London Calling | KNJ
Pairing: Namjoon x Vixen
Wordcount: 3.1k
Genre: Fluff, smut, pwp, established relationship!AU, idol!Au, Married!AU
Rating: 18+; minors, please do not interact
Synopsis: Vixen has decided to distract herself from Namjoon's incumbent enlistment by focusing on her job. She has accepted adding more international works to her portfolio and is currently in London; too bad Namjoon can't help but post risqué pictures on his Instagram, and it really seems he's doing so to try and get her attention.
Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Swearing, Fear of infidelity, Nostalgia. Extremely mild DDLG dynamics, Babygirl!Vixen, Brat!Vixen, Phone sex, Masturbation, Dirty talking. Mentions of: Oral sex (both male and female receiving), Lingerie kink, Sex toys, Spanking. Oh, and one of Joon's friends simps for Vixen.
As usual, you can find my masterlist right here! I wouldn't mind if you took a few seconds to leave a comment or reblog my fic 🥰 Also, my requests are always open!!!
Enjoy 💜✨
“Been hearing someone’s on their worst behaviour.”
Namjoon’s chuckle on the opposite end of the line is everything you need to know. “What can I say, my last moral anchor is busy girlbossing around the world.” He licks his lips and sits down on the sofa, his friends messing around his kitchen, beers and liquors spread around your marble counter. “I’m missing my lucky star.”
“Your guardian angel.”
“My only angel,” he flirts.
The game is back on between you and Namjoon. Ever since you decided to stop waiting around for his enlistment and have started accepting international projects on your portfolio, it’s like no matter where either of you are, it’s always time to flirt on the phone.
Or mess around even more.
He’s touched down in London for you about two weeks ago, showing up at your hotel room with an Agent Provocateur bag dangling from his pretty fingers and the kind of smile that always gets you shimmying out of your panties.
“What are you up to, love? What time is it over there?”
“Uh-huh. I’m the one doing the asking here, mister.”
He puts his glass back on the coffee table, and leans over with his elbows on his knees. “I’m just trying to feed my imagination, little fox. What’s a boy to do, with an empty bed and a sexy wife on the other side of the world?”
“I don’t know, maybe be more careful before talking talks he can’t walk?” you suggest.
He lowers his voice before saying, “You’d be over my knee right now, you know?”
You decide to talk back, just to mess him up further. Your voice is like midnight fog when you tell him, “you’d have to catch me first.”
He steals a glance towards the kitchen. This feels an awful lot like when the two of you began hanging out — the secrecy, the craving, the distance, and the pining. Except this time you have rings on your hands and there’s no doubting loyalty, not on his nor your behalf.
He toys with his own ring, tracing it with his thumb, twisting it a little to the left, then to the right, back and forth.
“It seems you appreciated that quick leak…”
You click your tongue. “One of these days you’re gonna end up naked in those pics and I’ll have to come home to do damage control.”
“Is that all it takes to have you back home? I miss my territorial little vixen.” He stares at your stash of books in the bookshelf, standing tall right next to his, but looking twice more put together.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been acting sluttier lately.”
“At least I haven’t gone entirely shirtless yet.” He picks up the glass again and you hear him swallowing through the line. “Unlike some of my friends. You should consider yourself lucky.”
“Lucky, you say?”
He hears the sound of a glass being put down. “Are you drinking, babygirl?”
You cock an eyebrow and stare at your glass of red wine. “I’m dined and wined. You know which bit is missing. But it seems you’re not that deserving.”
“What did you eat?” He doesn’t grant you the courtesy of winning this sensual verbal sparring. That tiny comment about being dined and wined was a trap, he can tell. Looking so casual and half-hearted can only mean you expected him to go there, and if he does, he’ll probably end up right where you wanted him.
He can do better.
“I had a steak. With a lovely truffle cream. I’ll have to make it for you next time you’re around.” Your reply comes off beat, and he smiles, happy that he caught you off guard.
If this were a match of martial arts, you’d be dwindling a little, your balance compromised. “I’d love to. Miss your tiramisu. Your cheesecake. Your aglio e olio. Your sweet little ass working around the kitchen.”
