels fevered against his, all tension and anticipation.

He doesn’t rush.

Namjoon always takes his time with you. Like every moan you make is music, and he’s composing a symphony.

His finger circles your entrance slowly—so slowly your legs twitch—and then finally, finally, he presses in.

Your breath hitches. Your nails dig into his thigh.

You’re so tight around him that he groans behind your ear, whispering something soft in Korean you’re too far gone to catch. His free hand stays splayed across your stomach, steadying you as he eases deeper, inch by careful inch. His thumb finds your clit and presses down just enough to make you whimper, and you can feel the smile against your neck when he hears it.

You're soaked. So wet you can hear it, slick and obscene in the quiet of the room.

The sound alone makes your cheeks burn.

He moves his finger inside you with practiced ease—slow, deep, then drawing back only to push in harder, just to hear the breath stutter in your throat again. You can’t think.

And god, the way he touches your clit.

It’s not rushed. It’s not rough.

It’s maddening. Perfect.

The pads of his fingers roll tight, deliberate circles over the sensitive nub, coaxing your body into a slow, desperate tremble. He knows exactly how to break you down. How to build you back up.

Your hips rock against his hand, desperate for more friction, more heat, more him.

His mouth is at your neck again—lips parted now, kissing a little harder, sucking just enough to leave proof of his love behind.

You know he’s going to mark you. You want him to. You want to wake up tomorrow and see it in the mirror, flushed and tender and blooming across your skin like a secret.

"You like that, don't you?" he hums. "Huh? You like my fingers in that tight little pussy?"

You gasp, nodding. His words are doing something to you—they always do. The low rasp of his voice, his accent thick and syrupy in your ear—it turns your insides to liquid.

You feel another finger at your entrance, teasing.

“Fuck,” he breathes, kissing your shoulder. “Do you want more, baby? Do you want another finger?”

You nod, breathless.

His second finger presses inside you slowly, working you open. Your walls squeeze around him, and he groans again, his nose nuzzling behind your ear as he moves his hand faster, curling his fingers inside you—just once. It makes your hips jerk up, a noise ripping out of your throat before you can stop it.

His thumb presses against your clit again, rolling tight little circles, and you swear you’re gonna lose your goddamn mind. The pressure builds so quick you feel dizzy with it.

“You feel so good, baby,” he whispers. “So tight, so hot. I love watching you squirm like this. My good girl.”

“Joon—” you breathe, turning your head to catch his mouth with yours.

He kisses you like he means it, his tongue slipping between your lips to tease yours, all while his fingers curl inside you again—pressing up against that spot that makes your vision blur.

“Fuck!” you cry out, your fingers clutching his arm. “Oh my god!”

He grins against your lips.

His fingers move faster, deeper. His palm slaps against your clit with sinful slick squelches, and he breaks the kiss to watch you, eyes hooded and dark with want. His forehead presses against yours, sharing the same air as you pant and moan and squirm against him, trying to get closer. You want all of him.

You’re going to combust. Your legs start to shake. Your toes curl.

“Shh, shh,” he whispers, the words like velvet against your ear. “You can do it. Come on my hand, baby. Just like that. Just for me.”

And it’s that—him, his voice, the promise of him—that undoes you.

Your whole body tightens, drawn taut around the pleasure winding up in your belly. You can’t speak. You can barely breathe.

“Oh god,” you gasp, voice cracking, one hand flying to his thigh while the other anchors behind his neck. “Oh—oh, I’m gonna—”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he urges, deep and steady, his thumb moving faster, harder. “That’s it. So good, baby girl. So good for me. Come on.”

Your orgasm hits you like a wave, hard and hot and rolling through you all at once. It rips a cry from your throat, sharp and breathless. Your hips grind helplessly against his hand, your gummy walls milking his fingers, legs trembling with each pulse of pleasure.

But he doesn’t stop.

He holds you tighter when you start to shake, anchoring you to him, and keeps touching you—thumb relentless, fingers deep and thick inside you.

His lips find your throat again, and he sucks—a deep, claiming kiss just as the last sparks of your orgasm crash through you, and it’s too much, almost.

You whimper, high and needy.

“Mm, that’s right,” he hums, finally slowing his hand to match your trembling. “Just like that. You’re so fucking beautiful, my love.”

He keeps touching you. Not to push you into another orgasm—at least not yet. Just slow, languid strokes, fingers brushing over swollen flesh, mouth trailing soft kisses along the line of your shoulder.

You’re still catching your breath when you feel him withdraw, his finger sliding from your soaked heat with a filthy wet sound that makes your eyes flutter.

You think that’s it.

But then—then you hear it.

A soft suck.

You open your eyes just in time to see his tongue curling around the fingers that were just inside you. He sucks them clean slowly, deliberately, humming at the taste, his favorite dessert.

And the look in his eyes?

That could make you come again.

Your whole body pulses with the aftershocks.

You’re boneless. Feral. Floating.

And still, when he kisses your cheek and whispers, “Think you can give me one more, baby girl?”—

—you already know the answer is yes.

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

Kitchen Shenanigans

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Kim Seokjin is hopelessly in love with his wife, and nights like this—messy, breathless, and full of stolen kisses—are proof he never plans to stop showing it.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Seokjin x black!reader (married AU)

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 1.3k

Warnings! FLUFF! pure fluff, established relationship, husband!Seokjin, playful flour fight, suggestive touching, sensual language, married domestic bliss

There are a lot of things you expected from marriage—laundry piles, late-night kisses, joint grocery shopping—but somehow, standing in your kitchen at 12:47 AM with flour in your bra was not on the list.

“Yah! You started it!” you squeal, ducking behind the island as Jin launches another handful of flour into the air.

He’s laughing so hard he’s bent over, hands on his knees, shoulders shaking. “You threw it first, baby! I’m just paying you back!”

You peek over the counter, grinning, hair a wild halo around your head. Your curls are dusted white at the tips, like someone went crazy with powdered sugar. You’re wearing one of his old shirts and panties, barefoot and flushed with heat and laughter.

He’s ridiculous. Tall and broad and handsome, even with flour smudged on his cheek, his dark hair messy from running his hands through it. His eyes crinkle when he smiles at you—that genuine, boyish smile that made you fall for him in the first place.

“You’re evil,” you accuse, trying to swipe flour off your arms. It just smears worse. “Look what you did to me!”

Jin saunters around the counter, wiggling his eyebrows. “I dunno, baby. I think you look pretty cute like this.”

He reaches for you, but you stick your tongue out at him, peeking just in time to catch his eye. He grins wickedly at you, and you know exactly what that look means.

You squeal again, turning to run, but he’s faster—always faster. His arms wrap around your waist from behind, catching you mid-sprint. You yelp, kicking your feet as he spins you around effortlessly. The kitchen spins, and then he’s setting you down.

He dips his head, grinning like a devil. “Got you,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low and smug.

You’re laughing too hard to fight him off, hands clumsily gripping his forearms. He’s all warm muscle and strength, and you’re no match for him. He walks you backward until your hips bump the counter, trapping you between the cold marble and his warm, solid chest.

The world tilts. The air shifts.

It gets quiet.

His hands stay at your waist, but his grip softens, thumbs stroking little circles into your sides. Your breathing slows, chests brushing with every inhale. Your curls tickle his chin, and you can feel his heart thudding against your back.

You glance up at him, tilting your head. There’s flour in your hair, and your eyes are sparkling, and Seokjin thinks he’s seeing heaven in human form.

He leans forward, and you think he’s about to kiss you, but he stops a breath away. His breath ghosts over your lip, dark eyes soft and fond as he watches you, flour streaked across your face.

You lick your lips. His eyes dip to them, and he swallows hard.

“Hi,” you whisper, a little breathless.

His grin softens into something sweeter. "Hi."

