Knj X Reader - Tumblr Posts

OK so imagine

Today at work we didn't have a lot of customers (it's an outside cafe and it rained) so i had time to just imagine scenarios in my head

So i was like "hey why not a meet cute with my man namjoon"

So here it is i might write a fic about that and im writing this to not forget my idea

Ok you're just walking in an art museum, admiring a sculpture when a (extremely handsome and daddy material) man stands next to you. At first, you both don't notice each other but when he turns to his right, he sees a woman around his age and like he finds her cute (bc you are)

He strikes up and convo and asks what you're doing here alone. Your answer is 'I'm just searching inspiration for my kids' so he's like 'you have kids??' And he's (strangely) reassured when you tell him that you do not, this is just the way you call you students. He thinks the fact that you're a teacher makes you like 100x cuter than you already were it it's even possible. You make small talk and when you ask what he does for a living his reply is 'oh you know, just some boring job in an office. It's nice to see dofferent things that's why im here' but in reality he's the ceo of a really big company (im sucker for teacher reader x ceo bts).

When you have to leave he beats himself up for not asking for your number bc you're just so perfect.

When he goes back home, his friends come over and he's super goddy about meeting you. When they ask what's his deal he's just like "nothing, just met the love of my life is all"

The next time you meet is when he comes to pick up his cousin from school and oh? What a coincidence ? You just happen to be their teacher.

This time he does not forget to aks for a number and a potential date with you.

Yeahh that's all i find it really cute tell me if you'd prefer a one shot or a series bc I have no idea and either way it'll take some time

the art of woo - knj

part 1 - drabble

<<prologue | masterlist | part 2 >>

word count : 2.2k

Walking back into the museum you just exited, this time after eating your meal, you feel the artificial air blowing from the AC. Directing yourself to the part of the Amore Pacific Museum that you hadn’t looked through yet. You had decided to keep it for the afternoon, which you were doing at that moment.

The only purpose of that impromptu trip to the museum was to find inspiration, the school year begun in a day, and even if your program was already finished, you liked to find fun things to show the kids. They would have the funniest reactions and comments to make, which would almost never make sense. This year wasn’t going to be the same as the ones before, since you’ll be getting kids a year older than the ones you usually teach. Jimin told you it won’t make a huge difference, and you wanted to believe him, but you couldn’t help but be a bit anxious.

Walking around the left wing of the museum, where the more “crazy” arts were, you take your notepad and pen out of your white fake fur purse. Real fur was too pricy, end you didn’t like the idea of having something that belonged to a once living animal on your body. Before walking out of your shared apartment that morning, you decided to wear a white summer dress falling to your mid-thigh and open at the back to match with your usual pair of white high heeled boots. You thought that outfit was cute and not so uncomfortable to wear in the outside.

In your notepad you wrote down the informations of the art pieces you thought would be interesting for your class. It wasn’t very practical to write without anything to support you, so you crouched down to use your legs as a makeshift ‘table’ when you heard footsteps behind you.

After reading his friends’ texts, Namjoon had that weirded out but still amused look on his face. He thought it felt good to have those specimens as friends, as his schedule was more packed than ever. He’d just got the spot as the new CEO in the company, his father’s, he worked at. Of course, he knew that was only the beginning and that it wouldn’t always be like that. So yes, the guys were a good distraction during those times. Even if Jungkook was a bit of a brat.

One thing that he always liked to do to keep his mind at ease was visit new places, and when he liked one, visit it again. Today, he had just about enough. The office kept calling him for unimportant matters, that didn’t his input or help, so he was naturally quite upset. He wanted to just shut his phone for the end of the day and only use it in the following morning, hoping that they understood he didn’t want to be disturbed. He understood that the sudden change of the big boss could be quite disturbing but still, the were all responsible adults, and most of them were older than him.

He thought it might be a prank, organised by his father to test his patience, which wouldn’t really be surprising taking in count his playful nature, but he wouldn’t ask him. No, the now CEO would prove to him that he was perfectly capable of being calm even if he wanted to scream at whoever addressed him that day.

That’s why he endured. At noon, however, he told them that he had things to do (he didn’t tell them it wasn’t work related) and he went out to eat his lunch before heading to the Amore Pacific Museum, where he hoped to appease his mind as it is a place he often seeks to have a peaceful time. When the young man finally arrived at his desired destination, it was already almost five past one in the afternoon.

Without turning around at the sound of feet hitting the floor, you continue writing down the informations about the piece of art that was in front of you. It was a representation of the colonisation in South Africa in a drawing by William Kentridge. You thought it was good to prepare the kids so that they know that not everything in this world is nice, without saying too much or scare them of course.

When Namjoon arrived in front of the same drawing, he hadn’t seen you yet. You were right in front of him but he only thought you were a white thing. He understood you were a woman when he saw the hair falling on your back as he got closer to you. He was still a bit pissed so he didn’t acknowledge you, and you didn’t see him either. He saw that you were writing something on your notepad so when you stood up his eyes were still on you.

Sensing a presence beside you, you looked to your right to see a young man, around your age already looking at you. The awkward eye contact lasted for a bit before Namjoon recomposed himself. He strangely felt nervous all of a sudden, your stare making him feel like he got caught doing something bad. Ha wasn’t one to usually feel nervous when in the presence of attractive women, so the reason he felt like that with you was a mystery.

“Hi..” he said, diverting his eyes to the other size, feeling a bit conscious that he didn’t really prepare himself before going out. His hair was messy from the amount of time he had tugged on it that morning.

“Hi.” You responded smiling at him. You didn’t know what he wanted, but you weren’t one to ignore the people talking to you, always polite with the people you met. He looked back to you after hearing your voice, mentally scolding himself for being so awkward, he somehow wanted you to think that he was cool, because he knew he was usually like the cool kids.

“Yes, hi..shit I already said that.” He mumbled the last part under his breath. “I’m Namjoon.” He finally presented himself.

“My name’s Y/N. It’s nice to meet you Namjoon.” You told him, looking back to what you had written, making sure everything was correct. After debating with himself whether or not he should continue the conversation, the young man looked back in front of him.

“Yeah, um can I ask what you’re writing?” He glanced at the notepad between your fingers, noting how your nails were neatly done.

“Oh this! Yeah of course. I take notes on the arts that I find interesting to show them to the kids. I don’t know if they’ll like them but I hope so.” You pouted a bit at the end, making him look down at your lips and quickly back to your eyes before you noticed. He was confused (and disappointed) to hear you talking about kids. You seemed quite young to be a mother of multiple children. He then concluded that you were probably already in a relationship, which made him feel guilty.

“Oh you have kids?” You were confused. How did he come to that conclusion? You didn’t really look much older than you were. These days, most of the 24 years old women weren’t mothers yet, so you didn’t understand him. It must have been obvious from the way you looked at him, with the head tilted to the side and brows slightly furrowed. “You don’t have kids, do you?” It was more of a statement than a question but you still shook your head as an answer. “I’m sorry, it’s just the way you talked. I assumed; sorry I shouldn’t have.” He apologized, massaging the back of his neck to release the bit of tension there was.

“Now that you say it, it did sound like I was talking about my kids.” You chuckled lightly. The sound of it putting a smile on Namjoon’s face. “I’m a teacher, the kids are my students. I’m getting my new class tomorrow so I’m a little nervous.” You scratched your arm a bit.

“I’m sure you’ll do great. Don’t worry.” He encouraged with a gentle smile on his face. The fact that you were a teacher added to the things he found endearing about you. You looked so soft and nice and your job only amplified that. Namjoon didn’t know what was happening to him, but when you looked back at him with a smile so large your eyes closed, he found it hard to breathe. He could hear his heart beating in his ears. His palms were sweaty and he could feel the blood burning on his face. Deciding that he didn’t want his time with you to end already, he took a deep breath in before asking;

“Hey um, would you like to look at the rest with me?” The question caught you off guard, but Namjoon looked nice enough and you didn’t mind the company.

“Sure, why not? The more the merrier!” You exclaimed, leading the way to the next art to see.

You both passed time like that, exchanging thoughts on every art you came across. It was nice to have someone to do this with this time, since your friends and your sister never want to come with you.

Namjoon became more comfortable talking to you with each passing second. The initial nervousness wasn’t completely gone but he could joke around now. You both also talked about your friends and family, you mentioned you were really close to your younger sister, and he told you he was always with his three best friends. Neither of you mentioned any name, not that it really mattered. He tried to flirt a bit, but it was too awkward and he wasn’t good at that when he was sober, so he decided to stop for now, and you looked oblivious to his attraction towards you.

As the saying says, time passe fast when you’re having fun (I translate from French leave me) and when you both exited the museum, the sun was starting to set already. You took your phone out to check the time when you saw texts from your sister.

“I didn’t know it was this late already, do you want me to drop you home Y/N ?” he said taking out his car keys. You sent the address to Jessie and put your phone back in your purse.

“Thanks, but it won’t be necessary. My sister’s picking me up, she wants to have dinner together.” You told him, making him a bit disappointed. You saw the dejected look on his face and proposed; “but you can wait with me if you want, I don’t think she’ll be here for another fifteen minutes at least.” At that he perked up nodding his head.

“Come, let’s go sit there, my legs are tired.” He pointed to a bench close to the entry of the museum.

You both sat and continued talking, the conversation flowing until you saw your sister parking the car in front of the both of you. You saw her look suspiciously at Namjoon before getting un yourself to go inside the car. You looked back at him, he was still seated, looking at you getting inside the car. You waved at him, saying that you’ll see him another time.

He looked at you, smiling and waving back. The stress and anger from the morning completely forgotten, he was now appeased and quite happy.

When you closed the door, he got up and took the keys to his own car out. Jessie immediately turned to you, eyeing you suspiciously. “You didn’t tell me you were on a date Y/N! I would’ve gone with someone else.”

“Oh no, that wasn’t a date, we met today and decided to spend the rest of the day together to pass time. His name’s Namjoon, he’s quite nice must I say.” You told her. “Now, less talking, more driving I’m hungry! If it’s not good I’ll blame Jimin, and you.” She feigned an offended look and began driving, she was pretty hungry too.

Getting inside his car, the young CEO started the engine and drove directly to Jungkook and Yoongi’s place, not noticing the shy smile he had on his face the whole time. His friend, however sure did, it was the first thing he noticed after opening the door.

“Hey dude- woah what’s with the smile? Are you that happy to see me?” Jungkook said, shooting him a side glare. He highly doubted that was the reason for Namjoon’s sudden happiness, and he wanted to know what really caused it.

“Hey, I think I just had the best day of my whole life,” “Was your visit at the museum-“ he didn’t have time to finish his sentence when he was cut off, “I think I just met the love of my life today.”

“Wait wait wait, what the hell, explain dude, who’s she? Did you get her number? Or maybe it’s a he? I need details hyung” Namjoon didn’t answer him, directing himself to the couch where he realised one thing, he hadn’t asked for your number.

BOOKWORMS | knj

pairing: boyfriend!namjoon x reader

genre: smut; fluff

word count: 4.4k

summary: namjoon thinks of you when he reads a smut scene in his book.

warnings: boyfriend namjoon!!!, kimi namijoon reading, mentions of sex (riding), oral sex (f. receiving), nipple play, the importance of consent, teasing, raw sex, breeding kink <3, big dick namu!!, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, joonie's chain dangling in ur face, tummy bulge, creampie, bruising, hickeys, aftercare:(

note: it took blood, sweat and tears (hehe) to write this and i'm so happy it's finally here!! i loved writing about namjoon. he's my whole soul and the entirety of my heart and i have to write abt him again soon. please take your time reading this and enjoy urself! let me know what you think in the comments mwah (or tell me anonymously in my inbox) and as i always say please like and if u want to - reblog, but i won't pressure u baby. love love you!!

side note: if you want to jump straight to the smut, it's right under the asterisks &lt;;3

You revel, you truly do, in seeing your boyfriend in such a serene state of mind. 

Nose buried in a book, Namjoon pays no mind to the surroundings fleeting by him with each flutter of his eyelashes. It goes unnoticed by him, strangely so, how you tidy up the apartment you share. How you feed the two cats that chose you and him to be their human parents. How you fondle their soft ears. How you bend over the furniture to whisper ‘pspsps’ at them when they need a moment away from you just to see their round eyes look up at you stupidly. Namjoon usually observes these moments; this utmost natural behavior of yours. He draws strength from the homeliness of it all with each and every swell of his lungs. Needs it to survive. That is until he gets a hold of that one papery portal and sits comfortably on the couch, one ankle propped over the knee. Then, he ceases to exist in this world. 

You’re happy for him. Over time, you’ve come to find that you have a certain fondness for the way he remains stoic. Because you always know what kind of book he’s reading, a smile blossoms on its own over the line of your lips whenever your eye catches the sculpture-like look on his face. It’s like even if he let himself hold his breath, his consciousness would waver back to the earth and the wretched awareness that he’s here, among mortals and the unfair capitalist system aftermath, would stream in his bloodstream, poisoning his experience. It takes the leisure out of it and makes the bed for misery instead. He doesn’t like it. Hates it, in fact. It’s a necessity that he focuses, as he embarks on the journey, because he does it for you.

Namjoon confides in his feelings and his literature with you almost on a daily basis. On the same couch, with the same cats snoring faintly, their small bodies spilling over the perimeter of your tangled legs. Doesn’t matter if it’s his thigh or the curve of your hip. The animals always find a warm crook to doze in, eavesdropping in, with their curious little ears, on the conversations you’re having. Though you reckon they like the meat of his thigh the best. You do, too. Can’t really blame them. The same serenity that intimately knows the person of Namjoon perceives the person of you when he prompts you to rest your head on his lap while he brushes his book-kissed fingers through the silky waterfall of your hair. Thoroughly explains the intricacies of the plot he’s invested in to you. Describes the characters as if they’re real people he’s become acquainted with. They are real to you as you listen. As you ask additional questions and gaze up at his eyes just to catch that one body of a shooting star fiery hot in the glossiness of his eyes. As you wonder, openly, what will happen to them.

“I’ll tell you when they tell me.” He sunk the promise onto the smooth skin of your forehead with the pucker of his lips.

It’s how you discovered, in all seriousness, that the plaster of his stoicism breaks during these literary moments.

Various colors of emotion tug and twist his features, the bare kind. The unrestrained kind. You know it’s a relief for him when the dam bursts open, soaking you in the beauty of humanness one only finds in literature these days. You can’t help but fall in love with him all over again when his eyebrows furrow. When his orbs nearly burn a hole in the ceiling when he’s trying to think of the right word that will ultimately help him convey the unfolding of the storyline. When he gives up and weaves English into his sentences, relying on his hands to say what his overstimulated brain fails to do. 

He reads to pass knowledge to you. The serenity whispered it into the chambers of your heart, a puff of hot breath in winter’s cold. It soothingly rubbed his shoulders when Namjoon told you there used to be a time when he couldn’t stand the sight of his books lining up the walls of his apartment. Wanted to burn it down and watch as the evidence of his melancholy dies in front of him. Because that’s what most of his book collection consisted of back then. The innermost shadowy faces of his pain. Loneliness. Sadness. Despair from life, from it not being enough for him, from it not saving a spot there for him–not once throughout the course of his life. That’s why he reads different kinds of books now. Ones that do not reflect his survival before you.

The reader has to get wiser, ruffled by life in order to gain more, gain what they need from those once deeply loved pages. It’s what the serenity believes. It’s what you believe and hope for Namjoon. That one day, somehow by the healing of the love you give him, he will look back and pick a souvenir from that moonless country of pain. Put it up somewhere between the spines of his new cluttered collection. Look at it from time to time and sense that it’s telling him something. Something that will fill the stitched-up cracks in his heart with sunlight. Something that he will pass over to you. It’s your love language after all. Namjoon reads because you read. It’s his own personal healing thing. 

You two are just a pair of two bookworms. Unfit for the world outside. Fit for the land you two created. Whose soil you take care of together.

***

Dinner is almost ready by the time you feel his fingertips gripping your hips. You hum, acknowledging his presence. Glad for the homely heat that radiates off of his body and seeps into your bones as you stir the risotto you decided to make on the stove. Coldness had been embracing you all day while he read so you’re overjoyed that he ripped it away from you.

Namjoon places a kiss on your temple and you sigh in relief. You might be too dependent on him, but so is he. He wouldn’t be nuzzling his face in your hair, squeezing your waist, peppering kisses on your tender skin if he wasn’t. It’s the perfect balance. And it’s not that you’re not able to be away from each other. The principle of looking forward to one another is what makes it so sweet, so endurable for the pair of you. Of the coming back and coming into contact at the end of the day. It’s natural. Simple. Human.

“Missed me?” Namjoon husks into your ear. 

You smirk and turn off the stove, turning around to face him. “Terribly.”

His body is clad in a black T-shirt that fits his broad figure well and a pair of baggy sweats of the same color, having discarded the warm crewneck he was wearing earlier somewhere in the universe of his book. A long silver chain twinkles in the middle of his chest in the yellow light. You caress it with your fingers and leave your palm there, on the hardness of his pecs. 

“I finished the book,” he says and you blink up at him. You’re not surprised at all. “Couldn’t put it down.”

Sleepy wrinkles have left their mark on his face from the cozy position he laid in for too long on the couch. His short sunlit hair, grown healthily from his military service, is tousled in all directions and you smooth it down for him. How did God bless you with such a beautiful man is something you’ll wonder about for the rest of your life. 

“What happened to Theo in the end?” you ask, genuinely curious about whether one of the characters you’ve grown attached to is okay after all the shit the author put him through. 

Namjoon was reading a coming-of-age book about a boy named Theo. A panorama of his childhood and adolescent life, you’ve heard all about it. Namjoon cared a lot about this story, cared a lot about the protagonist’s emotions and reactions to the reappearing storms. What made him stick with it, despite the nearly triggering themes, is the fact that Theo never let go of his optimism no matter what. It was incredibly inspiring for Namjoon. Something new. Something that he never thought could be possible. You’re proud of him for daring to read a book so reminiscent of his past.

“You’re not gonna believe it,” Namjoon says, a blush creeping along his cheeks.

You raise one of your eyebrows in question. 

“Theo got laid,” Namjoon reveals, laughing softly. “I’m so happy for him.”

You gasp and burst into giggles. “What?”

“He got some!” 

Your laughter rises in volume. “He lost his virginity and that’s the end?”

“It was a big moment for him. A triumph of some kind. Like he shed his old skin and left that broken life behind. It was amazing.” Namjoon’s eyes glint with tiny shooting stars and you melt. He always finds poetic meanings in the varieties of the character arcs. You think you just fell in love with him all over again. 

“That’s really beautiful,” you admit. It reminds you of something. Of something quite personal. “My first time with you changed my life as well.”

Namjoon’s eyebrows curl in tenderness. Dragon eyes widen and round in fervent emotion. He squeezes his arms around you, enfolding you in a hug. Kisses you warmly. Strokes your hair down your back. Your own eyes pool with little tears with the intimate knowledge that you chose the right person to unfold your raw femininity with. No one, no man other than him could have created such a safe for that to happen.

“Tell you what,” Namjoon says a bit hoarsely. “I saw us in it.”

You hum, encouraging him to continue. Crave for more of his thoughts and confidential findings. Its fire spreading through your body, as each word of his registers in your brain, always makes you feel phenomenally alive. You’re not timid to avow that it’s your addiction. Shame doesn’t know you.

“Elena was on top and he was watching her. In awe of her,” he murmurs, caressing your cheek with the tip of his thumb. “Made me think of our last time. A life changing experience of mine as well.”

You welcome the fire and suspire with sudden desire, eyes lidding. Your heart begins to thump. Namjoon studies your reaction. 

“You remember well, don’t you?” He nudges his nose against yours. “I was in awe of you just the same.” 

It’s impossible not to remember. The memory consumes your mind every waking hour. Gets you needy in ways you haven’t felt before. Namjoon had you sat on his lap among the fluffiness of your innumerable pillows and plushies. Had you do all the work as he focused on the sleekness of your freshly moisturized calves, its coconut aroma interfused with the scent of sex and the euphony of your bounces, ragged breaths and broken moans making his head all fucked up. He was loud himself, more loud than you ever recalled him being. Reading your body at the mercy of the pleasure his hard length was giving you with his bottom lip sucked between his teeth. Not once did he take his eyes off of you, not once did he help you. Just gripped your calves. Your thighs. Your tits all in his face. Only when you came hard, out of your own delightful merit, did his eyes roll back. You left his hips glazed with the evidence of your well-deserved orgasm, a porcelain statue made glossy.

A little later, during your pillow talk, he told you he’d found the idea of you using him while getting yourself off extremely hot. Made him more hard than he’d been in a while. Begged you to be even more selfish next time, adding an indistinct, ‘well, of course, if you want’ to the end of his sentence because he’s Namjoon.

“I do,” you breathe. “Touched myself to it this morning while you were still asleep.”

Namjoon groans. “God.” He kisses the side of your neck. Gets close to your ear. “You wanna do it again, hm? Wanna fuck me?” 

You might burst. His closeness, his heat, his need to ask for your consent turns you unstable. You’re choked up on your words, mind too fuzzy to say something. Turned on. Fucked up.

“You wanna show me how you touched yourself?” Namjoon continues, but you shake your head against the side of his face. 

You had touched yourself in the shower. Couldn’t say no to the impulse. Sharing that part of you for his eyes to see isn’t something you’re quite ready for. To you, it’s still something that’s yours. Something private. A courage you have yet to pluck up. You’re afraid to give him this last part of your femininity.

“Not today,” you whisper, planting a kiss on his neck. Feel him shiver. “I’m sorry. Do you mind?”

Withdrawing from your neck, Namjoon looks you dead in the eye, brows twisted in stern seriousness. “Don’t ever apologize for something like that again. Hear me when I say that.”

You squeeze his shoulder, the corners of your mouth lowering in a pout. Thankfulness grips your heart and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. 

“You know this is why we do this right?” he asks you. “Why I ask you these questions? I need to always know what you’re comfortable with so I don’t make a mistake.”

You nod. “Yes, Namjoon, I know and I’m so thankful.”

“Good. I’ll never push you to do anything you don’t want. Don’t forget that, okay?”

“Okay, I won’t.” 

“That’s my girl. 

You grab him by the back of his neck and engulf him in a hug. Luckiest girl in the world? That you are. The fact that you’re his is still something you can’t wrap your head around.

“We can stop. We don’t even have to do anything tonight—”

“No, Namjoon.” You withdraw. “Look.” Wrapping your hand around his wrist, you slip his hand beneath the confines of your panties. 

His breath shakes when he reaches your soaked folds. He traces your hole with his middle finger and your hips follow his movement, the pleasure so faint but so good that you flutter your eyes closed.

“Fuck, baby.” 

“Yeah, I need you. Need more,” you breathe out. “Can’t leave me like this, can you?”

Namjoon hums. “No, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of this pussy.” 

He kisses you. Massages his tongue against yours. You buck your hips into his hand and Namjoon hears your body language. Takes his fingers up and rubs your swollen clit from side to side, quickening his pace as he swallows your moans down his throat. Gets angry at your tight leggings hindering him in giving you more, so he gets on his knees and swiftly pulls them down along with your underwear. 

“Sit on the counter.”

You comply right away. Namjoon takes your feet in his hands and gently removes your slippers, removing your garments fully so they don’t pool around your ankles. He needs your legs spread and he needs them spread wide for what he’s about to do to you. 

Torso long enough to reach you, he remains on his knees. Runs his hands up the back of your thighs to guide you into the position he wants you in. “Lock your arms around the back of your knees. Don’t let go.”