You laugh, the sound as bright and heartstopping as ever. Blood rushes to his cheeks. He loves making you laugh. “You got the guys over, I assume? Four in the morning?”
“We just finished working. Like maybe an hour ago or so.” He can’t keep calm anymore. Everytime you call him when he’s home, his gaze keeps wandering to every piece of it that belongs to you.
Sometimes it’s suffocating. Sometimes he sleeps back at the studio. Sometimes he stays over at other people’s places.
Now it’s the portrait of your orchids that you had commissioned for him. It sits next to his bonsais, so he can think of your collection each time he’s watering his own.
Sometimes he wonders who is whose subtext, because at times he thinks you’re the one who picked up habits from him, other times he thinks it’s him who accidentally got into certain hobbies through the years so he could be your exact shadow once the two of you finally met and aligned.
“Also, you’re calling at four in the morning,” he observes. “Oh…” He rubs the back of his head, then plops back on the sofa, as if he were deflating slowly. “Right. I’m your booty call.” He chuckles. “Almost forgot.”
“I can find someone else in a more suitable time zone, if that sits well with you,” you reply, your tone just a tiny bit annoyed. His nonchalance irks you just a little.
“That your sneaky link, man?” you hear someone holler on his side.
“So now I’m miss sneaky link, huh? Not bad, mister booty call.” You click your tongue. “I’ll leave you to your friends. I thought you were alone, didn’t mean to disturb.” This could be your chance to win this match.
“No, don’t go because they’re about to. Kind of right now,” he says, looking towards the kitchen and nodding towards the door. “Sorry guys. Vixen’s rule.”
“He don’t deserve you, honey,” one of his friends calls. “Just one chance, miss. Kindly.”
“We’re literally married,” he tells the guy, then to you, “Bum says hi.”
“Oh, hi sweetie. What are your thoughts on the London timezone?” you ask, coquettishly.
“Careful, fox.” Namjoon’s voice is stern when it comes on. It makes you sit taller on your seat, redirecting the pressure in between your thighs. “And you’d better not reply, Bum.”
The guy stares at Namjoon as he says. “For you, anything, my queen. Though, from personal experience, it’s excellent for your late nights and our early mornings. If you know you know,” Bum suggests.
Namjoon slaps the guy’s back with the most sarcastic smile on his face. “Time to go, dude.”
“Starcrossed lovers, that’s our fate, my queen.”
You laugh loudly and Namjoon is a little annoyed. “All the great loves are those that never happened, Bum.”
“Guys, I’m literally right here!?” Namjoon says, embarrassed and just a tad annoyed. “You, get out of my house. And stop trying to seduce my wife.”
“Bum, can you keep an eye on him? Kinda worried I might not be the only sneaky link of his.” You joke about it, but deep down, there’s always a sliver of worry in it. You wouldn’t be surprised if some of his friends were encouraging him to be unloyal to you just because you decided to push forward with your career.
“He’s too busy panting for you to even begin thinking about someone else.” Bum’s putting on his shoes by the door, hushered by Namjoon. His three other friends are similarly getting dressed, laughing at the exchange.
“Literally, Vixen—”
Namjoon looks like he’s baring his teeth at Bum using his nickname for you.
“He’s whipped. We keep him in check, but it’s like guarding a leashed little puppy.”
You giggle, sweet and endeared. “Good. That’s the way I like him.” You lick your lips. “Make sure he doesn’t bare his ass on Instagram.”
“So you’re falling for his little thirst traps?” Bum’s laugh booms in the room and Namjoon wacks him on the head, worried about the neighbours. Also, he doesn’t like admitting that when he posts, he’s thinking about the way you would react when seeing him.
“You know how I am, Bum. I’m always falling for him,” you confess, cheesy and utterly honest at the same time.
Namjoon smiles like the cat who got the cream. “That’s sweet, babygirl. The guys are leaving now. Bye guys,” he says quickly, finally kicking them out.
You try to say bye in return, but you hear the door close and Namjoon is immediately all over you. “Always falling for me, huh?” He heads back towards the sofa. “That’s new.”
“That’s actually so, so old.” You roll your eyes but smile through it anyways.