Then, without another word, he lifts you onto the counter like you weigh nothing at all.

You gasp, hands gripping the edge for balance, but he steps between your knees before you can protest. His hands slide up your thighs, warm and sure, and he leans in again to kiss the tip of your nose.

“You drive me crazy,” he says, voice low and fond, and you can’t help but smile. His hands are warm and gentle on your thighs, and your knees brush his sides.

“You like it,” you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Yeah,” he says, nuzzling your throat. “I really, really do.”

He presses a soft kiss to your jaw, and then another one, and another. You tilt your head back, letting him work, eyes fluttering shut as his lips brush your skin. His touch is so gentle you almost shiver.

“Jin,” you murmur, and his name is enough.

Before you can say anything else, he’s kissing you.

It starts slow—soft, teasing, mouths brushing like the idea of a kiss. But then you tug him closer by the collar of his shirt, and he groans into your mouth, deepening it. His hands grip your thighs, squeezing like he can’t get enough of you.

He tastes like chocolate. He smells like flour and vanilla and the faint, woodsy cologne you gave him for Christmas last year. You run your fingers through his hair and tug him closer, kissing him slow and sweet.

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone, and you nudge your knees wider, letting him sink closer to you. The counter is cold at your thighs, but Seokjin is warm and solid against you.

You feel him smiling into the kiss, and you smile too, brushing your nose against his. He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then you’re kissing again, slow and sweet. You hum against him, tangling your fingers in his hair, feeling the way he presses into you. His tongue brushes against yours, hot and lazy, like he’s savoring you.

When he shifts his hips forward, you feel it—hard and hot against your inner thigh. You gasp against his mouth, but he just hums, nipping your bottom lip gently. He does it again, this time with more pressure, and a moan slips out of you before you can stop it.

He groans in response, hips jerking against yours. You feel him hard and heavy between your thighs, and you whine into his mouth, shifting closer.

“Bedroom?” he asks, pulling back enough to look at you.

“Fuck yes,” you say immediately, and Jin’s eyes darken.

He kisses you again—hard and fast and filthy, just how you like it. Your arms wrap around his neck, and you cling to him, kissing him back just as desperately. He groans, low and desperate, and lifts you off the counter with one smooth motion. You squeal, arms looping around his neck as he bounces you once, twice—carrying you like it's the easiest thing in the world.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he says, grinning against your temple.

You giggle, dizzy and in love and a little breathless, resting your forehead against his.

“You’re covered in flour,” you tease, laughing as you rub the smudge on his cheek with your thumb.

“You’re worse,” he counters, nipping at your jaw.

You’re still laughing when he kicks the bedroom door open with his foot, depositing you onto the bed with a playful growl. The mattress bounces under you, and you yelp, sprawled out and grinning up at him.

He pulls his shirt off, tossing it somewhere behind him, revealing warm golden skin and the toned muscles you can never stop staring at.

“You’re staring,” he teases, crawling onto the bed toward you.

“Can you blame me?” you shoot back, smirking.

He grabs your ankle, dragging you closer with a wicked glint in his eye. “mine,” he growls playfully, kissing your knee, your thigh, nipping lightly at the soft skin.

Your breath catches, your hands finding his hair again as he moves higher, lips grazing the hem of your panties.

“Jin,” you whimper, hips lifting instinctively.

He looks up at you from under his lashes, eyes dark and heavy with want.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough.

And he does. He always has.

Marriage isn't perfect. There were laundry piles, and grocery lists, and nights where you argued about stupid things like who left the milk out. But there were also nights like this—where love fills every crack in the walls, every heartbeat, every breath.

Where you loved each other so much, it was dizzying.

And God, you wouldn't trade it for the world.

You pull him up to you, mouths crashing together again, hands roaming, bodies desperate to be closer, closer, closer. He grinds into you, hard and aching, and you moan into his mouth, tugging him down so your bodies press perfectly together.

“Tell me you love me,” he pants against your lips, voice shaking.

“I love you,” you whisper without hesitation, cradling his face in your hands.

His eyes soften—sweet, vulnerable Jin. Your Jin. He kisses you again, pouring every ounce of love he has into it, into you.

And somewhere between the giggles, the flour, and the kisses, you realize—

Midnight baking disasters might just be your new favorite thing.

— Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚.

[purplemoon7]

Golden Hour

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — A sunset, a couch, and your fiancé who acts like you're the eighth wonder of the world.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Idol!Hoseok x black!reader

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 1.9k

Warnings! FLUFF! nothing but pure fluff here, you guys are madly in love, established relationship, fiancé!Hoseok, golden light, cozy touches, and sunset kisses.

The first thing Hoseok notices when he steps through the door isn't the quiet—it's the absence of you.

The house should feel full with you in it.

It should smell like your perfume drifting down the hallway, sound like your hums mixing with the L.A. breeze sneaking through the open windows. It should feel like the place where he's left his heart, like the home that he's built around you.

Instead, it's too still, too empty, and he pauses mid-step, heart doing a funny little twist in his chest.

"Jagi?" he calls out, dropping his duffel bag by the door. No answer. "Jagiya?"

He toes off his shoes, walking barefoot across the cool floors, scanning the living room. Empty. The kitchen. Empty.

He starts to wonder if maybe you've fallen asleep, if maybe he'll find you curled up in a nest of pillows and blankets like you usually are, or maybe even in the bathtub, with candles flickering and bubbles floating on the surface. The thought makes his heart clench, and he finds himself quickening his pace.

"Jagi?"

He doesn't think he's ever missed someone so much.

It's been a long day—longer than he'd like to admit—and the only thing on his mind is sinking into the mattress with your warmth pressed against him. The only thing he wants to do is feel you against him, breathe you in, taste you, be with you.

But when he steps into the bedroom, he's met with emptiness again. The bed made and untouched, and something like worry is creeping up the back of his neck as he walks back down the hall and—

Then he catches it—the slow, lazy rustle of pages turning, the faint sparkle of your laughter carried by the wind.

His shoulders relax.

He follows the sound outside, onto the sun-drenched terrace that overlooks the rolling hills, where the sky is on fire with a California sunset. And there you are.

Lounging sideways on the big outdoor couch, one leg draped lazily over the cushions, the other tucked beneath you. A book half-forgotten at your side, the golden light pooling around you like you're some kind of living painting. Your skin glows—a warm, rich brown that soaks up the sunset and reflects it right back at him. You're wearing one of his shirts, oversized on your frame, the hem brushing your bare thighs, paired with tiny shorts that he swears should be illegal.

His heart trips.

He just stands there for a moment, drinking you in like a man starved, his body aching to be closer to you.

Because you're his. You're his home, his heart, his everything.

The sun is sinking low, painting the sky in strokes of pink and orange, and the breeze is blowing gently, cooling the sweat on his skin.

You must hear his footsteps because you lift your head, blinking at him through the setting sunlight, a slow, teasing smile spreading across your lips. "Hey, stranger."

He’s moving before he even realizes it, crossing the patio in a few easy strides, the wood creaking softly under his feet. Without hesitation, he drops down onto the couch with a quiet grunt, sinking into the cushions. His head finds your lap instinctively, fitting perfectly against you as if molded for this exact place. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into him like he can’t stand even an inch of distance. Like you're oxygen and he's been suffocating without you.

He squeezes you, breathing you in—the floral scent of your shampoo, the salty smell of your sweat, the scent of you—and he realizes that he didn't quite understand how much he's missed you until just now.

So he tells you.

"Mmm, jagi," he groans, his voice thick with exhaustion and longing as he buries his face into your stomach. The cotton of his shirt, still clinging to your body from the lingering heat of the sun, muffles the sound of his words. "I missed you so much."