You do as he says, biting your lips in nervousness. Intertwine your hands together. Prepare yourself to die. 

Namjoon studies your dewy pussy, index and middle finger mimicking the letter V as he slides them up and down your folds, squeezing just right to hear you mewling. Your knees being so close together makes her look a lot more pillowy and you hear Namjoon breathe hard, absolutely hypnotized by the beauty of your flesh. 

“Fuck, baby, you’re dripping down my hand.” He withdraws his fingers to show you how your slick trickles down the lines on his palm, changing the course of his life once and for all. 

Your clit throbs, breath matching his. “Please, Namjoon.”

He curses inaudibly. Brings his fingers back down to your folds, squeezes your lips and your clit together. Hisses at the sweet whimpery sounds spilling out of your mouth. Presses tighter so you whine needily for him. Takes you into his mouth when he accomplished what he wanted, tonguing your clit in slow agonizing circles that has you buckling your hips again. Puts his hands on your thighs to keep you down, flicking fast to absolutely abuse the fuck of you. Dragon eyes zeroing on yours, he gives you the hypnosis that your pussy did to him as he sucks on your bundle of nerves. You can’t even scream. Can’t breathe. The pleasure overwhelms you wholly and straps you down. There’s nothing you can do but take it. 

You come hard on his tongue. Namjoon laps it all up gladly. And when he’s finished, he stands up and slips those two digits that ruined you into your hole. Doesn’t move them. Lets you adjust instead.

“One more,” he mutters. “Please.”

You nod.

“Use your words or we’re stopping.”

You groan and close your eyes, your thighs visibly shaking in your iron grip from your orgasm. “Yes, Namjoon, one more. I’ll come for you.”

Namjoon places a wet kiss on your thigh to praise you, and to thank you as well. Begins to move his fingers promptly, but can’t seem to get enough of your skin. Proceeds to make it shiny with his liquid love, sucking it to bruise you. To remember this moment a little more fondly in the morning. 

Creating a trail up to the back of your knee, his digits pick up the speed. The pool of slick you left in his palm sloshes with each rapid thrust of his hand. He looks back at you and sees you lost in the pleasure, eyes lidded and unfocused. “Look at me.” 

You do, weakly.

“Just a little bit more and I’ll fuck you, all right?”

You’re about to nod, but decide against it. “Mhm, yes, Namjoon, fuck.” 

He smiles down at you. Your relief inches closer. “I’m so proud of you for speaking up today. For letting me know.” 

You could cry right now. Because of his fingers making you feel so good. Because of his kindness making you feel so safe. It all closes in on you and you whimper. 

Abruptly, Namjoon unravels your grip on your knees and kisses you, tongue slipping in. You come all over his hand, without meaning to, and he doesn’t stop. On the contrary, Namjoon fucks you harder. Takes all four of his fingers and strums your clit, prolonging your orgasm, swallowing down all of your moans. 

“Come on.”

Namjoon helps you down. If it weren’t for his arms holding you steady, you would’ve collapsed on the floor. Your legs shake, muscles taut and tense. 

“I got you.”

Sat on the floor with his joggers and boxers pulled beneath his crotch, he pulls you down on his lap. A wisp of precum adorns his tip and you wrap your hand around it, collecting it with your thumb. Watch him as you swirl your tongue around the digit before sucking on it, letting go with an obscene pop. Namjoon licks his lips, hands clasping your hips hard enough to bruise you. Twitches in your other hand.

“Don’t fucking do that to me, baby.” 

You laugh almost inaudibly, drunk on him. “Are you gonna come in me?” 

He replaces your hand, holding his length at the base for you to sink down. And you do, gasping softly at his thickness. Your dewiness helps it to be a smooth ride.

“Gonna pump you full. Leave you dripping,” he promises, voice restrained. “Gonna fuck you so good you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.” 

One thing about Namjoon, he’s a man of his word. 

Seated perfectly on him, he waits for you to adjust. Alleviates the tremble of your thighs with his palms, massaging the muscles. Takes off your shirt and flings it across the kitchen. Gropes your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers. You start to grind on him, throwing your head back. He latches onto your nipple and flicks the nub with his tongue. You lose your mind, leaking down his balls. 

“Ready?” he asks against the fullness of your breast. 

“Yeah, fuck me, Joon.” 

He thrusts into you once to watch you fall apart. Locks your arms behind your back. Grabs your forearms for his use.

“You forgot something.”

He thrusts again, harder this time.

“What?” you breathe out, meekly. 

“What word do you use when you want to ask for something?”

He watches you as you work it out in your brain. Fucks into you three more times, equally hard, to disrupt you. 

“Fuck, sorry. Please, Joon, please.”

He grinds, hips rotating in circles. 

“Uh-huh, that’s right. Now use it.” 

Namjoon envelops your tit in his mouth, swirling his tongue around your areola. Sucking. Keeping up the agonizing pace. Groaning when you clench down on him. 

“Please, hmph, fuck me.”

Your breast bounces back when he lets go, biting his lip. “Knew you could do it,” he coos. “Smart fucking girl.” 

He begins to fuck you properly. Thrusting up and down as he holds you steady, keeping his eyes locked on yours. As he takes control of your squirming, leaving his fingerprints on your forearms and waist. You’re breathless, whimpering, on the verge of sobbing. So turned on and needy for him that the emotions brim in you, threatening to spill over. 

“Aren’t you?” Namjoon continues. “Aren’t you a smart girl?” 

You nod, knowing exactly what he wants to hear. “I’m a smart girl.” 

He spanks your ass to reward you and you arch your back. Tits all in his face. He’s mesmerized watching them bounce and nearly slap against each other, nubs hard and pointed. He licks them up, flicking them with his tongue. You round your shoulders a little in pleasure, his strong grip not letting you fold like your body wants. 

“That’s right. So smart and good for me. So fucking wet. Making me lose my mind.”

Namjoon kisses you. Inhales you. Withdraws only for a mere second before he’s back, tongue in, toying with you the way you like it. You feel your relief calling your name.

“Namjoon, I’m so fucking close. I’m so close. I’m gonna come,” you whine, forehead pressed against his, face twisted in ecstasy.

Namjoon stops out of the blue and slips out of you. You whine loudly, but before you know it, he carries you to the couch and lays you down on it. Takes off all of his clothes until only his silver chain remains, shining bright in the dim light. He spreads your legs, one limb over the backrest, the other around his thigh. Grips his length and tugs at it a few times, the feeling of your wetness making him slippery pulling moan after moan out of him. 

He enters you again and resumes his fast pace, holding your calf in his hand. “Smart girls come on the couch, not on the floor like whores. You got that?” 

You nod almost too eagerly, fucked out beyond measure. “Yes, Joon, please make me come. Please, come here.” 

Namjoon leans towards you, propping his elbows by your head, cradling you. “I’m here. I’m gonna make you come.” 

From this angle, he fucks you more deeply than before, his tip reaching your cervix. You roll your eyes back, but bring them right back to his face when his chain taps you on the chin. You find it so hot that you grind your hips against his, meeting his thrusts, encouraging him to fuck you harder. The chain meets you in erratic staccatos and you scratch your nails down his bare back, the sword-like pendant hurting you in a way that you like. 

Namjoon notices. Slows down his movements. Pinches the chain from the back of his neck. Prompts you to lift your head and slides it over, letting it rest in the middle of your breasts. Then fucks you back into the couch.  

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips. “Gonna breed you. Hm. You want that, don’t you?”

The cord tightens in your lower belly. The bulge of where his tip is hitting you nudges him in his stomach and he looks down. Curses. 

“Look.” 

You follow his eyes and moan. “Namjoon, Namjoon, please come in me. I’m so close. Wanna feel you. Please.” 

He grunts, nodding his head. Licks his fingertips and presses them against your clit. Pleasures you in fast and swift jerks until you’re knocking your head back. Only when he grabs your jaw and kisses you does the cord snap, his lips being your ultimate undoing. 

Namjoon presses you down with his body, keeps you calm and collected. Kisses you all through it, your jaw, your neck, your cheeks. Then his thrusts turn sloppy and his cock twitches in you. He gives you one final hard thrusts and fills you up, groaning against your mouth.

You’re smoothing down the sting of your scratches on his back when he pulls out of you and his cum drips out of you. You wish you could see what he sees, hand on his mouth, careful to catch his drool. You push out more for him and he curses, fondling your pussy with his thumb before he pumps it back in. 

He comes back to you and kisses you. Fixes your hair. Caresses your cheek. Helps you stand on your feet as he leads you into the shower. Washes every inch of your body, heedful of the bruises he left on the back of your thigh. Lathers your hair in your favorite shampoo. Wraps you in a towel. Wanted to moisturize your body, but you told him off, knowing both of you would get horny again. You let him brush your hair, though, placing a comb in his hand. He’s gentle as he undoes the knots, then he blowdries your hair. 

And you do the same for him.

Once the pillow touches your cheeks, you’re both out like a light. 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

STORY | knj

pairing: soft dom!namjoon x reader

genre: smut

word count: 7.8k

summary: yours and namjoon’s story is a bit more perverted than traditional.

warnings: serious big dick namjoon, rough touches, hair pulling, use of pet names and titles, dom/sub dynamics, horny namjoon can't help but palm himself:(, desperation, masturbation, spanking, praising, tit slapping, nipple play, teasing, oc and namjoon not being comfortable with certain practices, playful orgasm denial, oral sex (m. and f. receiving), rimming && ass play :3, cum eating yum yum, tit fucking, orgasm countdown fuck

note: smut is so fucking difficult to write but i loved every second of it. i love writing about namjoon, he just makes me feel so safe. this is purely my fantasy with him and i'll probably dream about this for a long, long time. please, take your time reading this as it's pretty long. i hope you enjoy it and that it makes you dream like it made me dream. as always, let me know what you think in the comments, like the post and if you want to—reblog, but i won't pressure you angels <3. love you guys so much, thank you for all the love. kisses!

side note: i miss namjoon and i wish he were here. all i can do is watch his lives and pretend he never left for the military.

Namjoon makes himself comfortable on the wooden chair before you.

The scene is set. Like a mermaid bathing in the sun, you rest your elbows on the cold rim of the ivory bathtub. Small surges of violet-tinted water, perfumed with your scent, blanket your body in a thin layer of glittery sheen. They kiss the tiger stripes along the curve of your bottom as it rolls over, passing by the dip in the small of your waist, breathing in your patchouli fragrance in greeting. The bath bomb, cornered by your knees, sizzles and spins, the width of the tub allowing your form to float like a little fish in the open sea as copiously as you please.

A gift from your loving boyfriend. Both the clawfoot, and the bath bomb.

The scene expands. Your Eric slouches in his seat, balancing his greatest and most stellar possession on top of his lap with one hand while he runs the other through his silver mane. He fits perfectly in the picturesqueness of the background. Soft orange and chocolate tiles zig zag behind his back, transposing him momentarily into a sunlit illustration, where he rests in the shade of a palm tree on a faraway beach. Reads the book to pass the time as he waits for you to emerge from the waters. Sets it down on his lap as soon as his gaze catches yours. Periwinkle clams for a bra, panties thin and translucent from the oncoming waves, you rest your front on the sand. He smiles down at you and you know for a fact you won’t be able to get on your feet. Might have to learn how to walk, too.

You keep this picture in your heart. Mentally, you rip out the page. Fold it and tuck it somewhere within you to keep it safe.

Legs outstretched by the sides of the tub, clad in slacks in the muted color of a persimmon, it’s almost as though you’re propped on his lap. Sporting a simple white button-down, sleeves rolled, you’re close enough to touch the material if you so much as wished so. From his angle, Namjoon sees nothing but the roundness of your eyes through the brownish rims of his glasses, hair unkempt in their dampness as the short paper thin layers frame your flushed face in such a celestial way. If he were to lean over, it’d be a different kind of book.

The one in the clasp of his hand isn’t a tale as old as time.

It’s one of your favorites. An existential story that ridicules the traditional. A transfusion of liveness to a certain forgotten room of your heart. The unlit one while the others brim with sunlight, with the golden sepia projection of the contents of the fairytales you love so much made into stop motion. A coloring book of some sort, hues fitting into the lines by your helping hand—the attention of your eyes. 

Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. The book that sweeps away all those cobwebs in that chamber. Makes it less lonely.

It’s all you had talked about on your dates when you and Namjoon first started dating, having been reading it at the time. You had confided in him that the writer was the only person who understood you without ever learning your name, without familiarizing himself with the subtleties of your calamitous life.

No one has ever shared something so vulnerable with him, especially not on the first date. Not that he’d gone on many, but the few that fell into his grasp were hell to get through. Insufferable, to say the least. Absolutely superficial.

He went home in the rain thinking of you. Not for boyish reasons. But for reasons of literary character, of melancholy nature that squeezed his long-unexpressed heart in perpetuating intervals too consistent for his liking. Filled it with a nectar bubbling with a newly blooming love for books, with a sudden longing to be found within the words. His body decided for him that it was yours. Yours to teach again how to read between the lines.

The scene breaks out of the margins on the page.

“Is the water warm enough?”

The idea constructed by his own geniality, it’s by his will that you’re basking in your bare femininity before his eyes. Idleness lingered in the living room between the pair of you, the flimsy curtain by your balcony lifting and falling in a little dance as the cold air perfused the place with the drowsiness of winter. Pulling his eyes away from the TV to sink a soft kiss into your hair, Namjoon muttered into your ear: “How about I draw you a bath and read to you for a little bit?”

You said nothing. The click of your phone turning off and your hasty movements to untangle yourself from the warmth of his limbs answered him for you. Leaving your clothes as a trail for him to follow, you gave him a glimpse of your ass, arched and pointed in the draft before you ran away. Before he scolded you with his index finger like a father, raising to his feet to close the balcony door.

In two seconds he joined you in the bathroom. Leaned against the doorframe as you circled a pink roll-on lip oil you’ve been obsessed with lately around the perimeters of your lips. The one that makes them look bigger, juicier. That makes them more fun to kiss and toy with. The one that leaves his length sticky once playtime is over. You seem to cast aside little trinkets of yourself for him to collect everywhere you go.

Tits pushed towards each other while you slightly bent over the vanity sink, tapping the excess into the fullness of your mouth, Namjoon palmed himself. The tiredness from work earlier weakened his self-control to the point of unrestrained indulgence. And the plumpness of your ass just encouraged it.

You fluffed your hair and Namjoon ran the bath. Disappeared into the kitchen for a moment to retrieve the purple bath bomb from the plastic bag on the counter, one that he got from the convenience store for you. Dragon fruit and hibiscus. Thought of the twinkle that would sparkle beneath your lashes upon seeing it. Wasn’t disappointed when you exceeded his expectations.

Having seen it in the mirror, almost microscopic and round in his big palm, you turned on your heel and burst into giddiness as he took off the plastic packaging with his teeth. You pouted in gratefulness when he showed it to you. 

“You planned this, didn’t you?”

You hugged him, locking your hands behind the nape of his neck. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, and he told you so. A bit hoarsely, though.

Namjoon struggled not to moan. Groaned a little when he felt the curvature of your belly against his hardness and the pointed nubs of your tits beneath his pecs. Managed to conceal it, thankfully, by clearing his throat and by allowing an authentic grin to bloom on his dimpled face at your joy. Thanked the heavens for all the bath bombs in the world.

He placed it in your much smaller palm for you to plop it into the increasing water. Watched your eyes widen at the gilded glitter spreading around. Spurred you to get in. Held your hand as you lifted one limb, then the other. Knelt by you as you engulfed yourself in the violet tinge, your hair swirling around you, silky and ethereal, coming to a stop at the top of your head to fix a splendid crown for such a princess like yourself.

Namjoon turned off the tap while you rested your back against the curved wall of the tub. You swooshed your hands around, gathering the glitter into the fine lines of your palms. Looked up at him in elation, the twinkle doing its thing in the glossiness of your eyes, and smiled. Namjoon smiled back at you. His hand reached out to your chest in a fervent need to touch you. The glitter adorned your chest with its perfect speckles and they resurfaced when you arched your back in response. Clung to his palm in the middle of your tits, held on tighter as he took a detour to your chin by brushing across your sensitive nipple to hear your little mewls because if he made a sound, then you must, too. Because if he was horny, he must get you on the same page as well. Fairness is very important to Namjoon.

He squeezed your breast hard. Pinched your nipple between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger in broken intervals, similar to little dashed lines of Morse code. You imagined he was telling you something through that secret language as you closed your eyes during an intense wave of pleasure coursing down your body, and perhaps he truly did because he pulled your legs apart harshly when you pressed them together. Punished you by lightly slapping your tit—the same one he abused with those firm touches—the force splashing you in the face with violet pearls. All as if you disobeyed the command he transmitted wordlessly.

The command possibly being: Only I will give you the release you need when I decide it’s time.

You bit your bottom lip to suppress the neediness erupting in you. Namjoon wrapped his hand around your throat and you dragged his rolled sleeve further up his arm, so it wouldn’t have gotten soaked in the water. He smeared your lip oil just because he wanted—just because he could, scattering the rosy tint around your mouth messily. He took advantage of the aftermath of his punishment and collected those tender beads, now translucent upon your carmine skin. Not with the thumb as you expected him to, but using the pillows of his lips, he kissed the round bulb on your cheek. It melted on the puffy surface when he withdrew. He looked you in the eye for a mere beat of time before he lowered to your other cheek to collect another trinket. None of the corners of your mouth were overlooked, not even the button of your nose. He peppered those kisses to erase the harshness of his selfishness, supporting your lifted chin with his long thumb beneath it, still sticky from the consistency of the lip oil, apologizing, smoothing down his sternness until you giggled.

Once he cleaned you, Namjoon returned the digit to your smudged mouth, delicious in his sight due to the essence of sloppiness that gets his length even harder in his pants. He presses the pad against it, already craving your tongue. You kissed it, a thank you for his softness, before you granted him the access. Tongue toying with the tip, you said hello in the mother language of the love stored in your bodies for each other. Wrapped both of your hands around his wrist. Didn’t break eye contact. Smiled, teeth showing happily, when he bit his lip, but soon got distracted by a small movement on his groin area out of your view.

You peeled your back off of the tub to curiously take a peek, but Namjoon pushed you back to your place. All while his thumb remained sucked by your mouth. You frowned at him, dismayed by his recurring roughness that you weren’t used to.

Namjoon tapped your cheek twice with his fingers to let you know it was enough and rose to his feet.

“Joon, what’s going on? Why are you so rough with me?” you asked, voice tender, the question shooting arrows into the wideness of his back.

Stopping in the doorway, he hung his head, fingers coming to intertwine with the short hair above his neck. “I’m sorry, baby. Let me get the book.”

A moment later, he returned with the stellar possession in one hand and a wooden chair in the other. He slumped against it, fingers finding the first chapter unwittingly.

You swam forward as if to the shore, propping your elbows on the rim to be closer to him.

“Is the water warm enough?”

You nod, your teeth picking at the excess skin on your lips. Namjoon notices and, as if registering the reason why you put on the lip oil in the first place, he leans towards you and rubs away the smudginess he caused. As if the walk into your dining room sobered him enough from the dark wine of his lust that he now regretted his actions.

“You really scared me when you were rough,” you said calmly, unafraid to uncover your feelings, knowing you’ll be caught now that you’ve jumped head-first into the hungry sea of honesty.

He apologizes again. Repeats it in the aphonic form of a deep chaste kiss.

“Won’t do it again,” he promises. “Unless you ask me to.”

Your lips form a smile, but it quivers into a straight line just as quickly as it appeared. The yet unknown cause behind his untypical behavior troubles you.

“Did something happen today at work?”

Namjoon sighs. “No, I’m just tired.”

“Just tired or tired of your job?” you try, tilting your head to the side, remembering this isn’t the first time quiet broodiness clutched his figure when the clock struck five.

“Both.” He kneads the heel of his palm against his eye. 

Not expecting his honesty, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It propels you to investigate further. Gives you the green light. Namjoon usually keeps to himself when it comes to work-related storms, holding respect that reaches the bottom of his heart for those above him and for his peers as well.

“Did someone make you upset?” you ask, paving your way in this inquiry to the realm of understanding so you can help him. At least in a small way.

He drops his hand, gazes up the ceiling to stare at a fixed point. Perhaps he’s looking for words, perhaps he’s avoiding the question altogether. The regret of your prying swallows you. You’re afraid you’ve overstepped a boundary. 

You reach out your arm, wrapping wet fingers around his wrist on his lap. The gesture says, ‘you don’t have to tell me but I’m here,’ and you squeeze the limb to emphasize that. As if he heard you, he looks down at you. His eyes that are usually narrowed into slits now round in tenderness. The swallowing lets go, the lump that threatened to obstruct your throat disappears.

“It’s Friday, Joonie, and you can forget about your job for a little while. It’ll get better,” you say, caressing his soft skin.

To your another surprise, Namjoon nods. Slips his fingers into the hollowness between yours, squeezing back, saying, ‘I hear you.’ Your heart jumps with gladness that you haven’t made a mistake, that instead your reassurement made a difference.

To lighten up the atmosphere, you begin to joke around.

“Should I beat them up?” You raise your brow in mischief, a goofy smile coating your face in lightheartedness.

A grin cracks on his face. “Don’t get your hands dirty for me, baby.”

You scoff, half-seriously and half-unseriously shaking your head at his eagerness to please but never letting himself be pleased. “But I want to. I’ll do it for you.”

Namjoon shakes his head as well. Leans over to you. Cradles your head in his hands and kisses you. Picks the hair plastered on your face and puts it away. You forget all of your jokes for a moment, breathless. Your neediness nudges you in your sensitive parts, reminding you of its lingering presence. 

“Come on, Joonie,” you coo, prolonging the vowels, the best you could come up with considering his allure, “I’ll fight them,” you start to construct your imaginary plan, the dimples adorning his face making it a bit harder for you to get the words out, “then, they’ll be scared of me and they won’t bother you again. Because if they do, I’ll smash their fucking teeth in. And then… then, you’ll get your peace for good. Easy.”

Namjoon listens with his features bathed in enamoredness, seemingly lost in a deep thought. A twinkle, a twin to yours, glistens in his eyes. Dimples out provoking you, he softly smiles at you. Coyly. He’s unaccustomed to being the one fought for. He’s always been the one who fights. The one who settles, resolves, makes things right. He’s never been the person these things are done for by another person. It makes his heart pulsate in a strange new rhythm. 

He stretches out his hands and runs his fingers through your hair. Begins to plait an intricate braid down your back, keeping you caged in the confines of his arms. Safe. Protected. His warrior princess.

“There’s something else you can do for me,” he mumbles, finished with your braid. Now your hair is away from your face, just like he needs it for what he’s about to do.

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow in question, your smirk growing on the side of your face. “Like what?”

“I’m so hard for you, baby,” he whispers into your ear, shoulders hunched, lips tracing the edge of your earlobe. A secret just between the two of you. “My body’s confused. I need a release.”

Even though you saw it coming, even though you saw it a hundred times before, you can’t help but gasp at his desperation, bare and open before you. It’s a new experience each time. Thrilling and titillating, the vividness and ferocity of his sexuality. It causes a flock of playful butterflies to buzz you with electricity in your tummy and a shiver to run down your spine. You feel your own neediness making itself known again and you squeeze your thighs together. 

This is the Namjoon you know. Strong in his softness. Mellow. Intense. The Namjoon who showed you plain roughness was a stranger to you, one you could take the time to get to know, because now you understand that the incentive to act like he did was his frustration from work. You can’t really blame the natural inclination of his body—his body that is yours to love in all shapes or forms.