“You’re my only sneaky link, Vixen. Still got your claw marks all over my back, by the way. Lovely touch.”
“Gotta mark my territory,” you state matter-of-factly.
“Wanna switch this over to a video call?” he suggests, already undoing the first button of his shirt.
“Just so I can be reminded I’m not over there fucking you right?” You snort bitterly. “No way.”
“We could make this our own personal porno,” he suggests, grateful that his trousers are baggy enough to give him extra space around the crotch. “Just a little visual aid.”
“You’re telling me you don’t remember how I rode you last time?” You undo the little bow at the waistband of your pyjama pants, your fingertips tiptoeing around the elastic of your panties.
“Let’s say I wouldn’t mind having a bit more than a memory to hold on to.” As if telepathically connected, he’s also undoing the button and zip of his denim cargos.
“Fair. You usually hold on to my hips while I fuck you.”
He hisses, head thrown back. “And you hold on to my throat when I’ve been an exceptionally good boy.”
A shiver screeches down your torso, then spreads through your midriff and settles somewhere at the small of your back, as if recalling the phantom touch of his hand, of his thumbs imprinting themselves in the twin dimples at the base of your spine. He likes resting his fingers there when he’s taking you from behind. It’s like the little dips were designed for his digits to rest there.
“You’re such a lucky little fucker,” you tease him and he one-ups you,
“I fucking am, but last time I checked you usually sort of profit from it.”
Your sultry laugh is his favourite form of payment — right now he’s richer than he’s ever been.
“Are your hands free, love?”
You let him hang there for a couple long seconds, your breathing heavy. “They’d be freer if you were here,” you tell him. “Maybe not.”
“They’d be all over me, and you know it, little fox.” He purrs as his hand finds a good spot. He’s not yet actually touching himself, but he’s definitely teasing. “Got on a fucking plane for those hands.”
“You flew for twelve hours for these hands.”
“And for that ass,” he adds, quick-witted.
Your laugh is more of a snort. “And that too.”
His zipper is undone, he dips his hand under the waistband of his briefs, shifting it downwards. “For that smart mouth of yours,” he whispers. “Just to kiss it for a bunch of hours.”
“It was very grateful,” you remind him, trying to bluff the fact that your middle finger is now circling your clitoris.
“I remember that.” His heartbeat is starting to accelerate. “I had to stop it from being a little bit too grateful.” He remembers the silky feeling of your hair in between his fingers, the tension in your hand on his thigh as you tried to take more of him. “My birthday girl,” he hums. “And yet, I was the lucky bastard who got presents.” The sight of you in that powder pink corset, with the delicate ruffles, and the feather trims tracing the top of your breasts, palpitating with every single excited breath you took.
It had been like seeing a map of your arousal, goosebumps rising on any inch of skin he had dared lay his eyes on.
“You were so responsive,” he whispered. “You were so fucking wet.”
“You teased me for almost an hour,” you object.
“I’ll have to make it two hours next time then.” He’s throbbing in his own palm, circling his tip, hissing when he hits a too-sensitive spot. “Maybe with the tickler still.”
“It was delightful, I will admit that.” You’re leaning on your hand now, cupped between your thighs. “Wish your face was between my legs.”
“Wish you were sitting on it, baby.” He bites his lip, as if he could recall the feel, the taste of you on his mouth. “Can’t believe it’s been two weeks already.”
“I can’t wait to be home,” you moan.
He can tell you’re touching yourself, from your ragged breathing, and from the way your voice has become more vulnerable, and more impatient too. “I’ll make sure to clear my schedule when you do. We can do that ‘seven days a week’ type of shit.”
You moan and he laughs to himself.
“Are you gonna come for me, my love?” he asks fondly, his voice like a dark caress. “Are you thinking about my mouth fucking you? About my tongue stroking you, feeling how wet and warm and sweet you are?”
“Joon, please,” you beg, a desperate little laugh.
“No need to beg, babygirl. You can have everything you want when you’re with me,” he continues, with his calm, direct voice. “You can take it, love. You can have me deep inside you, and you can suck on my fingers if you’re struggling to keep your voice down.” He’s quickened his own pace, trying to climb as fast as you do. “Or you can be loud, and tell the neighbours who’s making you feel this good.”