You laugh, low and warm, the sound rumbling gently through your chest as you thread your fingers into his hair. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp, and you feel the way he melts under your touch, clinging tighter to your waist like he's afraid you'll slip away if he loosens his grip.

"You saw me this morning," you tease, your voice soft with affection.

"Not the same," he mumbles, lips brushing reverently against your stomach through the thin fabric. A heavy sigh escapes him, full of relief, his whole body sinking deeper into you as if he's finally found peace after a long, restless search.

His eyes flutter shut, his hold on you loosening just enough to breathe, but not enough to let go. You keep stroking his hair, nails raking gently through the dark strands, watching with a quiet smile as the last bits of tension drain from his body, like he’s tethered again, anchored safely to you.

"Rough day?" you ask, voice soft.

"Long day," he corrects, tipping his head back to look up at you. His dark eyes are heavy-lidded, adoring. "But worth it. I kept thinking about coming back to you."

Your chest squeezes. You lean down, brushing your nose against his. "Sappy."

"You love it," he teases.

"Unfortunately," you sigh dramatically, earning a chuckle that vibrates against your thighs.

He kisses the inside of your thigh, slow and lingering, sending a shiver racing up your spine. His hand finds the bare strip of skin just above your shorts, thumb stroking lazy circles.

The sun dips lower, casting everything in a deep amber glow. The breeze picks up, warm and lazy, ruffling his hair and yours. It feels suspended in time, this moment—just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, the world fading to a quiet hum in the background.

Hoseok hums again, content, his fingers teasing the hem of your shirt. "You look so good like this."

"Like what?"

"Wearing my clothes. All mine," he says simply, matter-of-fact, and you’re helpless to the way your cheeks warm.

"I am," you whisper.

He grins—that wide, heart-stopping grin that shows every perfect tooth—and shifts so he can prop himself up slightly, trailing kisses up your stomach to the center of your chest, where your heartbeat thrums against his lips.

You giggle, a soft, breathy sound, and he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your temple. His fingers curl around the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you don't hesitate to meet him halfway.

Your lips meet his, soft and sweet, just a brush, and then his mouth is on yours, and his hands are in your hair, and your fingers are gripping his shirt. He kisses you deep and slow, savoring the taste of you like he's been starved, and you kiss him back with the same hunger, the same longing. The same desperation.

When you finally part, it's just enough to breathe, your foreheads pressed together, his thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip.

"Marry me. Right now." he says suddenly, voice low and serious against your skin.

The breeze stirs around you, warm and soothing, and the sky is blazing with sunset colors, and Hoseok is here—alive and warm and here. And he’s looking at you like you’re his whole world, his eyes so dark they’re almost black.

You snort, threading your fingers tighter through his hair. "The wedding's already planned, Hobi. You just wanna get out of writing your vows." His expression shifts, looking scandalized, and you press your lips together to hide a smile. "Coward."

He gasps, offended, and you laugh, a bright, tinkling sound that makes his whole soul ache.

"Marry me tonight, then," he insists, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes alight with mischief.

"You're ridiculous."

"But I'm your ridiculous," he points out, smiling wide, his thumb brushing loose coils from your face.

"Yeah," you agree, "you're my ridiculous." You pull back slightly, tilting his face up to you. His skin is sun-warmed and soft under your palms, his eyes crinkled at the corners with affection. "You better cry when you see me," you tease.

"Baby," he says solemnly in english, the word coming out heavily accented. "I'm gonna be a mess."

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him again—a slow, languid kiss that tastes like sunlight and home.

He moans quietly, arms tightening around you, pulling you half onto his chest. The book falls forgotten to the floor as you lose yourself in him, in the familiar press of his body against yours, the rhythm you always find together.

Your legs tangle with his. His hands roam up and down your back, under the hem of his shirt, finding bare skin and tracing shapes there. You nudge his nose with yours, smiling against his mouth, feeling his heart beat wild under your palm.

"You’re all mine," he murmurs between kisses, a possessive edge softening into pure devotion.

"Mmhmm," you hum, nipping at his bottom lip. "All yours."

He flips you onto your back with a playful growl, caging you beneath him without ever breaking the kiss. You laugh against him, the sound bubbling up as he peppers kisses along your neck, your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder.

"Hobi," you giggle, squirming when he finds that spot just below your ear.

"I’m addicted to you," he breathes, nuzzling into your neck. "You’re my favorite everything."

Your heart swells, too full to hold all the love you feel for this man—this beautiful, radiant, chaotic man who loves you like it's the easiest thing in the world.

"You're my favorite too," you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression open and achingly tender.

"I mean it," you say, tracing his cheekbone with your thumb. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." His breath catches in his throat, eyes going glassy, and you smile, brushing your thumb over the corner of his mouth. "I love you. I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

"Jagi," he whispers, dipping down to press his forehead to yours. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt as he cups your face gently between his palms. "I—"

He breaks off, choking up, and he just… stares at you.

Your eyes are so full of love for him, so full of adoration, and it hits him right then that this is his life—his fiancé, the love of his life, the person who’s stolen every part of him and made it whole again.

He feels his eyes prickle with tears because you make him feel so much, so much that it overwhelms him, overwhelms him in the most beautiful way.

You’re his. He’s yours. Forever.

You lift your head from the cushions, capturing his lips in a tender kiss.

"I love you," he breathes, words vibrating against your lips, "So much." He kisses you again, slower this time, wanting to carve the memory of this moment into his bones.

The sun finally dips below the horizon, leaving you bathed in the soft afterglow. The lights of the city begin to twinkle in the distance, but neither of you notice. You're too wrapped up in each other, too busy whispering silly secrets and pressing lazy kisses to every patch of exposed skin you can find.

You don't even realize when you both fall asleep there, tangled together under the stars, your heartbeat and his beating the same soft rhythm into the night.

Home, you think, right before you drift off. Home is wherever he is.

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

Almost, Maybe, Us

Masterlist

Should I turn this into a series?

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Kim Taehyung isn’t expecting to meet the love of his life at a vending machine.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Kim Taehyung x black!reader

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 2.1k

Warnings! FLUFF! nothing but soft, sweet fluff here. meet-cute energy, vacation vibes, vending machine chaos, accidental chocolate bread bonding, language barrier softness, gentle strangers-to-something-more, subtle tension, and a little bit of city magic.

There are few things more humbling than losing a battle to a vending machine in public.

You sighed—loudly and theatrically—the kind of sigh meant to shame the machine into cooperation. It didn’t work. You glared at the shiny, colorful box in front of you as if it had personally wronged you, which, in a way, it had.

It had been a solid ten minutes of fumbling with coins that wouldn’t stay still, squinting at the indecipherable Korean instructions on the screen, and awkwardly pressing buttons only for absolutely nothing to happen.

It beeped. It blinked. It mocked. Your reflection in the glass was a mix of determination and despair. The kind of face that said, yes, I am trying to get a snack and no, I’m not winning.

The convenience store down the street—which you’d previously dismissed for being "too far"—now felt like a beacon of hope. A distant, reachable oasis. But you didn’t move. You were in too deep now. Giving up would be an act of surrender you weren’t ready to make.

Not when your stomach was grumbling and your ego was this bruised. Besides, what kind of adventurer would you be if you couldn’t even conquer a vending machine? Right?

“Please,” you mumbled to yourself, forehead gently thunking against the cold glass. It was oddly comforting.

Behind you, the city moved on without you, as cities do—buzzing with nightlife, couples laughing in the distance, the sound of footsteps echoing along the street. Neon signs blinked gently above your head, painting soft pink and blue streaks across your skin. Music from a nearby café drifted lazily into the night air, mingling with the scent of street food and car exhaust.

It should’ve been a peaceful night.

Then came the voice.

“E-excuse me?”