You perceive he needs to let out some steam—he said so himself. Proud of him for voicing it out, a decision to be his helper already makes a way to your heart. You no longer feel slivers of consternation slithering in your veins. Knowing the cause, knowing it’s still your Namjoon helps you submit to the call of his needs. If a dab of roughness is what entails the sand-speckled footpath to the seaside of his well-being, you’ll take it. Welcome it, even. Within the realm of your established boundaries, that is. 

“Can I see?”

The book falls to the floor with a thud. Namjoon stands up. 

Ever so eager. Responding to his body language out of pure instinct, you hum and lift yourself to your knees. The outline of his engorged length, tight in his pants, greets you and you will your brain not to tell your fingers to rub your swollen clit. To busy your hands, you grip the rim until white brushes along your knuckles.

Emerging from the water, it left you smothered in a luster of wet silkiness. Namjoon’s eyes rake over your bare femininity. Heavenly, pure, seraphic. Groans a little loud. Doesn’t know whether to touch you first or his painfully hard and heavy member. You move your body to the side wall of the tub and he follows you, hand opting for his girth to relieve himself a little bit. 

You sit prettily on your folded legs and lean over, pulling his wrist away. You plant a dewy kiss to the middle of his clothed length and look up at him, just at the right time to catch him whimpering. Your clit pulses again and you feel like crying, needing release as much as he does. He doesn’t make it easy for you, making sounds like that.

“What does my baby girl need me to do?” you ask, stroking his member while stifling your giggles at the title that fits him so well. 

“Baby girl?” He frowns down at you. 

It’s usually what he calls you, hence why his confusion. And you call him by an entirely different title, too.

A giggle does escape your mouth after all. You squeeze at his tip, drawing those delicious whimpers out of him again.

“Only needy little baby girls make sounds like that. You are needy, aren’t you?” You lick that sensitive part, palming his balls. 

Namjoon whines. 

The shift of dynamics, the change of titles ever so dizzying to the mind. He doesn’t even have the strength to correct you. 

He grips the back of your head and moves you away from his cock. Then the realization he’s being rough again wafts over him and he softens his hold, fallen stray hairs coming to rest at your temples. Namjoon tucks them behind your ear. Taps you on the cheek once.

“Get to sucking off your baby girl,” he rasps. 

You smile. Find it immensely attractive that he’s embracing the pet name while still being dominant. A masculinity in its true form.

“You can be rough with me if you want to,” you say, wanting to make that clear. “I think I can handle it.”

Namjoon traces the shell of your ear with his thumb, pondering.

“Just don’t hit me, okay?” 

He says your name sternly, as if you offended him. “I would never deliberately hurt you. How can you think that?” 

“No, I meant—” You lick your lips. “Don’t slap my boobs or anything. You can spank me, I like that. But don’t be as rough with me as you were. Can we take it slow? Is that okay?”

He stares at you for a moment.  

“Do you trust me?”

You nod, turning your head to press a kiss into his palm. “Yes, I trust you.”

“I’ll teach you, then. We’ll take it slow,” he says, fingers stroking the side of your cheek, where a small amount of fluff creates a path for him to lay down his silent love on. “It was a mistake on my part for not preparing you for it, and for that I’m sorry. But I’ll teach you. Show you how good it is.” He pauses. “Until you beg me for it.”

Your throat dries up. The pulsing in your cunt unbearable. 

“Fuck, Namjoon. Save the talk or I’ll come on the spot.” 

“The talk is important,” he reprimands you. “Whether you come or not without my permission is your problem.” 

“Shit,” you whimper, gripping his hand on your cheek. You tighten your hold as if to brattily change his mind on having this kind of control over your orgasm because you need to come as soon as possible. And not just once. You’re sure your dewiness is leaking into the water. 

“No bad words or I’ll fuck your filthy mouth.” 

You gasp. So unused to this side of him. But it turns you on, now that you feel safe. Turns you unstable.

“Say you’re sorry.”

You’re tumbling out the words before he’s even finished with his sentence. “I’m so sorry.”

He beams at your immediate submission, purring at the quintessence of your compliance. Wants more. “Who are you apologizing to?” 

You pause. His usual title almost slips off of your tongue. But since this is new and you’re both experiencing a new dynamic that causes you to feel so playful, that guides you ever so gently and carefully into the kingdom of subspace, you opt for the pet name that suits him well. “To my baby girl,” you say, laughing softly. “I’m so sorry, baby girl.” 

He laughs as well, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. You’re giddy that you’re allowed to be wild, your inner child healing and quivering within you. You overflow with the desire to kiss him.

“What for?”

He wants you to say the full sentence. You take a deep breath. 

“Baby girl, I’m so sorry for having a filthy mouth and saying bad words.”

“Hm, do you regret it?” 

You almost curse again. “Yes, I do. I’m sorry for being bad.”

“Good. Get to work, then,” he says. “Make that mouth useful.”

Fuck.

“Kiss me first, please. Make it better,” you beg, fluttering your eyelashes at him. 

Namjoon moans and you bite your lip. Bends and sucks it between his, deepening the kiss as he opens your jaw and slips his tongue inside. Massages the muscle against yours. Makes those sounds again. Palms his cock. Withdraws with a pop. 

You mewl in satisfaction. That kiss alone ruined you. 

“Good girls get kisses.” Hand under your chin, he squishes your cheeks. “You’ve been exceptionally good. I’m gonna destroy you.” 

He kisses you again with the same intensity but briefly, inhaling your skin. No tongue this time. 

Cheeks awash with rosiness, you hastily unbuckle his belt. Not to cut time and get to his promise faster—on the contrary, you’re dying to pleasure him. He doesn’t help you like he normally does; he merely watches you as you pull down the cotton material of his slacks along with his boxers down his muscular thighs. Only when you wrap your lips around his cock from the side does he throw his head back. Thrusts his hips. 

He’s rock hard. The weight of him makes you absolutely fucked out.

Namjoon likes you there so he keeps you still—there in the middle of his girth. You moan, producing as much saliva as you can to gratify him while he uses your mouth, alternating between keeping those pillows firm and soft. When he gets you to his tip, he expects you to swallow him, but you merely move your head from side to side rapidly, flicking your tongue. Namjoon groans lowly, a string of curse words spilling from his throat. His precum drops onto your chin and you suck in a breath, horny beyond your mind.

You swipe your index finger to collect it. Check if he’s watching before you plunge the digit into your mouth. Roll your eyes back as the tanginess overwhelms your senses. Namjoon hisses. Grabs your braid as if it were a ponytail. Kisses you, aching to be one with you. You feel the vibrations of his fervid mania in unity with him like this and it echoes down your body once he pulls away. 

“Take it in your mouth.” 

Namjoon holds it at the base for you and you find the long vein that you favor so much. Pepper kisses along the length of it, feeling it throb in tandem with your clit. Straightening your spine, you bite your lip. Give him an utter look of adoration before you swipe your tongue along the slit. Humming in delight, you slip him into your mouth. Your cheeks hollow and you begin to bob your head, fingers following your movement, bumping into his fist. Tears pool in your eyes when you dare to inch closer to his hand and even though you gag, you try your hardest to keep him nice and tucked in your warm throat. You sputter and cough, swallowing around him, because you deem he deserves it, knowing how much he loves it when your flesh contracts around him like that, and Namjoon groans deeply. It fills you with a dose of satisfaction almost akin to an orgasm, the lack of oxygen in your brain heightening the experience so much that your head spins. 

“Such a good girl,” he whispers. “Breathe, baby.”

He slips out of your mouth. Pats you on your head before he sinks his fingers into your hair, gripping at the roots. Ascertains you pay attention to him. 

“Don’t do that again,” he says, softly. “You need to breathe. Take a deep breath with me.”

You’re still on your knees and he’s merely looking down at you. You fold your hands on your lap. Your mind is so empty that you’re not sure how you feel right now, having been entirely focused on his pleasure. 

Namjoon inhales deeply with his nose and you do the same.

Inhale, exhale. 

Fondly, he caresses you on your cheek.

“I just wanted to make you feel good,” you explain yourself, thinking that you should.

“I know, baby, and you did. It’s okay, I’m not mad at you.” He smiles at you. “You hear me? I’m not mad at you.”

You nod your head yes. Pout. 

“You feeling okay? Take a deep breath for me again.” 

You do as he says, your senses returning to you like a warm spring wind. 

“Better now?”

You nod again.

“Words.”

You wet your lips with your tongue. “Yes, I feel better now.”

“Good. Do you still wanna continue?”

“Yes, Namjoon. I wanna make you come.” 

Almost like you flipped a switch, his eyes darken. 

“Hands behind your back,” he rasps. 

You oblige, crisscrossing your wrists below the dimples on your lower back.

“‘Atta girl. Back to work, come on.” 

It’s much harder to do so without your hands, especially in the position you’re in. You hesitate.

“I don’t know if I can,” you admit. 

He tuts in pity. “Should I use you then?”

You roll your eyes back, the idea intoxicating your body. You feel woozy. 

“Yes, please.” 

“Focus on your breathing, okay?” 

“Yes, Namjoon.”

Humming, Namjoon grabs your hair gently and sinks your mouth down on his cock, moves you up and down slowly. You focus on not just sucking in your cheeks but also on breathing through your nose like he told you, although you can’t help but moan around him. It turns you on how he manhandles you to his liking so delicately. You swirl your tongue around his tip once he wants you there and you let out a series of whines and whimpers. He keeps you there for a little longer, moaning after you, the sounds creating a paradisiacal symphony. You twist your head in half circles as you continue sucking him, slobbering all over him, using your tongue to flick beneath the mushroom. 

“So good, baby. Yes, fuck.” Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut. “You’re gonna make me come.” 

You pull away, but a string of saliva still connects you to him. 

He blinks at you. “You want a spanking?” 

You run the tip of your tongue along the top of your lip, giving him the eyes. Cock your eyebrow at him. Namjoon draws a sharp breath in. 

He leans over. One hand tugs at your braid firmly to arch your back over the edge of the tub. The other smacks you sharply on your ass cheek, smoothing over the sting. You moan, nipples rubbing over the cold surface, curse words dying on your tongue. Namjoon grips the flesh, spanks you again. Skims his fingers over your exposed heat. Repeats it on the other cheek, twice in a row. You wiggle your hips, needing to feel more, needing him to touch you right there between your legs. You cry out into his ear.

Letting go of your braid, Namjoon kisses you beneath your jaw. Slides his tongue along the sensitive spot, sucking it between his lips. A secret message that he hears you, that he’ll fuck your needy cunt soon.

“Think you’ll be a good girl for now?” 

Furrowing your eyebrows, you nod a few times. Not a single rational thought passes through your brain. 

Namjoon straightens. Pulls down his foreskin for you. “Spit on it.” 

You watch as your liquid love trickles down and lands on his tip. He hums and surprises you by wrapping your hands around his girth, spreading down the lubrication with you. You feel the ridges and the thick vein in a new, vehement way and even though you’re not the one pleasured, you moan. The simple up and down movement grows in rapidness that your body follows, emulating the effort, making it seem like you’re bouncing on a dick. Your ass splashes the water around, creating tender waves full of love, inherited from your still leaking dewiness. 

His hands are so warm enclasped around yours, pressed tight. Not once unclenching.

You start blabbering. 

“You’re so big. I can’t even wrap my hand around you.” You make sure to look him in the eyes as you say it. “So big in my mouth, too. Could barely fit you.” 

Your words set those twilit embers in his eyes on fire. His breathing quickens. He’s close again and you’re stunned, once more, by the vividness of his sexuality. Your hands go limp in his grasp.

“Nuh-uh, keep up the pace,” he husks. “Thought I was your little baby girl?” 

You shake your head, willing your hands to gain strength again, but it has no source to draw from. “Not anymore.”

Namjoon chuckles, darkly. Notices your movements fluctuating, arms shaking. “Tired?”

You nod and he unclasps his hands. You twist your wrists in circles to alleviate them from a cramp. 

Then, you get an idea.

Sitting back on your heels, you arch your back. Tip your chin down and spit on your chest, the essence flowing down the pathway between your breasts. You do it again, though this time you spread it on your skin. 

“Fuck, baby,” Namjoon mumbles. Unbuttons his shirt. You squeeze your nipples with both hands as your eyes flick to his, then down to his exposed chest. “How are you gonna address me, huh? What’s my name?”

He forcefully tugs the fabric off of his arms, tossing it on the floor. His body—with its vulgar beauty, broadness and definition—takes your breath away. You don’t let it show, or perhaps you pretend that you don’t because you allow your hand to travel down your stomach. Namjoon imitates you, running his fingers down the chiseled muscles that make you drool. He stops at the hair adorning his pelvis. You don’t.

You rub circles on your clit instead.

“Daddy,” you cry out in pleasure, announcing his title—his rightful, most fitting title. Face contorting at the brisk, blooming flashes of sensuality rising up your form.

His body tenses. It’s like he’s stopping himself from reaching for you, pulling you out of the bathtub and spanking you until your bottom resembles the water. Or tugging at his length until he paints you white with his cum. 

You make it easy for him. 

Lifting your body, you step over the edge of the bathtub. Kneel at his feet on the fluffy black mat. Far enough for him to see purple liquid pearls make their way down to your cunt. Far enough for him to see how you resume those circles on your bundle of nerves, fingers reaching to your hole for lubrication. You roll your hips into your hand, arm propped behind you.

“What’s this show?” Namjoon rasps, his cock twitching. “I don’t remember giving you permission to touch yourself. You wanna end up with zero orgasms?”

You pause. 

“That’s what I thought,” he says. “I believe you have unfinished work to do.” 

You smile mischievously. “You want it bad, don’t you?” 

Namjoon nods. Holds out his hand. “Come to Daddy.”

Exuberantly, you leap into his arms. Namjoon throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing and walks into your shared bedroom. Sets you down on your bed, spreading your legs, and he crouches between them, reaching into his bedside table for the tool that he wants. 

The aroma of strawberries lovingly boops you on the nose. Namjoon squirts a good amount of lubrication on your chest, paying special attention to the pathway in the middle of your breasts. He massages it in, incorporates your sensitive nipples in the preparation, coaxing whimper after whimper out of you by squeezing them and rolling them between his long fingers.

“I’m gonna make a mess,” you say, grinding your hips against nothing.

Namjoon clicks his tongue. “Already?” 

Your dewiness oozes out of you onto the bedding. To prove your point, you lean back on your elbows and lift your knees, revealing your dripping hole and the shine of your soaked folds. Namjoon stares at your cunt but doesn’t touch, doesn’t blink. He bites his lip. Flicks his eyes to yours. 

He kisses the middle of your tummy. Moves over to your heat. Licks a tiny stripe on your clit.

You cry out.

“Namjoon!”

Hands on either side of your waist, crawling up to you, he growls. “Good girls are patient, aren’t they?” 

He doesn’t wait for your response. 

“They take what is given to them and they finish what they started,” he continues. “Don’t they?”

You nod.

“And you are a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m a good girl.” 

“Then thank your Daddy for what he gave you.” 

Your walls squeeze around nothing when you hear him utter his title. It refreshes your body with energy. 

“Thank you, Daddy.” You smile. 

Namjoon kisses you, rewarding you.

“Sit up.”

Changing the layout, it’s Namjoon who reclines halfway on the bed while you sit perched on your knees between his legs, cock in your face. He spurts the lube on his length and jerks himself off, his skin shining in the abrupt spillage of burnt-orange sunlight from the window. Watches your eyes round in astonishment similarly to the way they did earlier when you had gazed upon the glitter swarming around you. 

He nods at you, giving you the green light, and you sheathe his girth into the tightness of your squished tits. You may start a face pace from the get go, fucking him into oblivion, but all Namjoon sees is the whites of your eyes, the glimmer, the pure enjoyment of what you’re doing while the rest of you is immersed in subdued late afternoon shadows. Sweat glistens on the planes of his face, dribbling down to the strained column of his neck.

It’s intense. So intense that he can’t vocally react. 

Precum appears once more on his mushroom, displaying his arousal, and you slurp it up, the braid coming undone—your hair falling around you like a curtain. 

It’s brutal. It’s wet. 

Namjoon gathers your hair to the side in a makeshift ponytail and leans over to be closer to you. Needs you like this. Feels his relief catching up to him the more effort you put in, the more you stick out your tongue to flick at that sensitive part of him whenever you can. 

“Want your come. So bad. Want it all over me,” you whisper, and that’s it for him. 

“Say please,” he murmurs, and it’s barely a sound, but you hear him. 

“Please, Daddy, come for me.” 

Pulling your hands away, Namjoon takes charge. Fucks your tits in frenzy, your hair, now half dry, tickling your skin. With his thumbs, he stimulates your nipples to coax those little sounds of yours and—

“Play with your pussy,” he commands. “But don’t come. Tease yourself like you teased Daddy.”

The relief on your face inches him closer to his. He hears the wetness as you dip a finger in, your walls sucking it in. He hears your breath get stuck in your throat. The slow crescendo of your moans. Suddenly, he hears himself too. 

Whiny, desperate, so unlike himself.

It’s a fortress of safety, his forehead on top of yours. His nose bumping against yours. Open mouth ghosting over the sounds of your well-deserved pleasure. It’s a safe place for him to come in.  

And he does. 

Ropes upon ropes of come color you ivory white, color you clean. The reversal of a coloring book—changing the lines, changing the scheme, changing your life. 

You milk him dry, your pussy long forgotten. Milk him until he pushes you away, chest heaving, unable to catch his breath. You just watch him, his seed hot on your chest. Glittery. And not just there. On your neck, on your chin, in the wavy strands of your hair. 

You’re in awe of him. You can see the pressure leaving him like a ghost slinking out of the window. 

Namjoon takes off his glasses. With two fingers, he collects as much of his essence as he can and plunges them into your mouth. The other hand rests on the crook of your neck, thumb protectively over your throat. “Swallow.”

Not for long. Namjoon throws you on the bed. Doesn’t waste time.

He laps up your pussy, clit to hole, sucking your labia into his mouth. He does it again, but this time he travels a bit further. Clit, hole, ass. Tongue flat. Your screams are muffled by the rumpled bedsheet you grip.

Going back to your leaking hole, he circles the flesh before he dips the tongue in. Wraps his arms around your ass to control your squirming, feeling the dip of your spine as the sunlight kisses it. Dust particles spiral in the air—Namjoon sees it. The dark grey curtain keeping half of the world shrouded in dimness while the other illuminated, a picture cut in a heart shape due to the deliciousness of your ass. 

Fuck, Namjoon longs to play with it again. 

He spits on it, rubbing the saliva around it before he slides his tongue back into your wet hole. Says hello to it—long time no see—teases it, before he dips his thumb in. You arch your back even more, welcoming the intrusion, and Namjoon kisses your pussy lips as a thank you. He quivers with the craving to fuck you right there in your ass, but knows better than to do it. You’re not ready for it. 

Spreading you more open, while keeping his thumb there in that sweet place, he begins to focus on your poor little clit. Swirls his tongue around it firmly, sucking it until your back trembles—goes up and down like a seesaw. The kisses he leaves there are obscene, loud, full of thankfulness that he gets to play with you. Full of love for you that he burns bright with—that propels him to flick his tongue harder. And full of joy that his stress is gone. Joy that you’ve been the helper unscrewing the steel body of heaviness off of his because, as of now, his bones feel lighter.

“You’re so good for me.” He smacks his lips against your cunt. “Fucking Daddy like that when he needed you.” 

Vigorously, he rubs his face against you, shaking his head from side to side. You stretch your fingers behind you and helplessly grip the back of your thighs. Namjoon catches one of your hands, holds it with his free four fingers, sucking your clit. 

“Thank you, baby,” he whispers, withdrawing to pay attention to your other hole, missing it. Abuses it once he spits on it, eating it, dipping his tongue in with ease since he stretched you. Fucks you there in the only way he can. 

“Wanna come?” he asks and as he waits for your answer, he goes lower to drink your freshness, not letting a drop go to waste. 

You’ve lost your voice screaming. “Yes, Daddy, please. I can’t hold it in anymore. Please, let me come,” you croak. 

Namjoon makes a sound of appreciation, proud of you for holding out for so long without saying anything.

“I think you can,” he says. Stuffs a finger into your dripping hole and lets you adjust for a moment. Adds another. “I think you can hold it while I count to ten.” 

His digits pump into you slowly. Kneeling by your side, he turns your head so you can see him, twisting your body into the position he wants. The curve of your back is so beautiful in his sight that he can’t help but run his free hand over the route that your spine has become. The route he wants to plant kisses on like flowers of various colors, adding to the coloring book, erasing the old. 

And he does. Begins at the nape of your neck. Picks up the speed.

“One.” 

You cry out. First before your tears rush out, pooling in your waterline. You clench your whole body in naive hope it would stall the orgasm, but it quickens it, squeezing his fingers in, so you relax your muscles. 

“Two.” 

A kiss to the first round protrusion of your spine. Shifting your weight to your shoulder, you take his cock into your hand. 

“Three.”

The middle of your shoulder blades. You hear your wetness oozing out of you, the relief prowling closer. You whine and Namjoon understands.

“Hold it or I’ll stop,” he whispers. “I can feel your pussy squeezing around my fingers. Relax.” 

You match your pace with his. Namjoon begins to pant. You feel his hot, heavy breath beneath your shoulder blades. 

“Six.” 

Ass shaking from the force, he jackhammers into you. Pulls out for a moment to spank you, a merciful gesture, before he’s back in. Leaves a wet fingerprint on your skin.

“Eight.”

The last protrusion of your spine. You silence your moans by pressing your hand against your mouth because they bring you closer to your orgasm, however Namjoon yanks your arm away. 

“Make those pretty sounds for me, come on,” he huffs, kissing both of those dimples on your back. “Ten. Come. Come for Daddy. Come all over his hand.”

And you do.

It’s a paradise, the heat closing in on you. The loss of hearing, the muted ringing, resembling the flap of a bird’s wing. The loss of surroundings as you’re momentarily transported somewhere entirely else. A gilded illustration, perhaps a lively projection. Something, somewhere, where all is good. The orgasm rips through you and the repetitive echo of his name leaving your mouth is what brings you back. Away from the storybook into a brand new coloring book.

Namjoon strokes your hair. 

He holds you in his arms, but something sticks you uncomfortably together. You peel yourself off of him and cringe. Strings upon strings of his come, gleaming with speckles of glitter, do not want you to leave. You sit on his thighs, resting your palms on his chest. 

He kisses you. “Are you okay?”

You nod with droopy eyelids. 

He carries you into the shower and makes a way for all colors of the rainbow to perfuse your body. To create a new storyline for the day, for the week, for the month. Reds and pinks show their faces first in the steam, and even though Namjoon is glad to see them, he looks forward to meeting the rest. To learning their objectives so he can fulfill them. 

Grabbing the yellow book on the way back to the bedroom, Namjoon makes himself comfortable beside you. Is careful not to touch your face out of habit because you have a face mask on; careful not to bump into you either because you have a plate of mozzarella and sliced tomatoes on your lap. He kisses your hair, though. Doesn’t have the strength to fight internally—grabs your jawline and ever so slowly and heedfully, he kisses you, fingers finding the first chapter unwittingly. 