“When I get home I want you to mess me up for days. You’re gonna mark me, and make love to me and fuck me and feed me. You’re gonna cuddle me to sleep, then wake me up with your hand between my legs.”
You’re holding your breath as you speak, your high approaching like an incumbent, massive wave.
“I promise, love.”
“Are you coming too?” you ask, and he hums simply.
“I’m close.”
“I want you to fuck me while I sit on your lap.”
“On the sofa?”
“On the sofa, on the floor, in bed, I don’t care.” You gasp, then chuckle as you hit an indecently good angle with your fingers. “I want to hold you as we make love.”
“You will, baby.”
“I wanna whisper in your ear that you’re my one and only. That you’re the only one in the whole world who can get me this good.”
He loves when you get emotional during sex. He loves when you start to ramble and you tell him all those things you usually keep to yourself. “I can’t wait either. I miss you in bed. I miss you at every meal, I miss going to our galleries. I miss every fucking thing.” He’s getting desperate. “And most of all, I miss those eyes on me.”
“I’m coming,” you gasp, out of the blue, the idea of sitting on his lap, naked, making love to him, your mouth clamped around the crook of his shoulder to keep quiet, his hands tracing your back, his eyes looking for yours, for confirmation, for loyalty, for reassurance, for companionship.
“That’s my darling.” He can let go now, and he fucks his hand with intention, with neat powerful jerks. He helps himself with strong thrusts of his pelvis, and precise tugs of his hand too. He grunts when he hears your sweet whimpers on your side of the call, and finally he follows you into pleasure, with the image of your head thrown back, your plump lips agape, your hair tumbling wild behind you as you bounce on him.
He can almost feel the aftertaste of your perspiration on the tip of his tongue.
“Wow,” you say as soon as you manage to recollect yourself.
He’s still sort of numb, his orgasm spilled on his stomach and happy trail. Just a glimpse down and he’s already envisioned the phantom of you studying his semen, lowering yourself to his navel and tracing it with your digit, only to bring it to your mouth to have a taste. He clicks his tongue in disappointment.
“Damn, I wanna cuddle the fuck out of you and you’re too far away.” He reaches for a tissue to clean himself quickly. “I guess that’s why we don’t do this more often. I miss the aftercare.” He pulls himself back in his briefs, then blocks his phone between his shoulder and ear and stands to get rid of the tissue. “How are you feeling, love?”
“Hunting for chocolate.”
“Oh, baby…” He giggles, endeared. “Should I order something for you?”
“No… it’s okay.” You’re a little bit sad, but you try your best not to let it show.”
“Not even those glass beads you’d seen on our favourite website?”
You widen your eyes. “Let’s not make say things we don’t mean now...”
Namjoon laughs fondly. “Thought so.” He waits a little. “We can just talk, by the way. Or you can go grab a toy and we can keep going with this. We could discuss in great details what you intend to do to me once you’re back.”
“We could do that. Or we could video call and you could watch me hump this little thing you got me.”
He grins. “Then let me get comfy. We’ve got quite the night coming up.”
You smile. “We do.”
He hesitates. “We don’t have to, you know? If you don’t want to video call. I’m okay with just hearing you.”
You pause. Your love for him multiplies exponentially in your chest. “Sure we don’t have to. But I want to.”
Namjoon smiles. “Okay.”
“Get comfy, lucky boy,” you tease him.
“I’ll be right there.”
It’s almost six in the morning when you fall asleep. He’s propped the phone right beside him on the pillow and though he’s found himself dropping it a couple times, he’s refused to let go until he was sure you were asleep.
Now he closes the video call and locks his phone, putting it back on the nightstand. He pulls your pillow close, hugging it to his chest, then throws a leg on top of it. He places another pillow in between his legs, where your thighs would normally tangle with his.
He breathes in the vague scent of you left on the bed — not much since the sheets have been changed and he can only smell the laundry scent you normally use, of sandalwood and cedar, warm and spicy.
Twenty-three days.
He can handle it.
He falls asleep with the memory of your body like ivy against his own. Even this far apart, he is and will always be covered in you.
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