You flinched, spinning around so fast you almost dropped your wallet. Heart thudding, you blinked up at the source of the voice—your hand instinctively pressing against your chest like that would slow your pulse down.

Standing a few feet away was a guy who looked like he’d walked out of a Pinterest board titled Effortless Street Style. Baggy pants, oversized hoodie, mask pulled snug over his nose, and a bucket hat pushed back just enough to reveal soft, jet black waves.

His eyes were big and warm, crinkling slightly at the edges. Something about him looked familiar. Too familiar. But you couldn’t place it. Maybe he just had that face. You’d noticed everyone in Seoul had that unbothered, polished, slightly-famous energy. Maybe it was a city thing.

“Sorry!” he said quickly, holding both hands up like he didn’t want to scare you off. “Not scare. Just, help?”

Your shoulders dropped a little. The panic melted into surprise, then into sheepish amusement. “Oh! No, it’s okay." The machine makes another wiring noise behind you, reminding you of your predicament, and you sigh, "Um…actually, I’m having trouble with the vending machine.”

He nodded once like he’d expected that answer, then took a cautious step forward, eyes darting between you and the buttons like he was assessing the situation. "Snack?"

You nodded, grateful that he seemed to get it. "Yes, thank you. I'm trying to get that one—" You pointed at the chocolate-filled bread snack behind the glass. "But the machine hates me."

His mouth curved into a small laugh, the kind that made his eyes scrunch at the corners. It was cute—disarmingly so. He crouched slightly to examine the buttons, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim wallet.

You waved your hands quickly, panicking a little. "Oh no, you don't have to—really, it's okay."

He shook his head with a small smile and waved his hand like it was no big deal. "It's okay. No worry."

And then, with the practiced ease of someone who clearly knew what they were doing, he pressed a few buttons. One beep. Two beeps. A soft hum—and then, miracle of miracles, the snack dropped.

You stared at it, eyes wide. “What the—how did you—”

He bent down and handed it to you, his fingers brushing yours lightly, and you forced yourself to ignore the tingling sensation he left behind. "Here."

You took it gingerly, as if it might vanish if you blinked. “Wow,” you breathed. “You’re my hero.”

His cheeks turned a visible shade of pink, even with the mask. “Not hero,” he said with a sheepish laugh. “Just…want help you.”

“Still,” you said, your voice soft. “Thank you. I'm visiting here, and clearly, I'm still figuring things out.”

“Visit?” He tilted his head to the side, curious. It was a simple motion, but oddly charming. Cute.

You nodded. “From Canada.”

His eyes lit up with recognition. “Canada… ah. Cold country.”

You laughed, the sound bright and surprised. “Yes! Very cold. I’m kind of enjoying not being bundled in ten layers right now.”

He laughed too, his voice soft but melodic. “English… little bad,” he said, looking bashful. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry!” you said quickly, smiling at him. “Your English is actually really good. Better than my Korean, that’s for sure.”

He perked up at that, eyes crinkling again. “Really?”

“Really,” you assured.

There was a pause—something quiet but not awkward. Just… stillness. He glanced around quickly, then leaned in a bit, voice lowered.

"Tae."

You blinked. “Tae?”

He nodded once. “That's my name.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. "I’m Y/N."

He repeated it softly. "Y/N…" Like he was testing the shape of it. His eyes lingered on your face for a beat longer than necessary, gaze warm and curious.

You peeled open the snack, broke it cleanly in half, and offered him a piece. “Here. You saved me from starvation, it’s only fair.”

He looked surprised but pleased. “Thank you.” He lowered his mask with one hand and took a bite. You watched him chew thoughtfully. A little hum of satisfaction escaped him.

You bit into your half, letting the sweet, soft bread melt on your tongue. The vending machine victory tasted ten times better shared.

Around you, the city kept moving. But for a moment, the hum of traffic and chatter faded. All you could really focus on was the boy in the bucket hat and the way his smile made your chest feel a little lighter.

You glanced down at the wrapper in your hand, then back up at him. "Do you come here often to rescue strangers from snack emergencies?"

He laughed—a little louder this time, free and warm. And you love the way it warms your heart. “No,” he said. “First time.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Lucky me, then.”

He looked at you for a moment—just looked—before nodding once, shy but certain. “Lucky me, too.”

There was another comfortable silence as you both finished your snack, occasionally meeting each other's gaze with warm smiles that lingered just a little too long. The kind that made your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

You noticed how the fading sunlight danced across his features, casting golden shadows over the sharp angles of his cheekbones and softening at the curve of his lips. He looked like a painting you weren’t allowed to touch—beautiful in a quiet, unbothered way.

A breeze picked up, gentle but cool, fluttering the edge of your scarf and rustling the wrappers in your hands. You folded yours neatly and tucked you into your coat pocket, catching him doing the same. His movements were calm and unhurried, like he wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. Like the moment you were sharing was worth stretching out.

Silence settled comfortably between you, punctuated only by the distant sounds of laughter spilling from nearby bars, the low rumble of scooters zipping down the street, and the occasional honk in the distance. Seoul had a way of making even its noise feel like background music.

"Do you live here in Seoul?" you asked softly, genuinely curious, your voice breaking through the lull without disturbing it.

He nodded, glancing around thoughtfully, like he was trying to see the city through your eyes. "Live, work, very busy city. But I love it."

You followed his gaze, taking in the glowing storefronts, the distant Seoul Tower blinking faintly in the distance. "It is beautiful," you agreed, your voice dreamy. "I wish I had more time here."

He looked back at you, something in his expression shifting slightly—something soft. "How long stay?" he asked, his tone quieter this time. Almost hesitant.

"Just a week," you replied, your disappointment leaking through despite the smile on your lips. "I leave on Sunday."

He nodded slowly, eyes drifting down to his shoes as if the sidewalk held some secret he needed to unravel. A part of you wanted to ask what he was thinking. A bigger part of you was scared to hear the answer.

"Maybe come back?" he finally murmured, voice tentative like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it.

Your heart fluttered unexpectedly, a shy warmth spreading across your face like the first glow of sunrise. "Maybe," you said, lips curving into something soft and hopeful. "Definitely, if there are more heroes like you here."

He chuckled, and the sound tugged something loose in your chest. His eyes lifted to meet yours, and for a moment, they didn't look away. The air felt heavier somehow—full of unspoken things and quiet questions.

Then he said it. "You are… very cute," he blurted, like it had been sitting on the edge of his tongue for too long. As soon as the words were out, his eyes widened. "Ah—no. I— Not… I mean…"

Your laughter bubbled up, uncontained and affectionate, filling the space between you like warm light. It came so naturally you didn’t even think to hide it. "Thank you, Tae," you said, your voice light with amusement. "You're pretty cute too."

His eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face before melting into something bright and boyish. Like he hadn’t expected you to say it back. Like the compliment had landed somewhere deep.

"Really?" he asked, voice soft and hopeful.

"Really," you assured him warmly, and you meant it more than you expected to.

He shuffled his feet awkwardly, the tip of one shoe scuffing against the pavement. His bashful smile peeked through his nervousness, and you wondered briefly how someone so charming could seem so unaware of it. Or maybe, he was.

"Thank you," he said again, quieter this time, like he meant it for more than just your words.

Your phone buzzed suddenly in your pocket, breaking the spell with an all-too-harsh vibration. You pulled it out reluctantly, glancing at the screen. A message from your friend, asking where you’d wandered off to.

"Ah, I should get going," you said with a sigh, tucking your phone back into your coat. "My friend is probably wondering if I got lost."

"Ah," he echoed softly, his tone laced with disappointment that matched the tug in your chest. "Okay. Safe?"

You smiled, touched by his concern. "I'll be safe. Thank you again, Tae. Seriously, you made my night."

He looked at you like he wanted to say something else but wasn’t sure if he should. Then, with a softness that made your heart ache just a little, he said, "Goodnight, Y/N."