“When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into a monstrous cockroach in his bed.” 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

TIME | knj

pairing: fiancé!namjoon x oc 

genre: smut

word count: 13.0k

summary: namjoon makes your dream come true in a much better way than you ever wanted.

pinterest board: divine | playlist: time | taglist: join

warnings: basic relationship fears, oc is heartbroken in the beginning, fight, minor violence, oc has daddy issues (like the writer), namjoon and oc smoke (like the writer as well <3), family sickness, punishment, spanking, choking, hair pulling, a mention of throat fucking and squirting, namjoon has an obsession with oc's boobies, dirty talk, use of a blindfold during intercourse, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, handjob, multiple orgasms, raw sex, namjoon talks her through it, praise kink

note: i will cherish this work until the day i die. i will carry it in my heart and never, ever forget it. this might be my best piece and i don't think i'll ever write anything as good as this. i love namjoon with all my heart and i want to thank him for inspiring me to write this. if he weren't such an amazing person, such a dear person to me and if he never released cbtm, this work wouldn't be here and i wouldn't brim with so many warm emotions. i gotta tell you guys—while writing the smut, this was the first time i wasn't affected by it in a way that i normally am because i found so much beauty in their relationship. enjoy this, my loves. let me know what you think. i love you. <3

The orange light in the hotel room causes bile to rise in your throat. It exudes a zephyr of mockery, such profound air of scorn, and you feel it thumping upon its reflection on the bare skin of your arms. You want to pinch it—make it hurt somehow, cause it the same agony that’s poisoning your system through and through because in all truth, that’s all you’re left to do. 

The Eiffel tower out beyond your window, blanketed in a soft layer of snow, has begun to twinkle. The perception of how long you’ve waited for your fiancé to come back that even such a monumental structure, your dream, has descended to its sleep full of blinding light beckons gooseflesh to mar your skin and it doesn’t go away. Not when your sight blurs, unfocuses, and the stars that have latched themselves to the tower enlarge into bulbs with softened edges, a myriad of bokeh that seem to have a slither of pity for you, lessening their grandness as the falling snow thickens. Not when both of your waterlines become rivulets of tears that heat your cold cheeks, despite the burning bushes of fury that incinerate your lungs. 

Just one more hour and the twigs of flames will perforate the chambers of your heart and sweep it clean of any emotions, any feelings, any understanding for the man that took you to Paris and left you all alone in the hotel room he paid for. You thought he took you here to give you the experience of seeing something new as you’ve never been to Europe and you’ve shared with him on several occasions that it’s always been your dream to see the Eiffel tower. Especially at night when it glimmers with such pretty, pretty stars. But considering he brought you here under the pretense of doing business, you carry nothing but contempt for the strange iron structure. So much for dreaming, so much for putting trust in a man. 

There will always be the other woman. It doesn’t matter if it’s in the form of a female, of alcohol, of ignorance. In this case, the mistress is Namjoon’s company and you should’ve known you’ll have her haunting your back for the rest of the trajectory of your secret relationship with him, with Mr. President. 

You should’ve seen it coming the moment she created a realm for you to soften, privately, in and fall in love with him until your ears turned red, the petals of roses. A realm between an ordinary employee and her boss. Between the walls of unknowing people—the way he would lean in to hear you talk because in comparison to his large stature and broad proportions, made even more prominent by his short hair, you were a mere stone on the ground, an ametrine—split in half with a tendril of yellow—but a stone regardless, fearing the tip of his lacquered dress shoes stomping on you until you’re left crumbled in the dying grass, the jagged pieces of you consoled by the ruthless wind.

You were terribly afraid of him. Briefly, but ardently. A true personification of desire, whenever you had to look up into his eyes. Whenever a whiff of his oriental cologne tickled your nostrils. Whenever the allure of secrecy between you two heightened. All because he was a powerful man, on the cusp of saving you from the lowest of the dirt. Saving you and digging you back inside, left to your own decay. 

Left to. That’s the wisp of tendency in your relationship. The wisp of force that drove you to give your yes to him. The wisp of the engagement ring encased around the fourth finger on your left hand. Left to—because you’d been single for so long and your mother pined after grandchildren and Namjoon was there, a knight in shining armor, dressed in suit and tie underneath, at the very age and position to settle down. Left to—because the special attention he gave you grazed your fear of him, gently, and helped it blossom into a bush of hyacinths growing in your lungs.

It’s how you found out you were in a severe destitute of a fatherly figure in your life.

Because Namjoon paid your bills. Put food on your mother’s table. In the form of a generous paycheck, overtime pay—even though you always clocked out at five, and odd bonuses that rose in monetary value the more he spent time with you. You’ve told him to stop, asked for fairness among his employees, even though nobody liked you there and would do quite the opposite if they ever happened to be in your shoes. But Namjoon never agreed to your offer. No, he stroked your hair and told you to save that money for your mother. And because you never heard that come out of man’s mouth, you nodded, meekly. Listened. The fear of him stroking the violet petals of hyacinths in you because as of now, he owned you. Owned your life. Owned the comfort of your mother. 

All because you made the faux pas and took off your heels when you thought your presentation was done and nobody answered when you asked if anyone had any questions left. Except for that one employee who didn’t have, evidently, a sense of decency and suddenly remembered he had a groundbreaking question to ask you in regards to the matter of your presentation, when everyone else, including Namjoon, was gathering their possessions and rising to their feet. 

He had noticed your nylon-clad feet, your swollen little toes, the way you rolled the ball of your foot on the carpet to alleviate yourself of the pain. And he changed the decades-old policy of dress code the next day. Forbade all women to wear high heels. Flat shoes only—loafers, ballet shoes. Incorporated bonuses that appeared in their bank accounts that very day, demanding an instant payment. 

He paid for every woman’s shoes in his company, including you. 

You never had to go through the torment of wearing heels again, no matter how pretty they seemed to you.

And then it was easy—languid and smooth, the innocent eye contact from across the room, the constant attention, the brushing of hands when walking past each other. And then you ran into him everywhere. He was always alone, which caused you to suspect he was single, so you smiled a little more and found it the easiest thing in the world, conversing with him about everything and nothing. Put a lot more care into the clothes you wore and the daily choice of your perfumes. Not forcing yourself and not being in control of it at the same time, something in the very middle. Something so natural that allowed you to turn your brain off for a moment and let yourself be led by your instincts. 

Then, your mother got sick and you lost your smile. Spent all your free time with her, taking care of her and you never ran into Namjoon again. 

Which is why he began to call you into his office behind the pretense that he needs something from you. And perhaps he did. He needed to be a friend for you. And you needed it just the same. 

He helped you cope with the gravity of a burden regarding a sickly parent and you became his.

And you gave more of yourself to him with every fleeting touch, every secret invitation to his office in broad daylight when he had meetings to attend to but wanted to get to know you instead, get to know your dreams because he has the money and the power to make them come true. Tenderly, despite the potency, the violence of his instrument. And tenderly, he always treated you. Tenderly, he held you steady as you made it a regular thing between you and him to sit on his lap. Not straddling him, but sideways—like a little girl sitting on the lap of her father. Tenderly, he led you through new parts of your life with poetic advice and viewpoints, meeting you outside of work, intertwining his fingers with yours and reassuring you. And tenderly, he became the stable male figure you invariably needed and never knew you did. 

And tenderness is what you need right now. In this shadowed hotel room, with only your arms to wrap around your torso and a ring on your left fourth finger, a ghost of his presence, ever so lingering, but not quite here. And you clutch at your dress, scrape your fingernails along the side of your ribs, etching the words that he said to your slowly awakening form in the late afternoon before he left. 

“I won’t be long. I just have some business to attend to. I’ll be back in an hour.”

It has been more than an hour and you wonder if he’s going to miss the twinkling of the tower. It’s your first night here. You had dinner after you landed, napped, didn’t even walk around the poetry-woven city and Namjoon chose his work. You showered for him, wore the long black dress you saved up the little of your last two paychecks for and he’s not here to see it. 

You feel so betrayed. He found work in your spare time, the time saved only for you both, the time that should’ve been saved for the romance part of your relationship. All he knows is work and so do you—as the entirety of your hours spent together have been solely work-related. This vacation should have been anything but. 

You sigh, hand ready at the zipper at the back of your dress. Once he comes home, he’ll be tired. Too tired to take a walk and immerse himself in the European beauty, so you should save this dress for a better occasion, one which he’s present for. Whenever that is. If that ever comes, at all. 

The squeak of the zipper going down is interrupted when you hear the lock make a sing-song melody, a signal that someone is coming in. Your breath quivers. A twist of events you didn’t expect, but you don’t get your hopes up. You know your fiancé well enough not to expect him to be full of life and elation after a work meeting. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but you let it slide past every time, aware that if he didn’t work so hard, your mother wouldn’t have the comfort she has. And neither would you. 

That doesn’t mean you’ll let it slide past this time. Not when he reserved his special time for you, for you both. 

Namjoon emerges out of the soft-toned yellow hall with a hand behind his back. You rise from the bed, facing him. Notice his sagged, broad shoulders, the sweat that lines his forehead and the narrow thin line that his lips are pursed in. A petulant, gray aura swathes him, despite the vibrancy of the colors of the hotel room and when he comes in, it’s almost like he absorbs them. His brows quirk at the sight of you, nearly relieved to see you dressed and waiting for him, but that expression falters once he takes in the mirror of you. The same wrinkle on your forehead stamps itself onto his and the sag of his coat-clad shoulders deepens. He stops at the edge of the bed, in front of you. Remains silent. And when you give him a few more seconds to speak and he doesn’t, your fists clench at your sides, against the linen puffiness of your dress. 

“An hour, huh?” 

He sighs and lowers his gaze. But not onto the ground. No, he lowers it onto your dress, swallowing dryly at the accentuation of your waist and the bunched up fabric at the hips cascading down, clothing you in the prosaic night of Paris, not the poetic, not the lively. He missed it. 

“You look so beautiful in this dress,” Namjoon comments and you scoff. If that’s his way of apologizing for leaving you for almost four hours, you don’t really understand it. It merely adds fuel to the flames of the indignation underneath that fucking dress. 

“Do you know what time it is?” you bite, your fingers instinctively grabbing onto the fabric of your garment for some kind of stability as your blood boils. Abruptly, his eyes flick to the window and when you follow his gaze, you discover the tower dressed similarly as you. Shrouded, entirely, in the night, clouds drifting past in place of the twinkles. Your blood is scorching hot and even though you didn’t expect him to take you to it, your stomach still drops at the disappointment that you missed the thing you looked forward to for weeks, knowing it won’t be the same tomorrow or the day after that. Your eyes prick with tears and you hate them. Don’t want to cry. Don’t want to be a spoiled brat, in fact. Not when you grew up the way you did—dreamless, poor and independent. But you can’t stop the words from rushing out. “I can see you wearing that watch that costs more than the house I grew up in and I know your habit of checking the time often, so tell me. Why didn’t you text me? Why didn’t you pick up my calls? Why did you bring me here in the first place if you knew you had business?” 

Mouth ends rounding ever so slightly, at last he shows what he’s been hiding behind his back. A bouquet of fresh, violet chrysanthemums and baby’s breath of the same muted tones. A symbol of thoughtfulness and care. The oxymoron makes you seethe and you grit your teeth. 

“I ran around the city trying to find one flower shop that was still open. I bought the first flowers that reminded me of you.” He pushes them your way, trying to get you to take them and you do, the wrapper rustling as your hands touch and electricity zaps you. Damn it. “Purple, your favorite color.” 

The audacity this man has, walking over that one word of apology, avoiding it. He takes your anger to another level and the fact that it seems to be endless makes you even angrier. Enough to want to hit him with the flowers. 

And you do. 

The flowers hover in the air in slow motion before their petals scatter around his troubled shoulders and the ruffled bed, where you sat so restlessly. Namjoon raises his arms in defense and you don’t stop, not until he grabs your arms and stills you. 

He calls you by your name, his hold on you deathly, and he shakes you, just once, in effort to bring some sense into you. “Calm down.” 

The stems from the chrysanthemums lay crooked on the floor between your bare feet and his black dress shoes. Ruined, devastated. Just like your dream. Some snapped in half, never to be whole again. Just like your heart. 

“You think some flowers are gonna bring my dream back, huh?” you snap, raising your voice, quivering in his grasp. You push at his chest, trying to get out of his clutches, but to no avail. You remain firm and unmoving in his hold. He doesn’t even budge. And once again you feel like a stone—an amethyst this time. Bigger, stronger, yet it still pales in comparison to the mountain that Namjoon is. You give very little fuck about that, however. “You knew it was my dream to see the Eiffel Tower at night. You brought me here knowing that, so I’m asking you once again why. Why did you bring me here when you knew you weren’t gonna make that dream come true for me?” 

He sucks in a breath and it looks as though he’s hanging by the edge of his composure. A thick vein bulges on his forehead and he clenches his jaw, his mouth a small button on his face. Anger. A mirror of you. But it’s not directed towards you—not at all. 

Namjoon withdraws and steps away, taking off his coat and his jacket, slinging his outerwear onto the edge of the bed. And as you simmer in the middle of the tense silence, he casually rolls his sleeves upwards, focusing his gaze, momentarily, on the action before he bores it into yours. The other sleeve gets the same treatment meanwhile he keeps the boiling temperature of your fury at a fixed degree with that stare. You want to boil over and so does he, but he doesn’t let that happen. 

The tiniest wisp of lust curls in your bloodstream, steamed by the heat, creating something dangerous. Oh, he’s playing with fire and he shouldn’t. 

All forest fires end catastrophically. The ruined flowers are enough proof of that, and yet it’s just the beginning. 

Namjoon loosens his tie a little bit, tipping his chin, and you can’t help but to ogle the slender material, his long fingers as they hook over the knot and pull it down. They way he’s asserting his dominance—the way he’s making you wait, making you tremble all fucking over by the silence and the slowness of his motions, by his stance and the clenched jaw. You hate the way it’s working; hate, with all your crumbling, stony being the pressure of your craving to get on your knees. 

Your tremor causes your fallen strap to tickle your arm and it snaps you out of the indecent daze, head swiveling to it, hand fixing it right away. You tug your dress down so it doesn’t slip down again, your plunging sweetheart neckline exposing your full breasts. 

“Why don’t you ask me what the business was about?” Namjoon challenges and it causes your head to swivel back to him, facing him. He’s sunk his hands into the pockets of his black dress pants, anticipation and tension hanging heavily in the stuffed air. 

You raise your brows. Fuck if you care about it. “Do I look like I give a fuck? I don’t wanna hear it.” 

Namjoon drops his gaze onto the ground, the clench of his jaw tightening enough that a dimple appears on the side of his cheek. For some reason you can’t really explain it aches and you don’t want to look at him anymore. You edge around him, the soles of your feet stepping on the violet petals and when you’re side by side, he stops you with one hand. 

“You’re gonna want to hear this,” he murmurs, his hold on you softening once your movement is halted. 

You roll your eyes, untangling your arm from it. “Too bad I don’t.” 

Namjoon sighs, deeply. “I’m telling you this one last time. You’re gonna sit on this fucking bed like the nice girl I know you are and you’re gonna listen to me.” 

A pulse sneaks to your sensitive parts and you furrow your brows, not liking the words he chose, not liking the way they made you feel. A half of you is torn, though. A half of you forces your body to do as he says, liking it very much. Too fucking much. “You don’t get to talk to me like this. It’s unfair.” 

“Sit.” 

That half of you wins. That easily. 

You sit on the bed and cross your leg over the knee, obnoxiously dangling your shin back and forth. The hem of your dress flutters, gains momentum when Namjoon opens the balcony door, letting the winter air in. Then, he moves over to stand a foot away from you, the stems crunching beneath his feet, his hand fishing out his pack of cigarettes and pulling one out, popping it into his mouth. Yellow, almost brownish butt. Golden Marlboros. Typical. 

Your own parts in dismay. “You’re gonna set the fire alarm off.” 

“You’re gonna get rained on, then. Look pretty in that soaking dress with the petals and all.” He lights up his addiction and the flow of your fire changes its course. Burns differently now. Burns lustfully. “You think I didn’t tell them to turn it off when we arrived? You were too sleepy. Barely knew where we were.” 

Flying while drifting through dreamland does that to you. Why it is a surprise to you that Mr. President made such a demand is beyond you. What’s more, it annoys you. His power, his influence. While it once sparked fear, you’re glad it’s lukewarm to you now. 

Sucking deeply, he puffs out the smoke, its tendrils curling around his eyes that he narrows to protect them from the sting. Your fingers, instinctively, play with your engagement ring. You’ve always loved the way he smoked. Especially in his office. Especially the way it never smelled. His attention to detail, his thoughtfulness perpetually mesmerized you. You wonder where it’s gone at the cusp of the realization of your dream. 

“I fought tooth and nail to get a deal. To make a connection. For you.” 

You scowl at him, pull your wandering fingers away from your engagement ring. What the fuck does he mean by that? 

“For me?” 

“Yes, for you. For your mother.” 

You grip the edge of the mattress at the mention of your mother, left behind on her sick bed while you’re fussy about your mindless dream. A jolt of guilt runs down your body and your scowl smoothens. You don’t think the madness disappears from your eyes. Not entirely. 

“I risked having some very powerful people knowing about us because I wanted you to have a stable place here. There’s a five star hotel that has shares in Korea. I wanted to become their partner. Get you in there. Get you another source of income. Get you a house here. For your mother. For our children. Have you commute here whenever you’d like,” Namjoon breathes out, moving his busy hand with each word, the smoke clouding the air. He takes a drag, holding the cigarette. “Come to think of it, you’d get to see this.” He points behind himself at the Eiffel Tower with his thumb. “For a week straight if you’d like. Splurge on dresses, shoes and croissants and whatnot. Have not one care in the world. You make the call and we fly.” 

From Korea to Paris. Whenever you’d like. Namjoon is the CEO of a five star hotel he built with his own hands. You’re the marketing manager, but you oversee almost everything you find time for. From banquets to room beddings, only because you enjoy it. It’s the main reason why you’re so disliked. You’re favored. And if there’s conflict of interest, there’s only one person who wins in the eyes and the final say of the CEO.

Namjoon’s hidden thoughtfulness opens in the shadows of the room and you’re stupefied. 

He wanted to partner with another five star hotel in Paris. 

For you. For your mother. For your future. For your comfort. 

For your dream. 

For your children. 

Your mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. 

How would you possibly handle having your job times two? You already have enough on your plate. Have wished, multiple times, that there was more of you cloned, who could do each job that you have to do each day. Doing that twice would be difficult, agonizingly so, but knowing your own work ethic, you’d make it manageable. You’d make do. Not for yourself, per say—but for your mother and your future children. 

Your heart constricts. Constricts so tightly that you let out a pained breath, overcome by his plan for the future, by the actions he’s willing to do for it. By the very raw fact that he spent three hours trying to make that happen—make that come true for you. 

“Namjoon, I—”

“They said no, though. No matter how hard I pushed, no matter what I was willing to risk, to sacrifice. They said no. So I made a quick phone call and forbade them from ever entering our hotel.” 

Our hotel. 

You almost sob, touched by him, but a gust of the icy breath of winter seizes you and you visibly shudder. Namjoon takes a last drag of his addiction and, putting it out on the ashtray on the confined balcony, he closes its door. But the freshness grazes you still, grazes you with the allure of this too-good-to-be-true fantasy and while it feels nice momentarily—the futile, brand new dream—you settle on the contentment that it will never come true. 

And that’s okay. You were brought up having nothing. Having someone like Namjoon intertwined with your future doesn’t change it. You don’t need to have everything. It’s enough that you’re in Paris just for the prolonged weekend, even though you didn’t get to see the sparkling Eiffel Tower up close on your first night here. That was the only dream you ever had and you can die peacefully now. Knowing the reason behind his late arrival, it doesn’t disappoint you anymore that your dream was altered. As a matter of fact, you don’t consider it ruined any longer. Not when Namjoon tried his hardest to create a beautiful future for you and your closest. You regret being mad at him, regret hitting him with the flowers and you brim with the wish to gather them, fix them, and put the little what’s left of them in a vase. Cherish them like he cherishes you. Cherish him. 

Namjoon crouches at your feet, cradling your ankle. “Your mom would’ve had a house right next to ours. Our kids would visit her everyday and vice versa. The air would’ve done her good here. The change of scenery. It would’ve prolonged her life. She’d be happy.” 

You nod, believing him, your heart untouched by the weakening fire, tender, squeezing. A mist of liquid emotion pools at your eyes. “You spent three hours trying to make that become a reality.” 

It’s not a question, but rather an expression of your procession of his goodness. Of his selflessness. And all over again, you’re reminded of the way you grew close in your relation because of your poor mother, of the way you bonded. And in place of the fire, it’s love that blooms those hyacinths in your lungs back to life. 

Your mother would’ve loved Paris. Because you know how much she loved listening to you talk about your dream when she was healthy and you were a young schoolgirl, you’re certain she would’ve fallen in love with the stark difference that lines these history-wrought streets. 

Namjoon focuses his gaze on your bare foot, fondling his thumbs over your silky skin. Your declaration of his actions loosened the heft on his shoulders and he relaxes, leaning his temple against your knee, fleetingly. When he speaks, he looks up at you. A certain light, covered in pity, flickers in his eyes. “I didn’t do it on purpose. It just took that long and I had no idea. And when I checked the time once it was over, I googled when they turn off the lights. Knew I had some time to spare, so to fix my mistake for taking so long, I ran through these streets, trying to make it up to you. I thought I’d make it in time, but you let out your frustration on me, which is understandable. I was in such a hurry that I forgot to text you. I’m sorry.” 

The coolness of the growing flower buds in you fills you with such gentleness that it’s not relief that you feel upon hearing his explanation and apology. It’s love. A profound, sinking capacity of love for the man beneath you taking on the likeness of the stone that certain energies and events of life invariably minimalized you into. 

He’s the stone and you’re the mountain. 

And when you bolster his face in your hands, Namjoon releases a breath at the touch and you find that relief streaming in him, seeping color back into his cheeks. You’ll paint them redder. Feel obligated to do so. 

“I’m sorry for hitting you. You left me alone for so long and I had so many bad thoughts,” you say, internally cringing at your neediness and you would regret uttering your admission had he not rubbed your legs in such a reassuring manner that it revitalizes your body, guiding briskness into your veins. 

“I’m sorry that I missed it,” Namjoon says, subduedly, his hands warm like the fire that burned in you, giving you back your heat that you’re lacking. He kisses the top of your knee and your breath is but a vine of poison ivy inside your throat. Such tenderness, such healing gentleness, such pity that permeates your skin. He truly is regretful that he messed up and you want to weep. He doesn’t have to be, not anymore. “What kinda bad thoughts?” 

You feel your heart rotate on its axis and you stifle back your tears, taking a deep breath to be able to talk. “I thought you chose work over me. Thought your business had nothing to do with me. Thought you left me here all alone for selfish reasons.” 

Namjoon coos, a softened emotion screwing his face—eyes enlarging and a slight pout forming on his face. A leeway for your tears to spurt onto your cheeks, unabashedly, with nothing holding them back any longer. He cups your face, like you did, and he sweeps back that rivulet with his thumb. “I didn’t, baby. I didn’t. And I’m here. I’m here with you.” 

You nod and it’s all that you’re left to do because it’s the truth. He’s here. He’s come back. And he’s sorrowful that he let those thoughts plague your brain with such a small mistake. 

“Don’t go anywhere again,” you beg, hushedly, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry you worked so hard for nothing.” 

It’s the last straw for Namjoon because he straightens his form, guides you to stand up and he sets you down on his lap, pushing your legs onto the bed—holding you as if he were holding a child. 

And that’s precisely what you need at the moment. 

“It’s not over. Pick a place and we’ll go there. Start over. With you present this time. What are you dreaming of these days?” 

Your heart swells. Nothing has been flooding your dreamland as much as Paris was. Even that seemed unrealistic, let alone a much different place. It overcomes you and, peculiarly, stops you from crying. You feel like a spoiled girl getting what she wanted after she had a meltdown and, internally, you blame Namjoon for it. He spoils you. Exudes such overtones of fatherliness that makes a way for it to happen. Most naturally. 

“Paris has always been my dream. No other city,” you say and Namjoon clicks his tongue. A smile widens your mouth, liking the way he senses your custom of modesty, liking the way he dislikes it. You laugh, softly, through your nose. “I’ll think of something.” 

“That’s my nice girl.” 

Taken aback, you clutch the side of his neck. Namjoon is bathed in the orange light and it no longer causes bile to lodge in your esophagus. No, it sparks up something else. Something very rapid, spreading throughout your body. The energy shifts and it’s you who clicks their tongue. “What did I tell you about talking to me like that?” 

You move your hand to the middle of his throat, tightening your hold around his Adam’s apple, tipping his chin. Namjoon grins, hums, wraps his fingers around your wrist. 

“What did I tell you about choking me, hm?” 

A flashback flickers across your vision. One of the last time you were intimate in bed and he was rocking your shit in missionary, using your throat as a leverage. You mirrored him, as you usually do in these endeavors, and choked the air out of him, making him come prematurely. Namjoon scolded you until your ears turned red and refused to make you come. You had to bring yourself over that edge and you managed to squirt your love and your enjoyment of fucking with him all over his body. Namjoon made sure to feed you your elated essence, but he also made it very hard for you to swallow, telling you to hold it as he drilled your throat, making it trickle down the corners of your mouth. 

The memory effortlessly brings back the pulse in your sensitive parts and you begin to crave the repetition of that filthy rendezvous. Badly. 

And so you squeeze his throat. 

Namjoon squeaks your name. You laugh, ferally. 

That is until he pins you down. Hand on your throat this time, the other holding down both of your wrist, the petals sticking to the silk of his pants-clad knees on either side of you. You didn’t even catch the movement as he did it, his strength overbearing and so incomparable to yours. But you don’t feel like the amethyst. No, you feel like a mountain connected to another, to him. Two peaks staring at each other, grinning, your laughter unfaltering, even though it’s you who’s squeaking now. 

Elated, giddy, aroused, equal, your tears sunk deeply within your skin, giving life to your rhapsody, giving it the body it needs in order to come out. 

You love it when he’s like this. And you love that he’s come back to you. 

Of course you have the means to prolong it, to tease it out of him.

“I don’t really care when it turns me on this much,” you rasp, your smile glinting in the dimmed light, arching your back until your chest kisses his. Just once. “When it turns you on this much.” 

Truth, the epitome of pleasure. The corners of your mouth widen, all over again. 

You can’t help it. 

Namjoon cocks a brow, his mouth ends following the same directions, dimples poking holes in his cheeks. “Oh, so you don’t need to be reminded?” He mimics your intonation, angling his head.

You shake yours, eyes dipping to his clefts, teeth instinctively finding your bottom lip, biting down. You feel the heaviness of his stare and it urges you to bite down harder, the tension quickening your blood circulation. And it isn’t until you meet his adoring gaze that it stops, for a mere second, scattering tingles down every vein. And Namjoon resumes the flow by pressing a chaste kiss down onto your lips, lingering there. 

“I know you’re a nice girl and that you didn’t mean it, but I have to spank you for it, anyway. Do you understand?” He whispers against those pillows, each movement of his mouth brushing against yours, making you needy for more. 

You make a face. “But I did mean it. Meant it with everything in me.” 

Namjoon laughs, endearingly. “No, you didn’t, baby. Not when you know what I’m capable of doing to you. Or not doing to you.” 

You smirk, catching onto his game. He’ll disagree until you grow so frustrated that you burst, disobeying him to the point that he has to tame you. He wants to get you to the lowest point, because the lower you dig, the bigger treasure you find—the more you stimulate the brain, the chemistry, the bigger the pleasure. Namjoon is an intelligent man; knows what the fuck he’s doing and you’re so transfixed by it that you’ll let yourself be led into his little trap that he watches over. Just to please him because ultimately, you’ll be pleased beyond measure. 

You tip your chin and trace his lips with your own. “No, I did, because I love how whiny you get. Makes me wanna bruise my knees for you, take all of you down my throat until it hurts to speak.” 

Namjoon is so awestruck by your words that his mouth parts as he gawks down at you and he moans. There it is. That’s precisely what you wanted. 

“You know,” he starts, pausing to swallow. “I had different plans with you in terms of this. Good fucking plans. But you just ruined them.” 

The precipice of what that could be hangs over your clavicles and suddenly you brim with the need to know what it was. What his smart, business brain came up with. And not only that—you want it to happen, your curiosity piqued, blaming the choice of words he used, the work-tinged colors he splattered them with. 

“What plans?” 

He straightens, setting your hands free. “Take off your dress.” 

You’re taken aback. “Namjoon.” You stress his name. “What plans?” 

“No, I’m not telling you. You’re gonna take off this dress and you’re gonna take what I give you.” 

You frown. Your curiosity won’t let up. “Namjoon, please.” 

The pretty word curls his mouth. Perhaps, you’ve softened his stubbornness. You surely hope so, but to no avail. 

He gets on his feet and swivels you onto your stomach, fingers finding your zipper and dragging it down. Being manhandled like this causes butterflies to swarm not just in your tummy, but over your arms and legs as well, fluttering all over, making your head spin and again, you can’t help the smile blossoming. In the middle of winter, spring opens in you at the touch of his dominance. 

Spreading his hands over your back, sinking his warmth beneath the skin, he leans in, mouth at your ear. “What word do you use when you say please?” 

You know what he wants you to say, but, peculiarly, you’re in such a good mood that you crave to disobey. Just for the fun of it. Just for the pain of it. 

“Pretty please?” you chirp, pursing your lips to hide the slyness of your smile. Delighted, excited. 

Namjoon pulls your hair, causing your head to tip, harshly, pain shooting up your scalp. Your tongue runs over your bottom lip, moaning almost soundlessly, only to realize that he can see you. Your pleasure wasn’t private. Not at all. Never is when he’s involved. 

You flick your eyes up at him, meeting his darkened stare, and you flutter your lashes at him, playing the stupid girl when you’re well educated by him in reality. 

Maybe you do need to be reminded, after all. Again, for the fun of it. For the pain of it. 

To distract him from his failure. Help him forget. You know how it gets to him. Deem he deserves it; deem it’s a duty of your fiancée privileges. 

“Pretty please is an addition. Something to help me have a sliver of pity for you. You seem to have forgotten who I am to you.” 

Oh, he’s a myriad of things. 

Mountain. Stability. Dependability. A most grand picture of beauty. Of intelligence. The sun and the moon, his brain cells the planets in the universe. The second heart you’ve grown over the trajectory of your relationship. The pulse of your emotions, especially the one between your legs.

He’s everything in your life while you remain your own person.

And only Namjoon would have achieved something like that. 

“No, I haven’t. You’re my husband,” you say, allure dripping in your tone, wiggling your hips, causing the fabric of your dress to ripple over your bum. 

Namjoon coos, quite pleased with the title, and he pats your behind before he grabs you by your waist and pulls you to your feet—flush against his body and the rock solid situation in his pants. You sway your hips, the gasp that slips out of your mouth goes almost unnoticed by you as you’re entirely focused on his hardness. You look down to follow the movement of his hands like a cat. They drift upwards—from your ribs, over the swell of your breasts until his long fingers reach the straps of your dress and drag them down, exposing you, exposing your arousal evident on your stiffened nipples. You could blame the cool temperature hanging in the room for it, but both of you know that would be a lie. A fat lie that your husband doesn’t deserve, not when he’s so dominant, so strict and so fucking provocative, spreading tendrils of heated life in you with each subtle touch. 

Subtle? Oh, Namjoon gropes your tits, rolling your nubs between his slender fingers, softly moaning behind you. And then he pinches them, coaxing your squeaks out and you feel that familiar, wet warmth pooling in your core, mingling with the throbbing sensation that intoxicates you. Enough for you to clasp your hands over his and tighten his hold, squirming against him, loving—loving terribly the sparks of pleasure coursing down your figure. Loving the feeling of dampness against your panties that’s nothing but evidence of the way your body savors his special attention. 

“Husband, that’s right. Your fucking husband,” Namjoon murmurs, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, causing your head to knock back against his chest and make space for him, inviting him to continue—and he does. Places tiny little kisses down to your shoulder, where he licks the skin before he sucks it into his mouth. “But there’s something else you call me when I treat you this good. What is it? Think.” 

Those kisses and his command for the wheels in your mind to quicken alone make you give in, make you submit to his craving to call you by that filthy, rightful title. Even more so when he pinches your nipples again. You whine, feeling your neediness for more taking greater highs in your system, feeling your own body yearning to scream out that name. 

“Daddy,” you cry out, desperately, awfully. How well it fits him, how well he deserves to be called by something like that—how gratified you sense your body to be right now. No poetic string of verses could ever manage to do it justice. 

Namjoon hums, his pleasure deepening. “That’s it. That’s a good girl. I love it when you use that brain of yours.” 

You blush. A tableau unseen by Namjoon yet, for he busies himself with undressing you. Your garment gets plopped onto the mattress, your underwear along with it. A silky strip that hardly covers anything. You’re bare while he remains fully dressed and something about that turns you wild. The silkiness of his slacks, the cotton of his white shirt against your skin—such softness, such balminess, such caress for the undomesticated freedom that you profoundly feel within. You sigh at the sensation, your lingering curiosity bubbling in you, slowly rising to the tip of your tongue. 

“Will you tell me now? What you planned?” 

Namjoon chuckles, humorlessly. “You think you’ve earned it? No, baby.” He runs his hand down your ribs and your tummy, halting at your mound. His middle finger can nearly reach your swollenness and you quiver in response. “You’ve got spanks to take first. Maybe then I’ll tell you.” 

You whine, softly, and Namjoon grabs your chin and turns your head so you can look at him. A mad, mad smile adorns his shadowed, taut face and you realize there’s pent-up frustration still swirling in him. One you will do anything to help him steam off. 

Anything. 

Anything for your husband. 

And so, by your own whim, you lay down onto the bed, anticipating the pleasure of pain. Namjoon lets out a sound of approval and you sense the vibrations of his nearness as he props a knee on the bedding, flattening down a violet petal. He fixes your position, lifts your bum in the air, and he kisses your bare cheek with all the world’s affection, sucking the skin, nibbling on it before smoothing the pain with a swipe of his tongue. 

“You’re my nice girl, aren’t you?” Namjoon questions and you nod, but that’s not good enough of an answer for him. He spanks you, harshly, coaxing a hiss out of you before the pleasure draws in and you let out a breath, turning your head, so you can have a perfect view of him. Namjoon gives you another chance to fix your mistake. “Aren’t you?”

Licking your lips, you make it your focal point to be good for him. “I’m your nice girl.” 

Humming, he caresses your back to praise you. Spanks you with the same tenderness, rubbing the flesh to alleviate the faint sting. The love you carry for him grows with each brush of his calloused hand and you stifle back your needy sounds, your little whines and sobs of a small girl very seldom loved by an even smaller number of male figures in her life. 

Most strangely, it heightens the experience. 

“You’re my wife, aren’t you?” Namjoon purrs, his fingers sneaking to the place that yearns for him more than anywhere else, finding you bedewed, dripping as he rubs your folds—just touching you there without giving you any friction. 

The touch is so nice that you can’t help but mewl most happily. 

“Yes, I’m your wife, Daddy.” 

Namjoon moans, the pads of his fingers sneaking over to your clit and stroking it. You arch your back, your noises rising in volume—the wetness, the pleasure in tandem. Your body begins to shudder in reaction, mimicking his motions, the pressure coiling in the lowest of your tummy. 

“Good, good. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. You’re my good little wife, but you were bad, weren’t you? You were a bad little wife?” 

He quickens his speed, testing your focus and your mind spins again as the pressure deepens. From his words, from the very gravity of the title ‘wife’, from the very pleasure stemming from the principle of being bad, and you stutter a few times before you’re able to get out the full sentence in a perfect flow. 

“I was your bad little wife.” 

Namjoon growls, liking it just the same. “And what did you do?” 

He slows down, stalling your climax, keeping you halfway from the edge, right where he wants—the pressure of his touch light and gentle. Letting you work your brain. 

You smile up at him, from the clouds of shadows and petals you’re surrounded by. Namjoon deepens the eye contact, returning the smile. Your heart thuds in your chest. 

“I choked you.” 

Clefts of dimples—you, yourself, choke out a breath. Another one, too, when Namjoon spanks you hard, his fingers wet and sticky on your skin, the pain tingling all over your body, beckoning out more of your slick for him. 

“That’s right, you choked me, even though I punished you for it quite severely the last time,” he rasps and spanks you again, again and again. You hiss and flatten your lips to stifle it back, grasping the bed sheets to overcome that burn—and overcome your craving for more. 

You’re at a crossroad. You find yourself wanting to be bad in order to get spanked again, but at the same time you want to be good, so he tells you what he planned for you. Your fucked out brain can’t decide which side is better, but when Namjoon spanks you again—he reminds you that it doesn’t matter at all. You’re getting punished either way while the goal is to tell you. 

Such a good, intelligent husband. And you tell him. 

“You’re so good to me, baby,” you whisper, your knuckles white as you’re grasping the sheets with all your might. “I’m sorry for being bad. I’m sorry for choking you, but I love it when you spank me.” 

Namjoon chuckles, warmly, spanking your clit once in affection, drawing out your squeaks. 

Truth, the epitome of pleasure. All over again. 

Close to your ear now, he kisses your cheek, his body heat enveloping you in an embrace. “My naughty little wifey loves it when Daddy punishes her. Loves to do the bad things Daddy doesn’t like just so he spanks her. That’s it, isn’t it?” 

You moan out, puckering your lips against the sheets and Namjoon half-kisses your pout, humming against you. He lifts you up onto your knees with your torso upright and he cradles your face. Waits for your answer. 

You’re more than happy to douse yourself in that truth. 

“Yeah, I love it. I love being bad for you.” 

He descends one hand to your bum while the other wraps around your waist and pulls you flush to the hardness of his body. And as he expresses to you how much he liked your words with guttural moans, he spanks you. Again and again, your head tipped back, eyes wandering in the darkened maze of his, where you lose count of how many you’ve taken. 

“But you do realize that’s a big no-no, don’t you?” 

You nod. “I do, Daddy.” 

A hum. “Will you do it again?” 

You whisk your irises up, thinking about it while already knowing the answer in your heart. “Probably.” 

Namjoon laughs and kisses you, feverishly. Moves his mouth against yours, parts it, so he can slip his tongue inside. Plays a game of chase while both of your noises and his interlock and create a music that echoes around the hotel room. He adds a high-pitched tone into the song, yours, as he spanks you again, playfully this time, grabbing the flesh of your bum with both of his hands now, kneading it, drawing it closer until you feel his aroused length against your tummy. 

Moans, squeaks, skin slapping and lip smacking. A song of beauty that will resonate within your body, mind and soul for days to come. 

And another thing. 

“God, I love you so much,” Namjoon whispers, bringing his hands to your ribs until his thumbs brush across your nipples. 

That, too, will ring in your veins. 

You melt. Become nothing but liquid devotion in his hands. And as he begins to focus on your neck, you roll your eyes back and resound your love back to him. 

“I love you, Namjoon.” 

He sighs against your collarbone, mutedly. “You love me?” 

You sink your fingers into his short hair, kissing his temple. “I love you so fucking much.” 

When he emerges with puffy, reddened lips, you can see it on his face that he did it again. Made you say the words he wanted to hear. And so you say it again, again and again. Each time with more intensity, with more verve, embedding it into his lips, his cheeks, jawline, his chin and his neck. All skin you can reach until you stumble upon the cotton of his shirt, at which you frown. 

“Take this off. Now.” 

And he listens. Loosens his tie, places it upon the petals on the bedding. Begins to unbutton his shirt. All while staring you down. And all you can do is watch him in awe, licking your lips, hungry for him, hungry for the intelligent plan he’s keeping from you. 

Once he bends at the waist to get his arms out of the sleeves, you press on the matter. 

“Tell me,” you say, softly, despite the tension of your curiosity. “Tell me what you planned.” 

Namjoon tilts his head and light flickers across his eyes, fires of stars—the ones that twinkled on the Eiffel Tower before his arrival. You spent your entire life dreaming about seeing it when it stands right in front of you, half naked. Has been standing before your eyes for years. 

Your mouth parts at the tenderness of it all and emotion bubbles within you. 

Sizzles, ferociously, when Namjoon reveals his secret. 

“Speeding down the road to this hotel, I saw it before my eyes. What I was going to do to you,” he starts, unbuckling his belt and sliding it off the loops. Your heart thumps, violently, against your ribcage, longing to jump onto his big palms. He pauses his motions to concentrate on his words. “I was going to apologize. Tell you what happened. And then I was going to make it up to you. Undress you, keep only the shoes on you were going to wear.” He looks over to the side, where your black YSL heels have been waiting for hours to be worn. Before he even asks if those were the ones, you nod your head and Namjoon fetches them and puts them on your feet. “I was going to have these digging into my back while I ate you out. While I would transfer us to the park before the Eiffel Tower with my words.” Securing the straps, he straightens, knees on either side of yours, and grabs his tie, smoothing it out with his thumbs. “I was going to blindfold you. Make you imagine you were there with me. No one else but us. On a blanket. Describe to you in great detail what we were doing as I’d be balls deep in you. Here but there at the same time.” 

Your throat dries as you take in his words and there’s only a few words you’re capable of saying. Your eyes flick to the tie, then back up to his dark chocolate irises, wet with a glint of deep arousal, one that you feel pulsing in you just as well. You hook your arms on his hips and nod at the slender fabric in his grasp.

A man of the world’s intelligence. How attractive, how alluring. Your shadowed cloud swathes you tighter and you spill with the need to be fucked. Fucked with that smartness. That capability. All wrapped around that big cock of his. 

You need it. Won’t live if he doesn’t ruin you with it. 

“Do it,” you choke out, swallowing with great difficulty. “Please.” 

Fingers curling around his belt loops, it doesn’t go unnoticed the way his manhood twitches in the tight confines of his slacks and the sound you let out at the sight would be embarrassing if he wasn’t so endeared by it, caressing your face with his thumb, lifting it so you pay attention to what he wants to say to you. 

“Are you comfortable with me blindfolding you? We’ve never done that before.” 

Even though your trust wavered merely an hour ago, it happened so it would get strengthened at this very moment. You don’t detect any no’s echoing within you, any worries or fears, anything that would cause you to stand in the way of this endeavor unfolding. It excites you, the newness, the principle of placing not just your trust, but your control, your senses and your safety in his hands. Allowing him to proceed with his would solely mean that you deepen what you already practice in your sex life, take it to another level. And these things are of great importance to Namjoon. He never disappointed you—never failed, never missed. 

He takes care of you. Through and through. From the beginning to the end. Until you close your eyes, only to take it from the top the following morning. 

Your trust in terms of that could never waver. It’s impossible. It’s so strong, so held steadily that it would never come across your mind, even. 

And so you give him your consent. 

“Yes, I am. I’m excited to do this. I want this.” 

Namjoon strokes your hair, pressing a kiss onto your forehead. “All right, my love, but remember that we can stop anytime. I’ll take it off as soon as you say the word. Tell me you understand.” 

And along with your consent, you give him a big smile. “I understand, baby.” 

He kisses you, stealing a thousand tiny kisses more in the same lip lock. “That’s a good girl. So smart. Are you thirsty?” 

You fold your hands on your lap and nod your head. The tie slung over his broad shoulder, Namjoon walks over to the mini bar, fishes out a bottle of ice cold water and opens it for you, tipping it to your mouth, encouraging you to drink.

The coldness streaming down your stomach only enlivens your arousal and it seems as though the matter is naked to the eye as Namjoon bites his lip at the sight of you, screwing the bottle shut and placing it on the bedside table. You tug at the tie, your eyes crinkling as your smile simply can’t leave your mouth alone and Namjoon hums out a laugh at your excitement. 

“Ready?” 

Your whole figure is fluttering, of course you’re ready—and you tell him. “Born ready.” 

It prolongs his expression of lighthearted endearment. “Good. Remember to stop me when it gets too much. Close your eyes.” Obeying, the softness of the silk grazes, fondly, your eyelids as pitch-blackness encompasses you. Namjoon ties the thick wisp at the back of your head, careful not to intermingle any strands of your hair into the knot, attentive enough not to pull it too tight and not too loose either, causing you to ache for him so badly that you almost want to scream. “How does it feel?” 

Uncanny. You hear his voice and, peculiarly, it’s louder in your ears, although he’s speaking in the same volume as he was before he blindfolded you. You sense something missing from you—and it’s a feeling that you detect in the pit of your stomach and at the ends of your abruptly numb fingertips. 

You clench those digits, but the sensation remains. It is only when you raise them and bump into the sturdiness of his chest that you perceive what it truly is. 

Groundedness is what you’re missing. 

The softness of his skin brings back a sense of realness back to you. When you drift your palms up to his shoulders and hold onto them, you feel real; you feel like a person that has limbs, that has someone right there with them to look out for them because aloneness is what comes with the darkness of the sight and that is absolutely terrifying. 

You cling to his neck, causing him to stumble into you, and you sigh in relief at the feeling of his weight. He goes to lift himself up, but you stop him—tightening your headlock, pressing the side of your face against his, eating that realness as you trace your lips against his cheek, run your hand across the back of his head. 

He’s here with you and he’s not going anywhere. With that stability, you can walk further in this rendezvous because you’re not alone at all, despite the fact it’s what your eyesight is telling you. 

“It feels really strange. I need you close. I need to feel you. To know I’m not by myself,” you whisper, sensing your chest to become lighter once the truth is out. Your naivety and excitement didn’t expect this to happen, but you’re comfortable with trying this out and feel where it takes you.

“Do you want to stop?” Namjoon asks and you can identify where he roots that question on your body. Right there upon your left collarbone, where his breath seems warmer than ever before and where he begins to scatter tiny kisses. 

That thrills you—the identification of where he is, the loudness of his voice, the depth of his touch and the unusually scorching body heat he radiates as all of your other senses are heightened and you want more of it. You crave to know what it would feel like to have his tongue on your sensitive parts like this. What it would feel like to have him drilling you. 

That alone makes you shiver with something beyond excitement. With something feral and undomesticated, again. 

Another thing for him to tame. 

Your body sings to him. To the stars. To the tower. And Namjoon can hear it, incorporating his tongue into his not so chaste kisses in response. 

“No, I don’t want to stop. I want you to keep going,” you say at last, caressing the wholeness of his back, reveling in the discovery of his muscles, his shoulder blades. It feels so new, so different. You quake all over. 

Namjoon pulls himself upwards, nudges his nose against yours and you smile. “Okay, baby. I’m right here.” He kisses both of your eyelids, the right one first before the left one. You feel at one with your heart as it palpitates; feel as though you were inside your body. “Fuck, your eyelashes are so long that I can see them curled around the tie. You’re so fucking beautiful.” 

You blush, the heat of your cheeks akin to a blanket pulled to your nose. Such coziness. You hum and try to find his lips, but he’s out of reach. You crane your neck until it hurts, giving up with a huff. 

“God, don’t do that to me. That was so cute,” Namjoon husks and moans when you pull him down and kiss him at last. 

It’s at this moment that you thank the God that he mentioned for writing into the Book of Life that Namjoon was to be late and miss your dream because this kiss does more than make up for it. This kiss creates new dreams that begin to swirl within you. Dreams of the Mediterranean sea, the sand and sun rays so hot that they bronze your skin. Dreams of sultry nights, black dresses and flats for all the roads you shall walk upon while following the starlight, hand in hand with Namjoon dressed in linen of the same color. 