You waved shyly, fingers curling as you turned to leave. And then—because you couldn’t help yourself—you glanced back over your shoulder.

He was still standing there.

Watching.

His gaze didn’t waver.

Your heart squeezed at the sight of him, standing under the streetlamp like he was suspended in time—bucket hat casting a soft shadow over his face, hoodie slightly rumpled, mask now hanging loosely around his chin. A man who had, for some reason, stopped for you. Helped you. Shared a snack with you. Made you laugh.

You turned the corner slowly, footsteps lighter than they’d been all evening.

Tae stayed rooted in place long after you disappeared. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way your smile had lit up your whole face, or the way your laugh had settled somewhere warm in his chest. Maybe it was the way your voice had said his name.

His chest felt full in a way that didn’t make sense. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to grab a quick bite, blend into the night, and disappear like he always did.

Instead, he was standing there, heart heavy with the ache of knowing he was going back to his empty, too-big penthouse with city views and no one to share them with. He wished he'd been brave enough to ask for your number. Wished he’d said something more—anything that would have made this feel less temporary.

But he hadn’t.

So he sighed, long and slow, pulling the mask back over his mouth as he turned and began walking home. The sweet taste of chocolate bread still lingered on his tongue, but it was your warm smile that he couldn’t shake.

He tucked his hands into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cool air, and hoped—somewhere deep inside—that maybe, just maybe, fate would allow another chance encounter.

— Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚.

[purplemoon7]

Cinnamon

Masterlist

written in honor of my favorite scented candle.

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Min Yoongi is softest when he's with his girls.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — dad!Yoongi x black!reader (married AU)

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 2.4k

Warnings! FLUFF! nothing but pure fluff here, domestic husband!Yoongi, girl dad!Yoongi, soft dad energy (he's such as sap), cinnamon sugar chaos, established relationship, soft suggestive scene, married intimacy, lots of affection, cozy parenthood vibes, and a whole lot of love

The first thing that hits you the moment you open the front door is the smell of cinnamon.

Not the artificial, cloying kind you get from a candle.

No, this is the real deal—rich and warm and a little sweet, like toasted sugar swirling in the air. It clings to your coat, your hair, the fibers of your scarf, wrapping around you like a hug you didn’t know you needed. And it’s sticky too—thick enough that your mouth waters a little before your eyes have even adjusted to the dim, golden light of the penthouse.

You drop your keys into the little ceramic dish by the door—hand-painted by tiny fingers, initials scrawled messily at the bottom—and pause to unbuckle your boots, already smiling.

There's soft music playing somewhere in the background, something lo-fi and jazzy, and the hum of conversation between child and father is quiet but steady.

Then you hear it.

"Appa, I need more pwetzel dough!"

Her little voice, full of unfiltered urgency and zero patience, rings out loud and clear, followed by a loud splat!—the unmistakable sound of something wet and doughy hitting the counter.

You glance up, already grinning, and spot the top of a curly little head barely visible over the kitchen island. A mess of black coils bounces as she moves, half of them held back in a crooked little puff, the other half determined to escape any kind of order. She's standing on that wooden step stool Yoongi built himself when she first started wanting to “help” in the kitchen.

“I leave the house for two hours and suddenly you’re a baker now?” you call, amused, as you make your way further in.

Yoongi looks up at the sound of your voice, a crooked grin stretching across his face. There’s flour on his cheek, smudged near the corner of his mouth like he tried to scratch an itch and forgot he was covered in ingredients. His black sweater sleeves are pushed up to the elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted in flour and sugar. But the look in his eyes tells you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

“She said she wanted cinnamon pretzels,” he replies, like that explains everything. And with Yoongi, it kind of does. “And you know I’m weak.”

You snort, padding into the kitchen. “You could've said no.”

“How can I?” he mutters, eyes focused on the tiny whirlwind in front of him, face softened entirely—eyes half-lidded, watching her with a kind of wonder that hasn't left his eyes since the day she came into the world.

Haeri, on the other hand, is completely in her element—elbows deep in a lump of dough, kneading it like it owes her money.

Her little fingers are coated in flour and sugar, her face pink with effort, her tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. Yoongi has one steady hand on her back, keeping her balanced as she works, instinctively protective even in moments like this. Always there. Always watching.

“Hi, baby,” you say, leaning around Yoongi to kiss her plump cheek.

She looks up at you, finally acknowledging your presence, eyes lighting up like fireworks. “Mama!” she squeals, holding up her dough-covered hands like she’s just struck gold. “I make this!” And she looks so much like him in the moment that you feel your heart skip a beat in your chest. A carbon copy.

“Mhm,” you agree, running your hands over her baby curls. “Is it yummy?”

“Not yet,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Need more suga.” And then she turns back to Yoongi. “Appa, where suga?”

“Right here, aegi.” He gestures to the little glass bowl beside her, smiling down at her.

“Thank you!” she chirps, and you watch as he helps her scoop out the sugar, guiding her little hand in pouring it into the dough.

You can’t help the warmth that floods your chest at the sight.

“Appa, we add cinnanon now?” she asks.

“In a minute,” Yoongi replies, steadying her when she almost overpours the sugar. “You gotta make sure the dough is ready first. It needs to be warm and soft. If it's too cold, the cinnamon won’t stick.”

She nods like she understands, even though you know she probably doesn’t. But that’s just the way Yoongi is—patient and methodical, always willing to explain things to his little angel. Even when the process is slow and repetitive.

They knead the dough together, Yoongi’s large hands wrapped around her little ones, and you can’t help but smile at the sight of his big hands pressed against her little ones.

“Okay,” Yoongi says. “Now it's time for the cinnamon.”

“Yay!” she cheers.

Her little fingers work to knead the mixture of sugar and cinnamon into the dough, and she doesn't complain at all, even as it sticks to her skin. She keeps working diligently, humming to herself, the occasional squeal of excitement escaping her lips.

You watch, grinning at the little crease in her brow, at her little mouth, whispering under her breath as she concentrates. And your heart is so full in the moment, so full that you think it might burst. You feel it in your fingertips, in your chest, in every inch of you.

Your little family.

They make pretzels together—twisting and folding the dough until they have a row of perfect golden twists. And you watch, warm and content, as your two favorite people in the world work together, Haeri chattering the whole time. Talking to Yoongi about everything on her mind; something she saw on TV, something her friend at daycare said, and how she wants to make pink pretzels next time, her little lisp making every word sound cuter. And he listens, of course, like he always does. Like she’s the most interesting person in the world.

“Appa say pink food taste weird,” she tells you very seriously. “But I think he just scawed.”

“You might be right,” you reply with a wink.

She practically preens, lips stretching into a smile identical to her father's, puffing out her chest a little before diving right back into the dough with the intense focus of a Michelin chef. Yoongi finally lifts his attention from her, and when he looks at you, it’s like the world slows down just a little.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and full of that quiet affection that always makes your heart stutter.

“Hey yourself,” you reply, stepping into his space. His arms slips around your waist naturally, being mindful of his flour-covered hands.

You melt into him, resting your forehead against his chest, and breathe him in. He smells like cinnamon and flour and something warm that you can’t quite name. There’s flour in his eyelashes, and his hair is just a little too fluffy—like he's run his hands through it too much. The way he does when he's frustrated. And knowing your daughter, he probably was. You smile, brushing your nose against his.

“You been okay?” you ask softly.

He nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “She’s got me on a schedule,” he whispers like it’s a secret. “We made dough. Then we let it rise. Then she told me it was ‘too sleepy’ and punched it.”

You snort. “Sounds about right.”

He leans in again, lips grazing your ear. “You smell like outside. And coffee.”

“That’s because I stopped by that bookstore you like,” you murmur. “Picked up that vinyl you were eyeing, too.”