Dreams of Asia, but not where you first opened your eyes in as a newborn. The western side of Asia, the one you’ve never seen and never dreamed of until now. 

Your heart enlarges and you overspill with so many emotions that they trickle out of your hidden tear ducts. Newness, possibilities—for both you and Namjoon, but mainly for him. For his happiness. 

He calls your name, fearfully, but you shake your head. “What’s wrong?” 

You feel his fingers sneaking over to the knot of the tie, but you stop him. “I know where we’re going next time.” 

His breath of relief becomes the new cloud you rest upon. “You scared me. Don’t cry, baby.” 

You fondle his wrist. “Namjoon, we’re going to Turkey.” 

Silence. Then, a kiss. “Is that where you want to go?” 

A nod. That’s where your soul will escape to once you lay down to sleep. “That’s the place I’m dreaming of.” 

A kiss on your neck. A hum. “Then, that’s where we’ll go.” A stripe of his tongue down to your collarbones—you feel your slick drip down onto the bedding. “Do you remember where we are right now?” 

An inhale of breath. “Paris.” 

Namjoon sucks the supple skin above your nipple. “That’s right. We’re at the park in front of the Eiffel Tower in the middle of summer. You’re sat on my lap like this.” He manhandles you to the position he describes and you gasp, not expecting it. “My back is facing it while you have a perfect view of the twinkling lights. Can you see them?” If your memory serves you well, he’s painting a picture of reality as well and you’re so touched by it that another, secret tear rolls down your cheek. 

“Yes, they’re shining so brightly. They’re so pretty, too. You’re making my dream come true. Thank you.” 

Wetness against your sternum. Namjoon must be crying as well and the realization makes you sob. Makes you find his lips again and kiss him. 

“I love you,” Namjoon croaks out and you break, holding onto him so tightly that you clench all of your muscles. 

“I love you, Namjoon.” 

A final kiss before the continuation of his depiction of the dream. 

“Nobody is around. They’ve all gone to sleep. It’s just us, the Tower and the moon. You’re so beautiful, so lost in the pleasure as I’m kissing you like this.” He shows you by resuming leaving kisses along your breasts. “And when I do this—” He licks over your nipple, sucking it into his mouth. You whimper, flexing your eyelids at the sensation swarming in your core. “You make pretty sounds just like that, but I tell you to be quiet. We don’t wanna wake up those people and ruin the fun. And you’re so good that you listen, taking the pleasure so well.” 

He sets you down onto the bed, moves down to your tummy, placing the rest of his kisses there. 

“Then, I lay you down on the blanket. You’re naked for my eyes only and I spread your legs.” His hands follow his words, lifting your thighs and pinning them down. “I blow on your needy little pussy and you shiver so beautifully for me. I can see you shining for me, shining brighter than the lights and I give it to you.” 

There you feel it. The lick of his tongue on your clit and you shudder, moan so loudly that it reverberates down your body, the pleasure unlike any other you ever had the grace to experience. You roll your body into his mouth and Namjoon moans in tandem with you, even more so when your heel digs into his shoulder blade like he dreamed of.

“I lick your clit in circles and I feel you come alive on my tongue, so I pick up the pace.” 

You chase the movement as he does, reveling in it to the point that you curl your body, rising yourself to your elbows and grasping the nape of his neck, knocking your head back once he prods a finger into your heat. 

“I need more of it. I need to feel you around my fingers, so I stretch you out.” 

He adds another digit, fucking you diligently, and you whine out his name, squeezing his neck, your thumb pressing the spot above his Adam’s apple. 

“But my baby is doing something she knows is making my cock needy for her. She’s choking me, making me so fucking hard for her, so I pin her hands down.” 

He rips your hand from his neck and pushes it down onto the bedding, holding it in place with his forearm as he rounds an arm around your tummy, fingers spreading your folds apart from this angle, leaning his weight on it, freeing up space for his other hand to fuck you harder. 

You plop down onto the bedding, unable to resist him. And with your submission comes your orgasm, the rope uncoiling right at the place where the pulse on his wrist thumps. 

And your dreams explode across the blackness of your vision. 

“And you come like this. On my tongue. Around my fingers and I go fucking crazy for you, lick up everything you gave me. So fucking crazy that I turn you around and take you like this.” 

You’re glad for the way he worded this part because you don’t jump when he does swivel you and licks over the red marks over your bum. He prepared you. The coolness of the petals on your skin causes you to whimper and you move your hand in effort to grab one of them. Namjoon settles between the sides of your thighs and when he sees what you’ve found, he chuckles, taking it from you, turning you halfway and brushing it against your cheek. 

You gasp, liking the heightened softness, and you purr. Seeing your reaction, Namjoon drifts it down your neck, your collarbone until he reaches the peak of your breast. And when he circles that stiffened nub—an endeavor just between you, outside of the dream—your whimpers have so much tension and opulent seductiveness to them that you feel his bare manhood twitch against the line of your bum. 

It drives you to thrash your hand until you find him, too, and you wrap your hand around his thick manhood, pumping him as he stimulates your nipple like this, your position—halfway on your side, with your leg crossed, propped on the bedding, brings friction to your clit as your body moves where the pleasure wants it. 

Namjoon breathes hard, groaning gutturally, and you could almost come like this. 

“Fuck, Daddy, it feels so good,” you whine and it causes Namjoon to turn you fully onto your back and take that petal down to your wet clit. “Oh, my God.” 

Faint, yet so nice. You tremble, feeling the petal drifting over your folds, your lips, gathering your slick over your heat. And when Namjoon rubs circles on your clit with it, the membrane of the petal so fucking slippery now that it’s coated with your wetness, his title falls from your lips like the rain that keeps those flowers alive out there in Paris. 

“Keep fucking me with your wrist,” Namjoon rasps and you moan, loving to be ordered around, loving being told what to do. 

You fix your mistake of neglecting him while lost in the new delight, concentrating on his equally wet tip as you tighten your hold, pumping him swiftly, his foreskin closing around him in tandem with your movement coaxing his growls out that envelop you in firelight, hotter than anything you’ve ever felt. 

Even gripping him you perceive to be different and as that firelight flickers vastly across the night you see, splattering it with makeshift stars that Namjoon calls to creation with each of his deep sounds, your orgasm comes as an explosion that brings color to his art. 

Purples, yellows, reds and pinks. Stars that brim with colors. Such paintwork of beauty that Namjoon strums to life on your clit and your scream gets muffled by the sheets as he turns you back onto your tummy without withdrawing his hand. 

He begins to kiss your shoulder, knowing you need a minute before he can fill you up. 

“My pretty girl, my wife,” he moans against your skin, marking you there. “I’m gonna fuck you with that petal on your clit. With the rest of them clinging to your beautiful body like that. Gonna fuck you nice and hard against them.” You whimper your vulgarities, so out of it—so intoxicated by the picture, looking forward to it. “You came so well on my fingers. With the petal. Fuck, I’m gonna ruin you just for that. And for the way you made me forget where we were.” 

You laugh and your stomach flips, love hormones coursing in your veins like the strongest drug. And you laugh even harder when it dawns on you that you’ve also forgotten. 

“I don’t remember either,” you sputter between your giggles, contagious as Namjoon laughs as well, brushing your hair back to one side to kiss your cheek. 

“How are you feeling? Has it gotten too much, hm?” 

He takes the time to check up on you, instead of picking up where he left off and, fuck, you dissolve, becoming one with the petals—no edges to you, only liquid affection. 

You’ve gotten used to the darkness. No traces of fear or uneasiness can be found trickling in your system—as a matter of fact, you can’t wait to be fucked, can’t wait to find out how it’ll feel once he’s inside you. The way he’s talking to you, constantly touching you and making it known to you that he’s present with you doesn’t let the previous disturbing feeling to sidle up to you and you’re terribly, terribly grateful. 

“I feel great. I want you inside me, baby. I’m ready.” 

Namjoon growls, biting into the skin of your shoulder until you whimper, kissing the pain away. Rubs his petal-clad fingers on your clit, prolonging your noises. The pleasure begins to build up, the colors you’ve seen stacking back on top of each other and you sigh, nuzzling your face into the sheets, most comfortable. 

He cradles your jaw, though. Makes you look forward. Augments the dream, resuming. 

“You’re looking at the Tower and I’m holding you like this so your neck doesn’t cramp up. I’m inside you, just like you wanted.” 

Namjoon merges the reality into the retelling, creating something more expanse than this world can bear and you’re awestruck. He sinks himself into your wonder, knees on either side of you as you lay flat on your tummy, your bum lifted a little, heels dangling off of the bed. 

Your eyes flutter beneath the tie as his girth stretches you and the colors you see are adjacent to the picture he paints. They blossom into shapes, swirly edges that grow into flowers and cling to the Tower like the violet petals cling to your body. Namjoon pulls out and gives you a long stroke and more flowers bloom, hanging by the lights. You lose your breath, the vibrancy of the pleasure so heavenly that you lose track of time, day and space as well, floating in that dream that the reality you thought about ripped away from you once he bottoms out. 

You can’t even hear yourself. Can only hear him as your senses wrap around him. 

“I’m not choking you. I’m not giving you a taste of your own delicious poison; I’m just holding you like this, helping you see your dream alive in front of your eyes. I look at you and I can’t help it. You’re illuminated by those lights, yet shining brighter. Kissed by the moon so much that I get jealous. Can you see that fucker up above?” 

As if he drew the planet with his finger, it appears in your vision as soon as he pulls out again and fills you in all entirety in one swift, but hard motion. And it’s now that you hear yourself scream as your clit rubs against his fingers flat against it with that collision. 

“Fuck, Namjoon, I—I can’t take it. It’s too good.” 

“I didn’t ask you if you could take it. I asked you something else,” he husks, moving his mouth against your neck. You feel your eyes rolling back underneath your closed eyelids and you moan, his hips picking up the speed. “You can take it and you will. Tell me, baby. Can you imagine that moon in your vision?” 

It’s right there, beaming at you, but you can’t focus, not when you can feel his cock in your throat. He huffs against you, overcome just the same, resuming his circles on your clit and you’re dead. 

“You’re so deep, Daddy,” you utter in one breath. “So good, fuck.” 

Soaked flowers. Stars flickering more quicker. White dots joining in, along with hot flashes. You’re face to face with your orgasm. 

“Focus, baby,” Namjoon scolds, voice straining nearing you closer, falling in step with you the more you clench your walls against him. 

“Can’t. Gonna come.” 

“Come, then,” he encourages, drilling you harder into the mattress, your clit yet again rubbing against his flat fingers. “Let go and give it to me like the nice girl you are. Come for me, baby.” 

Fireworks shoot through that picture and you cling to it as you come around him. Namjoon praises you through it all, darkening those flowers that surround it and your orgasm convulses through you, lasting as long as the flying colors bursting through the night-tinged sky. And white gushes in as he loses himself in your climax, his own triggered and he stuffs you with it, fucking you through it until the bed makes such terrible sounds that he stills, letting you milk it out of him. 

Panting, Namjoon swivels you halfway around while still buried inside you. “I’m gonna take off the blindfold now. Keep your eyes closed, baby.” 

You listen and he flings it off, kissing you, ravagedly, whimpering into your mouth. Exhaustion seeps so deeply inside you that you can barely reciprocate the energy of the movement of his mouth and with one last peck, he lets you breathe. 

When you open your eyes, it’s not the light that stings your pupils, but the exhilarated, flushed and content sight of Namjoon, his chest heaving, glistening with sweat. You blink a few times to get used to the beauty, touching him all over, spreading your love for him everywhere you can. 

“That was so perfect,” you whisper, sleepily. “Thank you. Thank you for making my dream come true. For making it better than I ever dreamed of. I love you, Joonie.” 

He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles—with bruised, puffy, reddened lips that make you weak. 

“I love you.” 

You lay like this for quite some time, stroking each other’s skin, enjoying the rest and the silence. Namjoon takes off your heels then, massaging your feet as if they were in pain and you smile down at him, fondly. 

“Like hell, I’d let you wear these to the park.” 

You laugh through your nose, your love for him blooming, and he carries you in the shower. 

You join him on the balcony later, sharing a cigarette with him, wearing matching, thick and warm hotel bathrobes to protect you from winter’s cold. You look up at the moon as you take a drag and send your thank you to God for the contended joy that clothes your heart. Namjoon pulls you in, kissing the top of your head. 

“So, Turkey next time?” he asks, inhaling your vanilla scent from your body wash that you brought along. 

You sigh and life overflows from you. “In the summer. No business, just vacation. Just us. And if business does find you there, it’ll find me, too. It’ll be different this time.” 

Namjoon presses his mouth against your forehead, sinks his words there. “I’d marry you right now if I could.” 

Tears prick at your waterline, your throat aching. “If I pray hard enough, she’ll get better by spring,” you say, voice wobbling, speaking of your poor mother. You couldn’t get married without her—it’s the sole reason why your wedding is left in the hands of fate. 

“We’ll bring her to Turkey, then. I’ll make sure to tell her to pack her hanbok and I’ll marry you there. What do you say?” 

Rivulets of tears stream down your face and you look up at him, catching the same liquid lining his eyes. You nod, your mouth rounding in a pout. 

“Perfect,” you whisper. 

Namjoon gives you the last kiss of the night, sealing that plan shut and you believe, with everything in you, that he will bring it into reality. 

You trust him. 

Forever. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah.

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HEAVEN-SENT | knj

pairing: idol!friend!namjoon x f. reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.8k

summary: when a certain bad experience with a guy makes you run to namjoon, he heals you and changes you once and for all.

warnings: lack of willful consent in a way, crying, religion, smoking (namjoon smokes a cig, reader vapes), the context of this fic is of sexual relations though none are described, heavy daddy issues.

note: after i sat down to write last chapter of berries, i discovered that i simply couldn't because of what happened to me this week. there was nothing left for me to do, but to run to namjoon in my head and let him heal me. yes, unfortunately, the events that i wrote about in this fic happened to me. the dream, i had it last night. and the consolation in the form of words in the fic, i constructed it from everything my friends told me. to be honest, i feel deeply healed. i finished it in two hours or so and i feel so much better. now, like the reader i put myself into, i'm gonna take a shower and wash everything away. i'll be able to write berries after that. i love you, guys. sorry, if this is triggering in any way. i just needed to get it out.

“I think I heard… God in that dream.” 

Your words create a wisp of tenderness in the air. Saddened, moist with the tears that sting in the back of your eyes. The sun of the summer has descended, hid beneath the city—and you feel as though the same occurred in your life, despite the fact you’re being held by someone who holds the skyscrapers and the manufactured greenery in between like a burden on his shoulders and could easily stop its departure if only he looked up to the heavens with puppy eyes. 

God would’ve nodded. Flicked his fingers. The source of light and warmth would’ve paused, stared down on you, shone a little more mercifully. Beckon you out to breath in the fresh air, breathe in the protectiveness you find yourself to be in the middle of. 

God protected you from a boy who had different intentions from you, led you into the arms of a man who’s able to take your pain and transform it into an eternal artwork of beauty and importance. A harmonious poetry, mixed with English and Korean, flooded with colors akin to the ones your eyes would stumble across on a field of wildflowers. 

It’s where you are right now. No blanket, just the soil, the blossoms, the warmth from Namjoon’s body, your bruised knees and rawly abraded elbows—your injury from earlier that the boy feignedly kissed, but didn’t care much about. A means to get you into bed, nothing else. A banana vape in your fist while Namjoon holds his cigarette backwards, shielding the smoke with his palm, even though you’ve told him multiple times that you didn’t mind it. 

You smoked so much of them with him within the hours you spent here and didn’t receive any sort of alleviation from it that you grew a certain distaste for it in your mouth. Settled for the sweetness of your vape. Enjoyed it as much as you enjoyed Namjoon’s closeness and a sense of safety that he radiated as he let you rest your head on his clavicle, leaning his entire weight on just one hand, and nothing else. 

So unlike the boy, who would’ve kissed your feet if you let him take the endeavor further like he wanted. 

You were on a first date with a boy you didn’t even know for a week. With a boy who stuck his tongue down your throat. Almost fondled the most private parts of your body, had you not stopped him. And who didn’t drive you home after. 

The prose of the shallow, insolent face of a young male, who didn’t want to be provided with your love and empathy, who kissed you to shut you up, in fact. And the demons of your brokenness, conspired with your father complex, manipulated you into believing that he was moved by it, rather than repulsed by it as his only objective was getting you comfortable enough so you willingly give over something that doesn’t belong to him. 

Your purity. Your private parts. Your femininity. 

Two days later after the date, you had a dream. While you slept beside your best friends who spent the night smoking with you on the stairs outside of their apartment, helping you realize the truth—popping your bubble of pink vapor gained from the kiss and the male attention you’ve always had so little of. Many dreams swam past your sleeping consciousness, but only one resurfaced upon waking up. 

A large beige room; a man standing in the middle of it as he made your bed while you stood clutching your pajamas to your broken, dejected form. You were looking at him, regarding him from head to toe. From his shortly cut, blond hair, to his broad shoulders and toned, muscular arms that would lift you without blinking. From the tank top he wore, to the dark shorts. And once you viewed the same bruises on his body that were on yours, concealed from his sight and awareness, you heard a gentle voice inside your heart. A voice, entwined with the purest form of love, which told you that this was the man you were supposed to be with, not the boy you were seeing. 

You listened to the voice, obeyed it in a way that you didn’t quite understand—silently, tenderly. While you internally quivered in fear in regards to the male species. You were frightened of the man who was taking care of you—not because of who he was or what he potentially had done or would have done, but because of a very simple reason. 

He was a man. 

And you didn’t trust them. 

Not anymore. 

Namjoon was different. Namjoon was a man who was your friend for the longest time. A poet who nurtured his life. Who viewed the world’s secret poetry and sought it in every way he could. He was as much like you as you were like him. But you weren’t his and he wasn’t yours. 

It wasn’t written in the prosaic constitution of this wretched world; and never will be. 

He’s not the man in the dream. 

He never made your bed, although he would if you needed it. But his heart doesn’t belong to love. It is tied to the arts; tied to the people he takes care of, works hard for. His heart belongs to his voice. 

And his voice was silenced in deep indignation when you told him what happened to you. He’s known you for years; he’s known of your lack of manliness in your life—has supported it for as long as he’s walked beside you. Wrote you poems about how perhaps that’s what life is. Aloneness and the arts, the heartbreak if it crawls inside and what you do with it after. You’ve read them, worshiped them, obeyed them, even though your need for love always persisted within you. 

And it led you here. Back to him, needing his poems, although now your deeper brokenness asks for his recitation. 

But he’s still silent. 

Not silent to your pain, however. Not silent to the tornado in your sternum that makes you pause between your words due to its intensity. That makes you look at the leaves of the grass instead of the earth within the pools of his eyes. But you can feel the strength of his indignation that is mightier than the whirlwind in your bones. And it’s warm, so terribly warm, growing warmer the longer he looks at you, in spite of the lowering of the heat of the sun and the evening sweeping past the field, the coldness of the soil as if it never had been touched by that heat. 

Like you, almost. 

“I think it was him who told me that,” you continue, brushing your thumb over your yellowing bruise upon your knee from your injury. “It’s why I remember the dream so vividly. Why it made me never want to see the guy again. Why it suddenly made me understand why my friends reacted the way they did when I told them what happened.” 

You believe it, and nothing could cover your belief due to its force—its quiet, tender force that graces you with a little bit of strength to be here with him, to be able to share it with him with the said understanding and calmness, calmness so akin to nothingness. 

How delightful it is, that state of emotions. 

You feel as though you’re telling the story of another person. Perhaps Namjoon has done it in you by letting you talk without interrupting like your friends did. They outburst so colorfully and it made you feel so small and so stupid. Namjoon did no such thing—through his silence he put great meaning into your story. 

And it feels nice. More than nice. You appreciate it with the little you’re able to feel towards a man. 

“Why did you let him kiss you again?” Namjoon asks, softly, breaking that nearly long season of his silence with the kind of gentleness that only he’s capable of. 

He must be a different breed, you conclude. One you’ll never have the opportunity to know, intimately. 

Your mouth rounds in a faint pout because you know your answer, and sheepishly you camouflage it by taking a puff of your vape, expecting the banana flavor to give you the courage you need in order to say it. 

You hear Namjoon follow you suit, sucking on the bud of his cigarette before he puts it out in yours and his makeshift ashtray—a bottle of water that you both drank. The hiss and the dying out drives you quicken your scrambling of bravery and you don’t really know where that vague sense of impatience comes from. 

Namjoon is anything but impatient. 

You sigh, taking another puff, blowing it into the wind, watching it where it takes it to. Wish you were taken elsewhere, too. By an invisible hand that means well. Take you to a place of joy and respect, of devotion and care. 

You wonder if a place like this exists, at all. 

“Because…” you trail off, the tornado in you thickening, threatening your calmness and you can’t stop the blooming of your pout, the deepening of it, either. “Because it was my first real kiss with a guy and I wanted experiences like that. I wanted to live. I wanted to have what everyone else has so easily.” 

A beat of silence. The tornado enlarges. And you feel as though you were in the middle of it, not the other way around. The raw truth, you’ve said it. Thank God you said it to a person that knows he must handle it with care. It’s the reason why you ran to him. Why you invariably do. 

“But he didn’t have your consent. He didn’t ask for it, so he didn’t have it. He just grabbed your head and kissed you. And because you wanted experiences doesn’t mean he had your consent.” 

You furrow your brows, out of step with him. “It was me who kissed him at one point. I even bit his lip.” 

For some reason, your uttered words cause you to look at him. With his arms wrapped around his knees and hands interlocked, he scowls. His scrunched brows cast a shadow upon his marble face, upon the thin line of his tightly pressed lips, and you fear you did something wrong. 

“Did you kiss him because you wanted to kiss him or did you kiss him because you wanted experiences?” 

That question shocks you and you can’t speak. You swivel your head back in shame, tipping it, and you twiddle your thumbs, the answer raw and obvious, out in the open without needing any transportation of words.

You felt comfortable with the guy. Had chemistry with him that would run deeper if you were on the same page as him. But there was something about him, which you still can’t pinpoint, that built a translucent wall between your heart and him. You didn’t find him attractive enough to kiss. You didn’t expect to be kissed either by the end of the date. But you went on with it for one sole reason. 

The tornado explodes through you and Namjoon can feel it. 

He places a hand on your shoulder. Makes you look at him with that singular gesture and your eyes well with tears, the residue and effect of the explosion. 

“Never, and I mean never, do that again. Never do things that you aren’t innately hungry for and never do them in order to live a life you think you should,” he says and it’s a proverb that must be written in the book that had opened within your dream. “I don’t believe in God, but I do believe that you were protected from that piece of shit, who had the audacity to put his hands on you.” 

And there it is, the recitation of a different poem, one you didn’t quite want, but find yourself to be in need of. Your tears flow without direction, dripping onto the petals of the violet and pink wildflowers that brush against your legs with every breath of the wind. 

And you nod. 

Maybe they needed it, too. Maybe that’s why you’re here, why God put that lesson in your life that made you run to Namjoon. He took your hand and gave you a role. 

To be a helper of his. 

Quench the thirst of the flowers and quench yours, too, through that work. 

“No one is allowed to think they can touch you like that on the first date. I know how guys think. They think that because they paid for you, they paid for your body—and I’d kill them for that if I could,” he breathes out, waggling your shoulder to emphasize the importance of his words. And you breathe them in, consider them the scolding of a father, one that is done out of love and care and one that is good for you. Not meant to harm, not meant to express the voice of his upper hand. It’s meant for you. For your well-being. “He was dead to me the moment you told me you had to stop his hand from going further down. And the moment you told me he didn’t drive you home at night. That’s not someone you experience life with. That’s someone you walk past.” 

You nod and you sob, weaving your way into his step, believing his words—the depth of them, the meaning of them, the end to the sentence piercing your heart because that’s how you met the guy. He stopped you on the street and chatted you up. Gave you a false sense of comfort and safety.

Namjoon kisses your worth over and over again, clutches your brokenness and puts it together with his gentle touch—all through his grip on your shoulder, through the verses of his poem. 

He doesn’t dare to go further. Because he’s respectful, because he’s older, because he cares for you, regards you as human and not a piece of meat meant for satisfactory purposes. Thrown away after the deed is done. 

You take mental notes of those attributes. Write them somewhere upon your flesh to remember later on. 

Respectful. Older. Caring. 

The antonyms of the boy you were seeing. 

“Someone will come along who will serve life to you on a silver platter. He will find you and he will respect you. Will be afraid to touch you because of how golden you are; afraid to stain you. He will love you and only then will you love him back. That’s how you’ll know he’s the one. He’ll love you first,” Namjoon recites on, your tears dropping onto the back of his hand and trickling down his fingers. He grasps your hand and you feel the liquid of your understanding on his skin. Somehow it locks it in. “He’ll wait before he kisses you. And you’ll be filled with so much longing to kiss him that you’ll feel like bursting. That’s how it should be.” 

You nod for the last time, overwhelmed, but changed. You believe the tornado won’t find you for a long time—for as long as Namjoon is here. 

“Don’t rush. Do what you love to do, your hobbies. Read. You’re not missing out. You’re living already. You’re alive. You’re experiencing life, even if it means you’re doing it in the company of your friends, in a platonic realm. It counts.” 

The last stanza. 

He hugs you. Grateful, healed, reassured—he seeps those new attributes in you by giving names to them as he wraps his arms around you and you perceive that’s precisely what you’re feeling. 

Grateful. Healed. Reassured. 

And you perceive he showed you how love is meant to be expressed. The man does it first. 

And when a storm rolls in and the wildflowers startle against your skin, Namjoon walks you home. Doesn’t leave until he knows you’re safe inside. 

Heals what he didn’t break. Reteaches what you’ve been wrongly taught. 

You’re living. You’re alive. You repeat those words to yourself as you undress yourself and wash away the wrong touch from your body, this time with great consciousness and will. And the vapor from the water, different from the one that was conjured from your madness of falsely living, seals in Namjoon’s touch on your skin, writes upon it the stanzas of his proverb. 

You’ll remember them the next time. 

And there will be a next time because you’re living. You’re alive. 

Namjoon is a different breed because he must be an angel, dressed in white as he was. A helper just like you, ordained by God he doesn’t believe in for you. 

Otherwise he wouldn’t be in your life at all because while you quenched your thirst, he filled up your hungry belly. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth.

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LADY BEETLE | knj

pairing: non-idol!namjoon x oc

genre: situationship au ; sex playhouse ; glory hole  / smut, fluff

word count: 10.4k

summary: when you came to seoul's hidden sex playhouse to forget about namjoon, you didn't think the anonymous mr. kim would actually be namjoon.  

pin: lady beetle / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: sex club setting, oc struggles with her feelings towards namjoon, glory hole but with hoseoksluna twist, engaging in sexual practices with a person you don't know, commitment issues, heated conversations, dirty talk, patience game, counting down (for my neva play girlies), oral sex (f. & m. receiving), deepthroat, face fucking, nipple play, unprotected and rough sex, teacher namjoon, spanking, praise kink, size kink, choking on fingers, rough treatment in general, aftercare, oc and namjoonie smoke together.

note: i daresay this is my best work. :D fuck my life, guys. i need this namjoon like i need air to breathe. if i see any of you wearing panties... TAKE EM OFF NOW. sldjflskdjfsl jk, jk. THE SUPRISE IS REVEALED. GLORY FAWKING HOLE. my babies, enjoy this filth. stream neva play. imagine that deep voice of his.... yeah. yeah....... faaawwkwkjsdlfjsdlfjsdfjslfjsls. ENJOYYYYY. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK. MY ASK BOX IS OPEENNNNNNN.

The building looked ordinary from the outside view. Like any other building in this part of the city. Long and tall, coalescing with the evening heavens and with its freckles of stars—very much like those upon your skin. McDonald’s was just down the road, a to-go coffee stand perfumed the whole street with its coffee beans, and a bookstore stood right next to this peculiar piece of urban architecture, unaware of all the sins that lurked behind its walls. 

It may pretend to be pure, with its grand hall, its sophisticated reception and even graceful employees—dressed in the finest of fabrics that glinted beneath the opulent chandelier—but it was just that. 

An act. 

They smiled at you, but in their heart they knew what you were here for. 

In this seemingly normal, ordinary building all your sexual fantasies flare out. In the simplest of words, you come here to get fucked out of the norm that is considered vanilla. You fill out an online application, set the date, the time—and depending on your desire, you even get to see who your dream fulfiller is. 

In your case, you were going into this blind. 

And so was he, your dream fulfiller. 

While you opted to stay anonymous, the only detail you knew about the man was that he was from the cursed Kim clan. Another male that bore the last name like the one who wrecked your nerves to the point that you had to bite the bullet and try this out as nothing else was working. It was a newfound obsession of your best friend, who gifted you a voucher to this place on your birthday. And you weren’t sure if Kim Namjoon had the sixth sense and somehow knew about this, although you’d believe he was very much capable of possessing one, just to piss you off even more. 

You have been crushing on this man since the day you met him at your mom’s small ramyeon restaurant you are working in for her. Since the moment, in fact, you glimpsed at his vintage black Cartier watch with a matching singular bracelet adorning his wrist that he kept calmly on the table while he was on a work call, growling and snapping into the phone. Your mom curled her lips, swatted her eyelashes as she grew hot in the cheeks, chopping green onions for him from her cooking station while you were watching over the noodles. It was her who noticed him at first—and it was her who told you to do your best and seduce him. 

And when you lifted your eyes, saw that thick mane of his cloudy hair, the cleft of his cheek as he gritted his jaw and then that picturesque hand of his, you sensed that unfamiliar, magnetic pull towards him that made you blush. And you never looked more like her than in that moment. 

For some reason you knew better than to not listen to her and do as she says. You felt it was the right decision, the right move and so you fixed your hair, swiped your flower clip through a half of it while your face-framing wisps fell naturally in front of your pink face. Your mom tossed you her lip gloss from the pocket of her apron and you brought him the ramyon she cooked for him. 

Smiled at him. Batted your eyelashes at him like your mother taught you throughout your girlhood and it worked. 

Namjoon told you were a breath of fresh air when you sashayed towards him after such an important, yet aggravating phone call, apologized for the inconvenience, bowed slightly. Balanced, most delightfully, respect and flirting. Leaned more towards the latter when he would steal glances at you and smile at you at every opportunity that your gaze would connect to his. 

Your heart hammered once he came to you to pay for his meal. Your mother stopped whatever it was that she was doing just to beam at him and he personally gave her a huge tip in cash—right into her right hand that he held. Turned to you and asked you if you’d like to have dinner with him sometime. 

And you agreed—without knowing he would get on your nerves in the long run. 

Namjoon was not a serious man, not as he appeared to be. Although he showed you the side of Seoul you would otherwise never have the option to see and feel with your entire being by taking you to luxurious dinners, cafés, art exhibitions and work events—the things he would say and the things he would do did not reflect those settings by any chance. 

He took you from rags to riches and you paid for it by being a victim of his odd form of cute aggression. 

The man would get you tangled up in your sentences because he simply enjoyed the view of you getting flustered. He found pleasure in revving you up enough for you to curse at him and growl at him, be it by bugging you with tickles, pokes or be it by making fun of you until you yourself laughed. 

There was nothing sexual about your relationship, if you could call it that. He didn’t hold your hand, he didn’t regard you hungrily as so many men do in his place, but he did look at you with the rawest form of purity. At your freckles—ones that made him give you the adorable nickname Lady Beetle—at your butterfly tattoo on your ankle that your dress would always expose from its natural criss-crossed position. The things he would say did not contain any hints of this leading into the bed. And he never kissed you, even though there were many occasions, where he looked like he was about to do it. 

He always held back. And while it, and everything else, made you pristinely fall for him, it also angered you so much that there was nothing else you wanted to do but to grab his head and kiss him madly. 

And the other day, you did. 

Leaned in after the heft of your shared tension grew too big for you to hide it in your hands—only for him to turn his head, slightly, and let you merely kiss his cheek. 

That was the final straw. And so you stopped agreeing to his “date” invitations until you stopped replying to his messages altogether. You thought he wasn’t going to have any part of you if he wasn’t willing to properly date you. 

And in your anger, you dwelled in the hole he left behind. The hole that was asking for his fatherly attention that caused you so much extraordinary joy. Your mother must’ve sensed it with her motherly instincts that he would occupy that place in your life, which your father didn’t. Your body missed laughing with him until your tummy hurt—and you missed him. And the more you did, the more your anger blazed. 

You couldn’t get rid of it. 

You tried exercising. You tried running around the block, only to never do it again because you couldn’t catch your breath and you thought you had almost died that day. You smoked a pack after pack, and that didn’t help either. 

Neither did abusing your cunt until you couldn’t go on anymore. Your anger burned down your bedroom and once you groaned and whined, punched the pillows and kicked your legs, your eyes fell upon the voucher you had pinned on your corkboard  

Your remedy was in front of you, and in the worst of your anger—you gave it a go. 

You filled out that application in the middle of the night, one that made you even hornier. And because you didn’t want to see any other man but Namjoon while you were getting your brain fucked out of your head, you chose the only option there was for that case. 

Glory hole. 

And the idea of it made your anger falter ever so slightly. You could imagine it was him pounding you through the barrier. The wall would only help your imagination.

Friday. Seven PM. You had to come two hours early because it was a necessity for you to shower at the place after you signed the contract. You also had to quickly think of a safe word, it was the only thing you foolishly forgot to fill out that day, as lost as you were within your flight of fancy. And because the employee standing in front of you made you anxious, you wrote down the first thing you thought of. 

Beetle. 

Your heart pounded, and when you let go of the pen, the gravity of the moment hit you. You truly were about to swim in a pool of sin only because the man you desperately wanted didn’t want you back. At least not in the way you wanted him to. 

The employee led you into the room, where your own personal sin would uncoil. A grandiose, large space, plucked out of a French chateau, with dark antique furniture, an easel with a painting you were quick to skip to in order to ogle at it. Your kitten heels clicked on the old, parquet floors that creaked, scuffed against the carpet that cost more than your yearly salary. It was a room that Namjoon would like—and it was a room that took your breath away. 

And the painting paused your blood flow. 

The Unequal Marriage by Vasili Pukirev.  

A painting of you, essentially, because you can’t have the man you yearn for. 

Your heart shrinks, painful pinpricks digging deeply into the flesh. You lift a finger and trace the despondent face of the bride, acknowledge yourself with that secret, yet vivid piece of your agony eternalized within the thickness of the brushstrokes. Her silver flower crown, the gossamer fabric of her veil, and finally her delicate hand. And in your soul, you hold it. 

You peek at the elderly groom and disgust seizes you. Because of the poor girl’s fate, because of your own. It feels as though you’re about to sin with that very man and you regret ever coming here. 

An emotion that you hurriedly shake off because your best friend paid a huge amount of money for you to experience a good time. Like she did. 

Your hand slaps back to your side. Your emotions, too. You will them to hide their starlight just for this one night. Hide their love for the man they can’t have. 

You turn around and glimpse upon a table with bottles of both champagne and wine. Think you need one at this moment; think your dream fulfiller would appreciate it if you poured him one, too. But having one sip of that dark liquid, you say fuck it and finish his glass as well. 

Undress. Take a shower. Weep under the stream. 

And the same employee waits for you when you emerge out of the bathroom in your robe. With manicured hands folded over her stomach, her eyes have softened a little bit, and abruptly, you realize how glad you are that a woman is accompanying you on this strange journey. If a man stood in her place, you would’ve already walked out and wasted your best friend’s money. 

“Mr. Kim wishes for you to be naked,” she says, her voice light, but firm. Your skin prickles with goosebumps—you bought a lacy red lingerie for the occasion, to help your imagination do its job to the fullest. A certain wisp of sadness clutches you that you won’t be able to wear it. 

Or… 

“What happens if I disobey?” you ask, gripping the thick lining of your bathrobe at your chest for mental support. The seriousness of the situation inches nearer and nearer and your stomach knots. 

She inhales, straightening up, as if she was about to leave this room. “Mr. Kim is not a regular, so I don’t know anything about this temper, but I would suggest respecting his wishes.” 

And she does, making space for your thoughts to whirl, and your eyes trace the flowers on the red Persian rug underneath your slipper-shod feet. 

He’s not a regular, so that means he’s not anything like the disgusting groom in the painting. He may be an ordinary person just like you, trying your luck in an unusual setting. Perhaps young, perhaps older—but normal. Not a lecher about to feast on your purity. 

Your stomach relaxes as do your muscles and you walk over to the bed to grab your make-up bag. Set yourself into the doll version of you that enjoys a male company with your eyeliner and glitter. Finish the process with a red tendril of lipstick over your mouth—just to leave behind a pleasant trace if the man ever decides to up the fun a little bit. 

Will it be fun? Or will you regret every second? 

An unanswerable question for your doll brain. You shake it off. Sit down at the edge of the bed and wait. 

Wait for him to fuck not just your anger, but your feelings out of your body. 

The woman emerges out of the bright light of the hall as if she was a housekeeper coming in to clean the hotel room. To a naked eye, it is not far from reality. This time, her softness has deepened so much that she bears a smile on her face. One, that you’re unsure of what it means. And one that relaxes your system to its finality. 

She raises a hand towards the double doors, in the direction of the easel with the painting, and nods, her smile unwavering. 

“You may proceed, miss, through this door. You can take off your robe now and get on the bed through the back of the cubicle. Mr. Kim will join you in five minutes.” 

Your breath shivers as you exhale. You thank her and she clicks the door shut behind her. Scurrying onto your feet, you gather as much bravery as you can. Your bathrobe plops down onto the bed. You give one last look to the unhappy bride in the painting before you open the door. 

You sense her encouraging you to go on—to live a life full of emancipation that she never got to grasp with her fist. And that, you find, is your bravery. 

The dimmed room, in size, mirrors the one you just walked out of. And it stares at you head-on. 

The cubicle the employee spoke of faces you to the right. A black-painted wooden little structure  with a hole in the middle, covered in leather that is cut into long fringes. The lower half of your body will stick out of it and you reckon it depends on Mr. Kim himself what he does with your legs—whether he pins them up using the restrains on the wood or if he holds them. 

The unknown lengthens and for the first time during this night, a small ribbon of excitement begins to swathe your chest. 

Next to the cubicle, in the far corner of the room, is a dresser. You believe the drawers are filled with toys, but the top is lined with dark bottles of alcohol that you recognize. European—Jack Daniel’s, Jim Beam. Suits the play house’s style, you guess. 

And on the left, a monumental bed that takes up the rest of the room. And it’s hung up from the ceiling.

You don’t have time to ogle it as time ticks, but while you run to the back of the cubicle like you were advised, you do notice that there are no paintings embellishing the walls. No person from the old age of time to witness the unfolding of your so-called dream. Sinful, sinful dream. 

Maybe that was done on purpose. Maybe you’re supposed to live this dream with the anonymous Mr. Kim in some way. 

The mattress inside the cubicle is made out of leather, but it is the strong scent of fresh wood that hits your nostrils. It is decorated with twinkle lights all around, giving it a comforting feel. One pair of restraints is installed into the walls as well, but you think it’s more for leverage than for the wishes of the dream fulfiller. Milky and silken, they stand out from the dark tones of it all, and you gaze at them for some kind of comfort as you strengthen your legs through the hole, the cold tassels drifting along your bare body sending sparks of strange delight up your stomach. You bite your lip at the sensation, scooching up to an awkward, almost sitting position so your legs don’t dangle out, but the backs of your knees press against the edge of the mat. 

You cross your ankles. 

And you wait, all over again. 

Wonder if you should touch yourself or if you should give the honors to Mr. Kim to make you ready for him, but the tassels, the sight of your hip bone tattoo that says angel… your nipples perk up on their own and maybe you’ve come to like the act of waiting for him. Or maybe you like the view of your nakedness at a peculiar place such as this. Of your angelic form bare and about to be taken back to heaven. 

Your stomach swarms with anxious morsels at that thought and you take a deep breath. At your exhale, you hear the door creak open and close with a certain tenderness that you immediately know it was used in order not to startle you. 

One point up for Mr. Kim. 

Maybe the Kim clan has good manners and thoughtfulness engraved in their DNA, but they’re men and disappointment always awaits you eventually—

His footsteps lead towards you, carrying that same tenderness. The sound of the muted thuds grow more and more distinct, no ounce of hurriedness lodged in them. A small fire begins to burn in you due to his evident patience, awakening your body, and you’re so, so surprised to detect such gentle arousal just from the energy he’s brought in. 

That, alone, causes you to curl in your coyness, but when you hear him huff out a gentle laughter, you instinctively squeeze your thighs first before you bury your face in your hands, your cheeks hot to the touch. 

Why is he laughing—

He places a large, warm palm on your knee. You flinch and his touch becomes heavier as if he was telling you not to be scared, its warmth begins to descend down your shin—and then lips. His breath wafts over your skin and he presses his lips against it as a way of greeting. 

It is the rule of this sexual practice—no speaking between the partners. And now that it’s unfolding in action, you find yourself absolutely enthralled by it.

You flutter all over, the apex of your inner thighs slick with the liquid expression of your arousal. Your heart pounds, touched by that unusual but kind gesture, and you’re curious for more. 

He rubs the place he kissed with his thumb and then… coldness. He must have withdrawn, straightened his posture, and a great oddity begins to take form in you. 

Your knees tremble, sensitive from his benevolence. 

And you wonder if he’s watching his creation, taking his time as he is for the next move. You long for it, timid, unsure of what to do with your hands. You flex them and unflex them on the leather, your lower limbs gaining momentum, and you feel your wetness trickling down onto the mat. You do well to stifle the mewls gathering in your throat and you yearn for those considerate hands of his to touch you everywhere—

He yanks you forward and, remarkably, the yelp that is flung out of you is hushed, not heard by his ears. At least you hope so—you don’t want to get in trouble, turn that kindness of his around. You’d regret that, and you’d regret that very much. 

Mr. Kim spreads your legs apart, but your femininity is concealed by those suspended tassels that tease your core, your clit, and your hip bones, the most sensitive and vulnerable parts of you. A great dose of pleasure surges through you from it and from the way those fingers of his glide upon the inner of your thigh. He reaches as far as where your shiny stain is. A low, deep breath is exuded from his chest when he feels it and he smears it along your pelvic bone and a little bit on one of your folds. 

He heightens your tremor by doing that. 

You feel bad for reacting like that, but you can’t help it—neither can you stop it. You try to keep your body still and through the opening you can see him propping his hand on your thigh, watching you do so, as if he won’t continue until he knows you’ve regained your composure. And something about that, in its own way, helps you, and it helps you tremendously. 

With his palm flat, he caresses your flesh in a circular motion to praise you for it, lifting his hand upwards and beyond your sight. Your stomach undulates and it is now that you notice the navy blue of his dress pants, the growing tent that takes shape in the middle, and owing to the calmness and the sense of safety he’s installed within you, you do the boldest thing you’ve ever done, save for leaning in to kiss Namjoon nearly two weeks ago. 

Turned on from the sight of his arousal, you grab a hold of the tassel and you begin to provoke him, deciding that you want his manhood to grow. Because of the way he treats you, you deem he deserves it. 

You move, smooth, the leather strip along your cunt, collecting your slick. You shift your hips in circles, the fabric cool and sensual in a way you never thought it would be. Your breaths come out whiny the longer you do it and when you change the direction and move up and down, you can hear his breaths, too. And maybe the blackness of the walls are messing with your mind, but you could’ve sworn, his secret noises have become whiny just the same once you pressed the tassel against your swollen clit. 

And it isn’t until you naturally feel the back of his leg with the ball of your foot that he lets you see how much your little show advanced his arousal. The print of is cock is prominent, thick in the tightness of his pants, and you want it. 

You no longer want Namjoon’s. You want his. 

The plan worked. 

And with a smile of a winner gracing your features, to celebrate you start to make yourself feel delightful. You rub your clit, still with the strip, biting your lips in order to suppress your moans, the pleasure more vivacious this time around. He’s not palming himself, he’s not doing anything at all but watching you, his hands by his sides, and perhaps to reward him—you let go of the tassel. 

You let him see your pussy. 

Shiny, swollen and needy, asking for a man you haven’t seen and won’t even see. 

How sinful, how titillating. You can’t wait to have a cigarette after this. 

His cock twitches and it beguiles you, the way your hand, without your conscious knowing, extends out and reaches for it through the hole. Your femininity, your sexuality—brazen and alive, unafraid and illimitably splendid. 

And in this situation, it is a thing of absolute sublimity, the act of him inching forward and letting you touch him, feel your own creation the way he felt his. You want his number, you want to make him come. You want him to take you out and you want to show it off on your Instagram story, hiding everyone else from seeing it except for Namjoon. A devilish laughter pricks at your throat, desperate to be heard. You sense how heavy his cock must be, how strong, how hard. It’s impossible for you to suck it as he’s not allowed to see your face, but you know the idea of it will haunt your daydreams—

He grasps a hold of your wrist, silencing your thoughts, and you hold your breath. He slides his grip down to your hand and he makes you squeeze him, his length, his balls. Your hole clenches, even your features scrunch up in need, and with your other hand you begin to help yourself, but he stops you. 

Pins your hands down on the leather. Maneuvers to firmly grapple both of your wrists on top of your tummy and uses his free hand to push you forward a little bit. Your legs dangle out, uncomfortably, and he’s so attuned to you that he notices. Leads your leg to wrap around him, the other one two, and if it weren’t for the mattress jutting out, you and him would be flush to each other. 

Body to body. 

He sucks in a breath at the first contact of his thumb and your clit. He must feel how swollen it is and he dips down to your hole, circling it there, gathering your arousal before he returns to that needy flesh, continuing his circles there. Slow, slow circles that make you writhe on the mat, the leather creaking. You lament that he can’t attach his mouth to it, regret that you chose this option because of your foolish feelings, and despite the fact you thought your plan worked and Mr. Kim alleviated your anger, the emotion bursts within you. 

Your muscles tense, your lips flatten in a tight line, your fists in his hold clench, and you’re angry. Angry, angry, angry. Hateful of your life, hateful of your body, of your heart. And in the middle of the explosion, you make a mistake. 

You growl. 

He stops his circles. 

Time beats two times before you’re yanked out of the hole, your feet landing on the parquet floors with that familiar gentleness the man bears. 

And the man… 

The man is no other but Kim Namjoon himself. The source, the epitome of your anger. 

And you feel nothing. Your shock evens out through every fraction of your nerve endings, paralyzing you. Time ceases its beats here—while you stare up at him and he stares down at you. Namjoon isn’t seized by the shock like you are, though. He begins to laugh, darkly, hushedly, humorlessly. Slides his hands into the pockets of his pants and takes a step back. 

Embeds life into time. 