Yoongi pulls back slightly, eyes going wide with the kind of wonder you never get tired of seeing on his face. “Seriously?”

“First press,” you say, unable to stop the smug smile tugging at your lips. “Packaging’s gorgeous.”

He exhales like you just handed him a ticket to another planet. “You’re spoiling me.”

“You deserve it. Why don't you go wash up so you can play it? We'll listen to it together.”

His smile softens as he nods, and he presses one more kiss to your cheek before you gently shoo him toward the hallway.

“Hurry,” you say. “I’ll wrangle our junior baker into a proper apron and figure out how to clean up this war zone.”

He chuckles, giving your cheek a playful nip before stepping away. Your daughter looks up just then, cheeks flushed, nose dusted with flour, curls wild and sticking to her forehead.

You glance at the clock. Nearly five.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you say, crouching down so you’re eye level with her. “What if we turn the rest of the dough into cinnamon bites instead? That way, we can pop them in the oven now and they’ll be ready before bedtime.”

She tilts her head, considering. “Can I bring some to school for my fwiends?”

“Of course.”

She flashes a grin that melts your whole heart. “Then yes.”

By the time the dishes are washed and the sticky bits of flour are scrubbed off the counters, the kitchen smells like heaven. Brown sugar, cinnamon, a hint of butter melting into the air like a love letter written in scent.

The oven hums softly, casting a glow that flickers like candlelight, and you feel it—the shift in the atmosphere. The way the house settles into itself in the evening, slower, quieter.

The living room is bathed in soft golden light now, a pale amber stretching across the rug and walls. Outside, the sun is beginning its slow descent behind the rooftops. Inside, athe vintage vinyl crackles on the record player, making everything taste better. He hums along, low and steady, purring in the back of his throat.

Haeri is curled up on the couch, half-buried beneath a Hermes blanket. Her little legs are tucked under her, feet sticking out in mismatched socks, a sippy cup cradled in her tiny hands, looking like the most precious thing in the world. Her lashes flutter, heavy with sleep, and her thumb strokes absent circles on the side of the cup.

She’s fading, slow and soft like a candle burning low.

You and Yoongi move around each other in a rhythm of practiced intimacy. You don’t speak much—you don’t need to. He passes you the remote without asking. You hand him the plate of cinnamon bites, still warm from the oven and still soft in the center. He sets it down and, without a word, places a glass of wine in your hand.

Your fingers brush. Your eyes meet. And something passes between you in that glance—tired, yes. But also grateful.

You sit beside each other on the couch, close but not quite touching, like two magnets hovering just before the pull. There's a brief silence, the kind that only comes when the world is finally quiet enough to let you breathe. The record spins. Your daughter sighs softly in her sleep.

Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder—soft, slow.

His hand finds your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth over the fabric of your sweats, and when you glance over, his eyes are already on you. Warm. Dark. Intense in that quiet, Yoongi way that always makes your breath catch.

Eyes locked on yours, not breaking contact, he whispers, “So fucking gorgeous.”

You snort, lowering your glass. “Is that so? Pretty sure I’ve got flour in my bra right now.”

His hand moves from your thigh to brush a stray coil behind your ear, his touch featherlight. There’s always something disarming about the way he touches you—like he’s memorizing, not just feeling. Not taking a single second of you for granted.

“Always,” he says, voice low.

You shake your head, trying not to grin as you bite your bottom lip. The smile wins anyway, tugging its way free, a sweet secret between the two of you. You lean into him, letting your weight settle against his side, and his arm slips around your shoulder.

You exhale against him, warm and safe. His sweater smells like cinnamon and something distinctly him—maybe cologne, maybe studio dust, maybe just love.

His other arm stretches out along the back of the couch, hand resting lightly over your daughter’s blanket-covered frame. She stirs slightly, then quiets again, her tiny hand curling a fist into his sweater.

It’s moments like this, you think—these quiet, stitched-together seconds—where you thank God for the little paradise He’s blessed you with.

Then you feel it—his lips, brushing the side of your neck. Not quite a kiss. More like a thought spoken into your skin.

“When’s the last time we had a night to ourselves?” he murmurs.

Your body stills, muscles tightening just a little in surprise, but not rejection. Just… it's been a while. Weeks, maybe more.

Between your daughter's growing independence (and even more intense clinginess), Yoongi’s late-night studio sessions, your own long days—you’ve both slipped into survival mode. Teamwork mode. Love still there, but mostly quiet, steady, habitual.

But now? Now the house is warm and dim, the weight of the day is finally off your shoulders, and his hand is drawing slow, absentminded circles against your arm.

Your skin begins to hum beneath it.

“What are you thinking?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hums again, this time a little closer to your ear. His lips drift down to your shoulder, his nose nudging aside the strap of your tank top, and it sends a slow burn up your spine.

“I’m thinking,” he starts, “that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And I wanna make you feel that.”

You shiver, not from cold.

Your pulse jumps beneath your skin.

“We could sneak away,” he murmurs, his mouth tracing the line of your jaw now. “Just for a little while. Set up the monitor. Thirty minutes, maybe an hour, if the universe is kind.”

You glance toward your daughter’s sleeping form. She’s still, the slow rise and fall of her chest telling you that she's in deep sleep. You hesitate for half a beat.

“And if she wakes up?”

“Then we stop,” he replies without missing a beat. “But maybe we get lucky.”

You look back at him—at those familiar eyes, soft but intense. There’s heat in them now, yes. But also tenderness. Patience. Love that never asks too much.

You reach out and run your hand through his hair, fluffing the strands at his nape, letting your fingers tangle there.

“You better make it worth it, Min Yoongi,” you whisper, lips close enough to brush his.

He smirks, slow and confident, his mind already conjuring up every which way he's going to make you fall apart.

“You know I always do.”

— Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚.

[purplemoon7]

Slow Mornings

Masterlist

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Kim Namjoon is hopelessly in love with his wife, and mornings like this—warm, slow, and full of stolen kisses—are proof he never plans to stop showing it.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Namjoon x black!reader (married AU)

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 2.1k

Warnings! FLUFF! nothing but pure fluff here, established relationship, husband!Namjoon, suggestive touching, mentions of nudity, sensual language, married domestic bliss

There is a warm, heavy weight on your thigh that can only mean one thing—Namjoon has thrown a leg over you in his sleep again.

It’s a familiar feeling by now, his long limbs sprawled across yours like he’s subconsciously trying to keep you from slipping away. His body is warm, and solid, the faint rise and fall of his chest pressed against your back as he breathes in deep, still lost in sleep.

The room is quiet, save for the occasional snore that leaves his lips and the distant hum of the world waking up outside. Sunlight filters through the curtains, painting golden streaks across the sheets, across his skin. It’s a beautiful sight, almost breathtakingly so.

Your eyes flutter open, vision still soft around the edges, and you let yourself just… exist in it for a moment. Let yourself feel the way his presence settles over you like a second blanket—heavy, grounding, familiar. Safe.

His hand is somewhere near your ribs, palm spread, fingers twitching lightly like he’s chasing something in a dream. You breathe in the scent of him—faint cologne clinging to his skin, something warm and musky and distinctly him—and smile sleepily into the pillow.

You try to shift just enough to stretch your legs, but his arm tightens immediately, anchoring you back down like he knows.

He stirs, frowning as he rolls over and reaches for you, searching for the comforting pressure of your body against his. A sleepy hum rumbles from his throat, low and husky, as he nuzzles closer. His hand slides over your hip and around your waist, pulling you close until your entire length is pressed to his, and there’s something so easy, so natural about the way you fit together.

He makes a soft sound of approval, nuzzling into the crook of your neck before his lips find their way to your jaw.

“Hmm,” you hum, rolling your head to the side to give him better access, letting him nuzzle and kiss his way down your neck, over your pulse point and lower, until his lips are grazing your shoulder.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. His lips brush against your skin, the lightest, laziest touch.

You smile, eyes still half-shut. “Mm. Barely.”

Namjoon lets out a breathy laugh and presses another kiss to your shoulder. “You’re warm,” he says, voice muffled. “I wanna stay like this forever.” His voice is so deep, he's practically purring in your ear, and it sends shivers down your spine.

“Me too,” you whisper, hand reaching behind to run over his thigh. “You’re like a sexy, clingy heater.”

“Sexy, clingy heater,” he repeats with a chuckle, voice rough. “Can I put that in my bio?”

You laugh quietly, body relaxing fully into his. “Only if you put ‘sleep cuddler of the year’ under your accolades.”

He grins against your skin, and then he’s moving—slow and lazy, but intentional. His hand slips lower, palm splayed flat against your stomach. He kisses your neck again, slower this time, lips parting just enough to let his breath trail over your skin before his tongue brushes lightly against the dip of your collarbone.

Your breath catches, feeling it poke you through the thin fabric of his boxers. “Joon…”

“Mm?” he answers, innocent, though his hand is already trailing lower.

“You were snoring two minutes ago.”

“You're warm,” he says again, like that explains everything. “And always soft in the morning. So soft. Can’t help it.”

You roll to face him, shifting until your thigh slots between his, ignoring the small groan that escapes him. His buzzcut is the first thing you see—dark, neat, and low against the light—and you reach up, fingers gliding gently over it. He closes his eyes at the touch, visibly melting into it.

“Still obsessed with it?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Can’t stop touching it. Your head feels like a peach.”

He opens his eyes with a smirk. “I thought it was a kiwi last week.”

You grin. “That too. Depends on the day.”

Namjoon leans in and kisses you—soft, then deeper. His lips taste like morning and sleep, a little dry but familiar, like a song you never forget the words to. He kisses you slow, and you melt in the intimacy of being this close. This loved by him.

Your fingers dig into his skin, nails scratching him a little. His thumb strokes beneath the curve of your breast and you shiver, just a little, heart thudding under your ribs. You sigh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing he wants to live on today.

He kisses down again, over your chest, then lower, murmuring against your skin, “How is it possible you get softer every day?”

“You say that like I’m dough,” you whisper, laughing breathlessly.

He glances up. “You’re better than dough. You’re… you’re like a warm croissant. Flaky and golden and buttery—”

“Okay, stop,” you giggle, pushing at his shoulder. “You’re not allowed to make me laugh while you’re feeling me up.”

Namjoon bites back a grin, dimples flashing as he brushes a kiss between your breasts. “Fine. No more breakfast metaphors.”

The heat between you simmers, rising like slow waves. There’s no rush. Just soft touches and deeper kisses and a sense of being wrapped in something sacred.

It’s moments like this that remind you how much you love mornings with him. The way he clings to you, half-asleep and needy like he doesn’t know how to exist without touching you. The way his fingers trace lazy patterns against your skin, his body relaxed, vulnerable, safe.

He pulls back just enough to whisper “You feel so good,” against your skin, voice low, raspy.

You hum in response, letting your hand slide over his, fingers intertwining. “So do you.”

Namjoon sighs again, content, pressing his face into the crook of your neck to press a soft kiss. “I don’t wanna get up.”

“We don’t have to,” you tell him, looking down at him through your lashes. He looks good like this, slow and sleepy, like he belongs in this bed, in this moment, with you.

A lazy grin tugs at his lips. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

A warmth that has nothing to do with body heat spreads through your chest.

This side of Namjoon—the sleepy, affectionate, utterly unguarded side—is something you never get tired of. When he’s awake and alert, he’s sharp, quick-witted, always thinking. But here, wrapped around you, he’s soft. Mellow. Like warm honey dripping off the edge of a spoon.

Then, without warning, he flips you onto your back with zero effort, his arm slipping under your waist as he settles half on top of you. You smile up at him as your body immediately molds to his, the way it always does. His weight is solid, grounding. Familiar.

“Hi,” he says, voice rough and deep.

“Hi.”

He lifts a hand, his wedding band catching the light—just for a second—fingers brushing against your cheek, brushing against your braids. His thumb strokes just below your eye, tracing the softness of your skin. There’s something so intimate about the way he looks at you—like you’re something rare, something to be studied and memorized.

“Why’re you looking at me like that?” you ask, voice quieter now.

Namjoon exhales a little laugh. “Because you’re the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.” His hand slides down to your jaw, tilting your face up slightly. “And because I can.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he kisses you again, slow and lingering—like he has all the time in the world to savor you. And maybe he does. The kiss is lazy, deepening only when you sigh against his mouth, your fingers curling into the sheets.

His hand slides down, tracing the curve of your waist before settling on your hip. His grip is firm but not demanding, his thumb stroking absent-minded circles into your skin. He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, “Can we stay like this all day?”

“As tempting as that sounds, you have things to do,” you remind him, even though you don’t really want to be the voice of reason.

Namjoon groans dramatically, burying his face in your neck. “Don’t care.” His lips graze your collarbone, slow and lazy. “Cancel my schedule. We can just stay in bed all day and cuddle.” His lips move over your shoulder and back up to your jaw. “We can make out all day if you want.”

“I'd like that,” you admit, laughing. His kisses leave a tingling sensation against your skin, and you don’t even hesitate when he pulls you closer.

He makes another sound, humming deep in his throat as his lips find their way back to yours. He’s the first one to break the kiss this time, and he pulls back with a soft whine that makes you chuckle against his mouth.

“You're gonna be late.” you tease him, voice breathy. You press your lips to the edge of his jaw, nibbling gently on the skin, loving the way his eyes fall shut at the sensation, brows furrowing slightly.

“Fuck that,” Namjoon says. His hands slide down your thighs, lifting your legs over his hips. His fingers are warm as they knead the skin of your thighs, making you shiver against him.

You're the one to finally pull away, though it takes everything in you to do it. You press one last kiss to his lips, then his cheek, then that warm patch just beneath his jaw that always makes him hum.

“I should go start breakfast,” you whisper, dragging the sheets down as you sit up, legs stretching out into the early sunlight.

The cool air hits your bare skin, goosebumps rising instantly. You feel Namjoon’s gaze on you before you even glance back—and sure enough, when you do, he’s already propped on one elbow, eyes tracing every curve like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“I was gonna make you breakfast,” he says, voice still gravelly from sleep.

You snort. “Baby, no you weren’t.”

“Yes I was.”

“No you weren’t,” you say again, laughing now as you stand and reach for your robe at the foot of the bed. “You can’t cook, Joon.”

“Technically, I can cook,” he says, watching you move across the room like he’s in a trance. “I just don’t… thrive.”

“You set off the smoke alarm making toast.”

“It was complex toast!” he argues, flopping back on the bed with a groan. “There were layers.”

You give him a look as you slip into the robe, tying it loosely at your waist. “There were burnt crumbs all over the kitchen.”

He grins, big and unbothered, arms behind his head like he’s proud of himself. “Still ate it.”

“Yeah, and I had to pretend I liked it.”

Namjoon watches you from under the tousled mess of sheets, all bare skin and warm morning light. “I don’t care what anyone says. I make amazing cereal.”

“Oh, wow. You’re so talented,” you tease, walking toward the bed to grab your phone off the nightstand. Just as you lean over, reaching for it, there’s a sharp smack against your bare ass—loud, unapologetic, echoing off the bedroom walls.

You yelp, startled, and whip around, phone still in hand. “Namjoon!”

He’s grinning already, no shame whatsoever, dimples deep and smug. “What?” he says, eyes hooded and voice thick with sleep. “Just admiring the view. It’s mine, isn’t it?”

You rub the spot he slapped, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “You're lucky I love you.”

Namjoon props himself up on his elbows, completely unbothered, eyes trailing after you like you’re the last good thing left on earth. “God, look at you,” he murmurs, still sounding a little dazed. “How are you real?”

You roll your eyes, “You say that like I didn’t drool on your arm last night.”

“Doesn’t matter. Still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He shifts onto his back, arms folded under his head like he’s admiring the ceiling but really, he’s watching your robe-clad figure. “You could roll outta bed with your bonnet half-off and toothpaste on your chin and I’d still be in love with you.”

You shake your head, cheeks warm. “You’re just horny.”

“I’m married and in love,” he corrects, that crooked smile pulling at his lips. “Horny is just a bonus.”

You shoot him a warning look as you pad toward the door. “Behave.”

“Never,” he calls after you.

You disappear down the hall to the kitchen, the soft shuffle of your slippers fading, but he doesn’t stop watching until you’re completely out of view. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow, that smile still tugging at his mouth, a little dazed, a little gone.

— Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚.

[purplemoon7]

Jeon Jungkook

Masterlist

Fluff 💕 Angst ☠️ Smut (18+) 💦

⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓

Blurbs / Oneshots

Love This Pure💕

Series

nothing yet...

Disclaimer! All images, GIFs, and videos used on this page belong to their respective owners. I do not claim ownership of any media unless stated otherwise. If you are the owner of any content featured here and would like it removed or credited properly, please feel free to contact me.

Copyright Notice: All written content, including fanfics, original posts, and any creative works shared on this page, is my own unless stated otherwise. Unauthorized copying, reposting, or distribution of my work without permission is strictly prohibited. If you’d like to share or reference my work, please provide proper credit and a link back to my page.

Thank you for respecting my work and the work of others! 💜

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

Kim Taehyung

Masterlist

Fluff 💕 Angst ☠️ Smut (18+) 💦

⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓

Blurbs / Oneshots

Almost, Maybe, Us 💕 (part of the series "A story called us" but can be read as stand alone)

Series

A Story Called Us 💦💕☠️

Disclaimer! All images, GIFs, and videos used on this page belong to their respective owners. I do not claim ownership of any media unless stated otherwise. If you are the owner of any content featured here and would like it removed or credited properly, please feel free to contact me.

Copyright Notice: All written content, including fanfics, original posts, and any creative works shared on this page, is my own unless stated otherwise. Unauthorized copying, reposting, or distribution of my work without permission is strictly prohibited. If you’d like to share or reference my work, please provide proper credit and a link back to my page.

Thank you for respecting my work and the work of others! 💜

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

Park Jimin

Masterlist

Fluff 💕 Angst ☠️ Smut (18+) 💦

⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓

Blurbs / Oneshots

nothing yet...

Series

nothing yet...

Disclaimer! All images, GIFs, and videos used on this page belong to their respective owners. I do not claim ownership of any media unless stated otherwise. If you are the owner of any content featured here and would like it removed or credited properly, please feel free to contact me.

Copyright Notice: All written content, including fanfics, original posts, and any creative works shared on this page, is my own unless stated otherwise. Unauthorized copying, reposting, or distribution of my work without permission is strictly prohibited. If you’d like to share or reference my work, please provide proper credit and a link back to my page.

Thank you for respecting my work and the work of others! 💜

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

Jung Hoseok

Masterlist

Fluff 💕 Angst ☠️ Smut (18+) 💦

⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓

Blurbs / Oneshots

Golden Hour 💕

Series

nothing yet...

Disclaimer! All images, GIFs, and videos used on this page belong to their respective owners. I do not claim ownership of any media unless stated otherwise. If you are the owner of any content featured here and would like it removed or credited properly, please feel free to contact me.

Copyright Notice: All written content, including fanfics, original posts, and any creative works shared on this page, is my own unless stated otherwise. Unauthorized copying, reposting, or distribution of my work without permission is strictly prohibited. If you’d like to share or reference my work, please provide proper credit and a link back to my page.

Thank you for respecting my work and the work of others! 💜

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

Min Yoongi

Masterlist

Fluff 💕 Angst ☠️ Smut (18+) 💦

⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓

Blurbs / Oneshots

Cinnamon 💕

Series

nothing yet...

Disclaimer! All images, GIFs, and videos used on this page belong to their respective owners. I do not claim ownership of any media unless stated otherwise. If you are the owner of any content featured here and would like it removed or credited properly, please feel free to contact me.

Copyright Notice: All written content, including fanfics, original posts, and any creative works shared on this page, is my own unless stated otherwise. Unauthorized copying, reposting, or distribution of my work without permission is strictly prohibited. If you’d like to share or reference my work, please provide proper credit and a link back to my page.

Thank you for respecting my work and the work of others! 💜

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

Kim Seokjin

Masterlist

Fluff 💕 Angst ☠️ Smut (18+) 💦

⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓

Blurbs / Oneshots

Kitchen Shenanigans 💕

Series

nothing yet...

Disclaimer! All images, GIFs, and videos used on this page belong to their respective owners. I do not claim ownership of any media unless stated otherwise. If you are the owner of any content featured here and would like it removed or credited properly, please feel free to contact me.

Copyright Notice: All written content, including fanfics, original posts, and any creative works shared on this page, is my own unless stated otherwise. Unauthorized copying, reposting, or distribution of my work without permission is strictly prohibited. If you’d like to share or reference my work, please provide proper credit and a link back to my page.

Thank you for respecting my work and the work of others! 💜

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

Kim Namjoon

Masterlist

Fluff 💕 Angst ☠️ Smut (18+) 💦

⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓⁓

Blurbs / Oneshots

Slow Mornings 💕

Poetry 💦 💕

The Sound Of You💦 💕

Series

nothing yet...

Disclaimer! All images, GIFs, and videos used on this page belong to their respective owners. I do not claim ownership of any media unless stated otherwise. If you are the owner of any content featured here and would like it removed or credited properly, please feel free to contact me.

Copyright Notice: All written content, including fanfics, original posts, and any creative works shared on this page, is my own unless stated otherwise. Unauthorized copying, reposting, or distribution of my work without permission is strictly prohibited. If you’d like to share or reference my work, please provide proper credit and a link back to my page.

Thank you for respecting my work and the work of others! 💜

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚

[purplemoon7]

BTS MASTERLIST

Warning!  Fluff, Angst, Smut (18+).

Disclaimer! All images, GIFs, and videos used on this page belong to their respective owners. I do not claim ownership of any media unless stated otherwise. If you are the owner of any content featured here and would like it removed or credited properly, please feel free to contact me.

Copyright Notice: All written content, including fanfics, original posts, and any creative works shared on this page, is my own unless stated otherwise. Unauthorized copying, reposting, or distribution of my work without permission is strictly prohibited. If you’d like to share or reference my work, please provide proper credit and a link back to my page.

Thank you for respecting my work and the work of others! 💜

Concepts & Blurbs

Kim Namjoon!

Kim Seokjin!

Min Yoongi!

Jung Hoseok!

Park Jimin!

Kim Taehyung!

Jeon Jungkook!

BTS!

*************

Hey everyone!

If you’ve been looking for BTS fanfics where Black readers are the main character, you’re in the right place! I love writing and I'm gonna be bored all summer, so I’d love to hear what you want to read.

Got a scenario in mind? A favorite trope? A specific member you want a story with? Send me your requests! Whether it’s fluffy, angsty, or straight-up pure smut, I’m here for it!

Drop your ideas in my inbox! 💫

P.S. I’m pretty busy with college right now, so I probably won’t be able to start writing until the end of May. But I’ll do my best to answer as many requests as possible! Once summer rolls around, I’ll have a lot more free time to write. 😊

- Moon ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