“I fucking knew it was you,” he rasps, that laughter melting into nothingness until the gravity of this situation spreads across this sinful room. Heavy, heavy energy. You should feel ashamed at this very moment, you should cover yourself up, but you don’t. You don’t do anything. “I read your safe word. I thought it was a coincidence, life making fun of me. And then, I saw your butterfly tattoo, but tattoos can lie to me and it was too good to be true. But that growl… that growl of yours can’t lie to me. I know it like I know myself.”

Your growl was your response to his never-dying teasing. If he tickled you, nudged you, bugged you, the only way you would make it stop was by letting out that vexed noise of yours—and it would work. He’d laugh to himself and withdraw his hands. 

You part your mouth, but you can’t say anything. Your shock rises in you like a tidal wave that submerges in you and you drown. 

Then, a perplexing song of a mockingbird breezing through the wind outside sounds out within the room, saying things your body is unable to. 

Namjoon blinks, taken aback by your lack of retort. No words, no growls. Merely the song crooning along the spaciousness of the atmosphere. He licks his lips. 

“Why did you stop replying to my messages?” he asks, and you find it obscene that he’s inquiring about this when you’re all bare, trembling, and with your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. If anything, he should be asking you what you’re doing here, but it’s like the fact isn’t news to him. 

And what you don’t know is that he pours life into you with his bizarreness. 

Your first reaction is to scoff. Your second is to bash your fists against his chest, pushing him a step back. And Namjoon… he smirks. As if he succeeded in his plan—pulling you out of your state of shock into a blooming garden of your emotions, where you can run, where you can scream and where you can inflict violence. 

Where you can speak. 

“Why did I stop replying to your messages?” you throw it back at him, your voice rising in volume, and Namjoon straightens, delightfully watches you be full of life. “You think you can share your life with me, take me on dates, pay for me and leave it at that? Turn your head when I try to kiss you? Do you think I’m some kind of lady companion—”

“No,” he interrupts, tilting his chin up, his dominance on full display with the deepness of his voice, the width of his shoulders and his powerful stance. You drip for him, but you’re as powerful as he is. You’re equal—equally tangled up in the same sin. “You’re my Lady Beetle, aren’t you?” 

Your breath hitches, your nipples hardening, and your wetness is so, so uncomfortable, trickling down your flesh. And he provokes the pressure of your arousal in your core by that nickname, even more so when he lifts a finger and traces the freckles upon your right shoulder, the meaning behind that term of endearment, from his distance. Even more so when he sinks his fingers into the hair on the nape of your neck, uttering his following words. 

“Get back inside the cubicle.” 

But you’re not obeying. You don’t know his temper either, but you are getting yourself into trouble. And you’re not getting fucked until you know that he reciprocates your feelings. 

And you know what to do. 

“Kiss me,” you murmur, crossing the distance, inching towards his face. Namjoon tilts his head down, his lips nearly brushing against yours, and that’s all he does, nudging your anger. “Kiss me, Namjoon, or I’m walking out of this room.” 

He lets the tension simmer, unblinking, consuming your eyes from this close proximity. And when he opens his mouth, you think he’s about to kiss you, but you’re mistaken. Deadly, deadly mistaken. 

“Did you come here to forget about me?” he whispers, inching even closer until your nipples graze against the soft material of his sweater, hums in question when you don’t answer. Lifts your chin to make you look at him when your eyes stray away, your anger bubbling in you. He perceives the real you, always has, and you don’t have to say a word. Only a person intertwined with your soul could be able to do this; why won’t he act on it? 

“Did you come here to look for me?” you whisper back, pressing your torso against him until your breasts squish against his hard chest. His still hard manhood pokes you in your tummy, harder than it was when you touched him earlier, and wrap your arms around him, your hands traveling all across the width of his back until they wander down his loins, even lower to his buttocks. 

He pants, but his voice is not affected by the whirlwind of his emotions. Delicious, delicious whirlwind.

“Yes,” he says, firmly, flattening his lips and growling when you squeeze his butt. You enjoy those selfish touches so much that your grin illuminates the room, a ball of light amidst all this darkness. Your anger watches on, stunned. “What do you think? If I wanted to move on, I wouldn’t have chosen a fucking glory hole out of all the options. I’m not like you. I don’t give up. I’m patient.” 

“Patient…” You taste those words on your tongue, dwelling on them. They’re bittersweet, and you stand in the middle of your decision whether you like them or not. “What are you waiting for?” 

He sighs, lifting his hands and digging his fingertips into your ribs, holding you to him. You mirror his movements, and you let out that strained breath of yours when he bends his head and places a singular, wet kiss onto the side of your neck. 

You had asked him to kiss you, even though you didn’t specify where, but you didn’t expect your body to tingle this much and grow boneless in his unfailing hold. You cling to him with all your might—there’s nothing left for you to do. 

You’re his. Have been his since the moment you saw his watch. 

And you can’t believe you haven’t noticed that Cartier adornment when you were ogling his manhood. 

He brushes away a wispy strand of your hand before returning it back to its rightful place. “You deserve the world and I’m not there yet to give it to you. And you’re not gonna look for it elsewhere, I’m not letting that happen. I’m gonna give it to you.” 

Honesty is here at last, the explanation to his distance. You hide the fluttering joy that opens in your chest, but you do let him see the smile that begins to curve your lips. He likes you; you can live at peace now. No more anger, no more daydreams. 

“Kim Namjoon,” you breathe out, moving your hands to his sides. “Is that a promise I hear?” 

He nods, tilting his head to the side as his pupils grow large. “Yes, that’s a promise. The last relationship I was in fucked me up, but I’m gonna get right, and I want you to hold onto that promise.” 

You hum. “What does that mean for us right now?” 

He smirks, that cheek cleft enchanting you all over again. “If you want kisses, then kisses is what you’re gonna get.” 

Your smile lengthens until your cheeks hurt, heated. “I want kisses. Lots of kisses. On different places of my body, too.” 

Namjoon retreats back to your neck, peppering kisses along that column. You whimper, hands hurrying to undo the button of his pants, desperate and arbitrary. But with a disapproving noise, Namjoon stops your hasty movements. Pins your hands behind your back.

“Patience,” he whispers, gliding his lips across the kisses he left behind. Your skin prickles with goosebumps against him, your nipples so stiffened that they ache, and, most unfortunately, you moan softly in impatience. “You’re gonna learn what true patience is, little beetle.” 

Color heats your cheeks and as you grin, you bite your bottom lip. “Be my teacher, Namjoon.” 

He chokes out a groan, dizzied by the idea, one that fades into your yelp when he unexpectedly turns you around and pushes your back against his chest, your arms long and criss-crossed behind you, hands flat against his cock. 

Something tells you this lesson will be one of great difficulty for you. And of great pleasure. 

Namjoon cups your jaw, swivels your head to face him a little. “Where do you want those kisses?” 

Your quivering breath fans out across his big hand. “On my nipples.” 

At your quick answer, he makes a sound of approval and with a feathery-light touch he sails his knuckles down the right side of your chest, from your collarbone down to the beginning of your supple breast, where he stops his voyage to study your reaction. As much as you’d die for his fingers to go a little lower, you keep your tremors in tact. Even your fingers remain obedient, relaxed in their position and not tempting his temper. You close your eyes, try your bestest to hold it while you wait it out, and your slick by now creates a pool between your feet. Namjoon’s cock twitches at your goodness and he sighs a little praise into your ear, just for you to hear. It roots deeply in your gut, where it stirs the butterflies that are painted in the color of his eyes. 

His knuckles descend lower and lower, stop at the apex of your nipple, and the nearness is enough for you to stoop in your desperation. 

Something you shouldn’t have done.

Namjoon slaps that pointy flesh, coaxing such a filthy moan out of you that it reverberates through the room. The harshness, intertwined with the swift stimulation of your nipples spreads a buzzing sensation down your body, settling in your aching clit, and the loud noise you let out echoes in small whimpers, wordless pleas for more. He becomes harder in your hands, as if he could translate them, and the temptation croons at you again, telling you to squeeze him. This time, you can’t really hold back. This time, you want him to do it again.

On the other breast. 

You squeeze him, the weight of his cock an inexplicable experience that drives you to a point of carnal madness. You slide your palms along that thick length and the way he’s quiet, unspeaking, unbreathing, puzzles you and alarms you simultaneously. 

You look behind you. Catch his features screwed up in such pleasure that you whimper again, announcing that you’ve seen him in his weakest. And Namjoon is brought back into his teacher mode. He allowed himself that fraction of time for his own pleasure, perhaps for yours, too, and you’ve never discovered something so imposing. 

Your sexuality and his, interwoven, a thing of glory more magnificent than this playhouse itself. 

“Little beetle, you’re just so naughty, aren’t you?” he rasps into your ear, pressing you against him with both of his arms wrapped around your chest, nuzzling his face into your neck. He kneads your breasts hard before he slaps them, both at the same time, and you make such a mess. “So impatient, so desperate to touch and be touched. What am I gonna do with you? Can you even learn, hm?” 

Knead. Slap. Namjoon tweaks your nipples, circles them with his fingers, filling your body with such pleasure that your knees nearly give out on you. And he holds you to him by your neck, a firm grip that conveys to you that from now on, he won’t be very nice. 

And you don’t really mind. 

“Get back inside the cubicle so I can deal with you accordingly,” he mutters his order, tracing the shell of your ear with his puffy lips before he latches onto your earlobe, sucking it into his mouth briefly, making you cry out. “Do you know what happens to girls who can’t be helped?” 

Your voice is strained, impossible to use. “No.” 

“They get spanked and fucked so hard that they forget who they are,” he reveals, sailing his hands back down your body, flicking your nipples on the way, before his palms anchor at the V-shape of your private parts. He plays with your folds, stimulating your clit in that way without touching it. You grind your hips into his movements, seeking more, but he slaps your pussy for it, halting you. “That’s the only way they get salvaged.” 

And then he lets go of you. And the look he gives you is so lecherous, so dirty that your legs are jelly as you scurry to the end of the glory hole cubicle, thinking that this entire moment is speckled with glory that will haunt you for the rest of your days. 

You get back into position, your legs dangling out, and Namjoon repeats his voyage. Sails, sails down your tummy before anchoring at the mound of your cunt, but this time he doesn’t gratify you with any delight. He continues down your wet thighs and, abruptly, he turns you over, pushing you forward so your bum shows fully, your tippy toes touching the floor.

The tassels are warm and saturated with the dew of your arousal, tickling the small of your back. 

“Now listen to me,” he says, his fingers wandering all around your flesh, but not where you want him the most. “I’m not Namjoon at this moment. I’m not your teacher. In your mind, you’re gonna go back to who you thought I was before I showed myself to you. Mr. Kim. And you’re gonna address me as so, do you understand?” 

Your brows furrow and you curve your body to the side in question, not understanding this sudden change of the play. You may have wanted this fictional Mr. Kim more than you wanted Namjoon but that was before you found out that he felt the same way as you. 

“Why?” 

He massages the round, graceful cheeks of your bum, propelling you to rest your torso flat on the mat, comfortably. “Because you deserve it. Because your Namjoon isn’t where he’s supposed to be yet. So I’m not fucking you as Namjoon, I’m fucking you as Mr. Kim. This is the only time you’re getting fucked before I get right, so I suggest you enjoy every second.”

You gasp at his words, but your hole reacts first before you do, opening and closing all for his eyes to see—and they do. And he likes the view so much that he takes his thumb and perseverates the brief motion, your center coating his digit in sopping wetness. Your hips follow him and this time, he lets you. He gives you a moment to comprehend your future full of pure possibilities and kisses and you detect in your soul no disapproval. Because you’re rewarded with his heart in the end, it’s worth it. 

His heart is one of gold, one that won’t perish. 

You’ve seen it in the way he treated your mother, in the way he would stop his teasing when you had enough. In the respect he has towards you because he isn’t ready for a relationship. In the promise he gave you, even though that gold is scratched. 

You love him, and because of that you shall play his game. 

“Yes, Mr. Kim.” 

He kisses the fleshiest part of your bum, wetly, humming into your skin—another reward. 

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, nibbling the place he gave love to. “Try staying one.” 

You mewl, grinding into his face, desirous for a release. “Yes, sir.” 

He draws back and chuckles. “Look at you, so good all of a sudden when you’re all spread for me. You’re still getting spanked, little girl.” 

You whine, pretending that you don’t like what awaits you, when in reality you can’t wait. “Can I get another kisses after?” 

His laughter roars through the room. “Where do you want them?” 

“On my pussy, Mr. Kim.” 

He growls, swearing, his hands nowhere to be found on your body. “You’ll get lots of kisses on your pussy if you take these spanks well. Can you count them down for me?” 

You nod, but you quickly realize that he can’t see you. Your dusky world pirouettes and you’ve tumbled into a state of haziness, needing his firm hand, his dependable stability. “Yeah, I can.” 

Namjoon coos, his palm back on your bum, fondling it. “Good. Do you remember your safe word? You’re still getting those kisses if you use it, darling.” 

You dissolve into the leather, your body limp, but you do remember the magic word of utmost adoration. “Beetle.” 

A kiss on your flesh. “That’s it. Perfect. Does someone you know call you by that nickname?” he asks and you giggle, the comfort and the safety of the moment almost lulling you to sleep. “From ten, little beetle.” 

And he rouses you from your sleepiness by landing a sharp spank on the cheek that he made so tender. The pain is so acute, so good that you almost forget to utter out the number, swimming in the sensation as you are, but Mr. Kim isn’t upset by it. No, he helps you. 

“What number was that?” 

“Ten.” 

“Ten, that’s right. You’re doing so good.” 

Mr. Kim’s kindness enters you all over again, liquifies between your legs, and you moan out. The following sting of his palm is greater than the previous one and your chest arches off the leather, but you like it. Even though he doesn’t alleviate the spank, lets only the air make it better, you still like it—so much that you don’t make a mistake and count it down. 

“Nine.” 

And he repeats it after you, spanking you again and again until the skin of your left cheek is inflamed, burning red, and the perception of the pricks is too much for you to handle. But taking after him, you don’t give up. Grit your jaw, flex your fists, scream out the numbers until you reach one and that side of your bum feels numb. 

And Mr. Kim praises you for it so lasciviously that you can only whine in response, your little noises muffled by the leather. 

“Good girl. You took your punishment so well. Your ass is so prettily red, oh my God. You’re gonna get those kisses now. So, so many of them until you come all over my tongue. Spread your legs even more for me.”

You do as he says, mind blank, and you hear the thud of his knees hitting the floor. That alone makes you drool, the sound of his submission, let alone his satisfied groan when he attaches his mouth to your pussy lips.

And you can’t voice out the surplus of your emotions, the unrestrained joy that you feel because you’re being eaten out by a man that you love, but because of their boisterous nature, they come out nonetheless. Out of your tear ducts, out of the corner of your mouth in the form of drool and little muted noises that are impossible for anyone to hear but you. And you fail him. You can’t imagine a fictional person sucking on your clit like that, that feels as though your soul is being yanked out of you like you were so many times upon this night. No, only Namjoon can do this to you—and so, privately, you bask in it. In Namjoon’s tongue swirling circles on your clit; in Namjoon’s lips sucking them so hard that you lose track of time, surroundings and your own being. In Namjoon’s hands shaking your bum in his face; in his fingers rubbing rapid side-to-side motions on your wet clit from the front when he fucks you with his tongue from the back. 

You’re transported to a place that is neither heaven nor paradise. A place he, himself, must have brought into existence by the energy of his utter devotion for you. And you make it real when you come—sprinkle him with the fountain of your essence that contains the molecules of the universe he created for you. And you float, you float, you float. And he seizes the gravity by praising you for squirting for him, for coming so well and making the best of your so-deserved kisses. 

And then his pants flop to the floor, his sweater—until the only things he’s wearing are his watch, his bracelet and his affection for you. You turn your body halfway so you can see him, the wholeness of his manliness that is aching for you, dripping for you like you’re dripping for him, and his cock is so hard that it points up to his abdomen. You’ve never seen anything like this before and you grow so savagely hungry for it that you begin to suck on your index finger.

Purposefully loudly, smacking your mouth. 

Namjoon chuckles, darkly, and the warmth of that expression of his pulsates in you. “Oh, you’ll be sucking on this cock, too, don’t you worry, my beetle. I just need to feel your pussy around me.” 

Oh, the slip-up. He feels this on the same wavelength as you—no Mr. Kim, no anonymity. Only Namjoon and you. If you were unsure of his feelings before, you can’t be unsure now. The universe he created palpitates around you and you’re so drunk on all of this new knowledge that when he buries himself inside your heat, you can’t let him in. Your walls are compressing so tightly with your still-yet growing arousal that you clamp down on him, but at the sound of his torturous moans, you suck him in. 

And he doesn’t go easy on you. 

With his hard, hard, and long shaft he begins to fuck you, violently. He rams into you without any mercy, lifting your leg onto the mat and entering you more deeply, curling his hips to kiss and kiss your cervix again and again. His strokes are reverberated throughout your whole body—your nipples rub against the leather, your head rocks against it in a way that turns you feral, you gag on your finger, your clit is teased with those relentless pounds. You’re helpless, but also boundless, being fucked like that, and you realize, with your dumb, blank and empty brain, that you’re extensively getting your best friend’s money’s worth. 

And Namjoon elevates your experience. 

He reaches through the hole and roughly captures your hair in his fist, popping your finger out of your mouth. Decides it’s not enough, decides you’ve had enough of the hole time and he pulls you out, all while still being inside of you. Straightens you against him, grasps your jaw while his other hand slips down to your clit. 

And the side-to-side motions are brutal. Mean. So dominant in the way he keeps the contact light, barely stimulating you, but stimulating you, regardless. 

“You think you can gag on your little finger and that it does nothing to me?” he scolds, pinching your clit, and your growl is scratchy, raspy, so fucked out. He’s reprimanding you, but his words don’t reflect his actions. Namjoon kisses you everywhere he can reach. Ear, cheek, jaw, neck. So frantically, so impatiently. “Have you learned nothing?” 

You pant, your orgasm so awfully close from being bound but unbound at the same time, fucked slowly and torturously as Namjoon begins to move, grinding against you. But he has to stop—because if he doesn’t, you’re gonna come all over his cock, right in the center of this room. He’s teasing your build-up, just like you imagined he would, letting it rise and letting it fall in short intervals. 

But he has pity on you, stemming from his affection. A cold, cold pity that you need for the heat rippling through you. 

“Get on the bed. On your knees.” 

He pulls himself out of you and urges you forward—towards the hanging bed. And you don’t care to ponder if it will move under your weight. All you can think about is his dick as you crawl onto that bed that does not wobble at all, but remains perfectly offset. You sit back on your folded legs and wait for him—watch him take those leisurely, effortless steps like he did at the start of this evening. Only this time, you get to see it with your eyes. His tall height, his swaying shoulders, flat abdomen and that hard cock, glistening with your slick. Carmine, aching. 

You lick your lips. Prop yourself on your knuckles in front of you, back arched. Realize he kissed you everywhere, but on your mouth. And so you pout—and you make puppy eyes at him. 

He smooths down a flyaway on your sweaty hairline, endeared. “What’s wrong?” 

“You haven’t kissed me on the lips.” 

Namjoon smiles down at you, dejectedly. Curls your hair behind your ear, grabs you by the back of your neck, calls to attention all the butterflies in your tummy. “I’m sorry.” 

And he captures your mouth. As Namjoon, as a golden-hearted man that longs to give you the world, and you can vividly feel it. Mr. Kim doesn’t exist anymore and Namjoon seals that fact in when he prods his tongue inside, toying with yours before retreating back, moaning into the kiss. 

A kiss that was more than a kiss. 

And you have to kiss him again when he takes a moment to breathe. You have to devour him, clasp your hand around his wet cock as you do so—and Namjoon has to push your head down, fucking your mouth until your tears freely escape from all directions. He grips your hair tight, holds you to him from the side, plunging in and out of your throat however he pleases, your gagging noises encouraging him to possess every inch of you. Your mascara zigzags down your face in clumps—and once Namjoon’s pity flickers in him all over again, he lifts you and kisses you so nastily that you fade into nothingness. 

Then, you’re on your back and he pounds that nothingness. Uses your thighs as leverage as you’re just laying there, a hole and nothing else. Perhaps the cubicle changed your life to such an extent that you’ve become it. You shall never forget it—even now it is scattered all across your vision as you’re fucked into oblivion, the skin-slapping sounds and your pussy squelching around him accompanying your memory of the dark wood, the fairy lights, the restraints you never used.

The sex was too personal, too intimate for you to do so. Even before you discovered that Mr. Kim was Namjoon. Your body recognized his, your mind too blind, too preoccupied with your anger that is now healed. 

As if Namjoon could read your thoughts, he pumps into you with a hard thrust, eternalizing it. 

“Focus on me,” he growls and you squeak, hiccuping into every movement. It feels as though he’s blocking your throat with how deeply he’s ravaging you and you can only nod. 

You can only moan his name. 

“Namjoon. Yes, yes, yes—oh, Namjoon.” 

He laughs, that articulation of his joy abating in your mouth as he bends to kiss you, fully buried in you. And then he pulls out, presses his heavy cock on your cunt, lifts your head by grabbing your hair, consuming your mouth as if you were everything he ever lacked in his life. 

“Grind your pussy on it, it’s yours, my little beetle.” 

You whine, pucker your mouth against his, spinning your hips in circles, his cock so wet and so sticky from your happy juices. 

“Joonie, Joonie bug.” 

He closes his eyes, moaning all in your face, the principle of you softening and connecting his persona to yours absolutely ruining him. He tightens his grip on your hair, sinks himself inside you with his other hand and then sticks those soaked fingers inside your mouth. All four of them, gagging you. 

“Little beetle and big Joonie bug, hm. How do we taste?” His tone is so low that it penetrates your skin, paralyzing your senses until only one remains. Until all you know is the bitter-sweetness of his precum and the tanginess of your slick. And he doesn’t draw his fingers back, he continues to control your gags until he paints your face in another set of pretty black tears. “Tell me. How do we taste?” 

You growl around him, the sound he knows, and he pounds you for it, a thrust that hurts but feels good at the same time. You suck on his fingers, a trail of your drool trickling down from your connection, and Namjoon grunts. Slides his fingers out of your mouth and places them right on your clit. 

Rapid, rapid rubs. And equally rapid strokes. 

“Come,” he orders, and it’s like he flicked his fingers and made your body come. You didn’t have to do a thing. “Good. Finally. It feels so good, doesn’t it? Coming around my cock after all this time. Joonie bug is right there with you. Just a little bit more.” 

He’s given life to your orgasm by his words. A storm erupts, clearing out everything negative that was ever seeped throughout your soul. Your body quakes, submitted to him through and through, at his disposal to make himself come—until your orgasm is so milky that you can’t see. Your vision is dotted with white, with tiny glazing stars that must be hung up in the sky just like this bed. And Namjoon brings you to him, lips to lips, needing you as he fucks you through your mutual release, and those stars splotch him with their dust. 

You squirt all over him, for the second time around. And you don’t stop, the twitching of his cock, the warmth of his cum as he keeps stuffing you full of it, the unfaltering hardness of his thick shaft roll in your tiny orgasms, those little fountains of boundless pleasure that drench him, give him the likeness of those stars. He’s turned on your squirting ability and there’s no way back. No, no way back. 

Namjoon is exhausted as he pulls out—and you already feel so empty, so lonely. His cum streams out of you, staining the bed, and it saddens you so much that you reach into your heat to collect it, plunging your fingers into your mouth, eating him. And you moan, at his male taste, for the last time. 

“Fuck, don’t do that. I can’t go again.” He wipes down his face, a gleaming man that has your entire identity woven into his veins that run all across his arms, and you love him. You love him so drastically that you can’t get on your feet on your own, can’t make a decision of your own, can’t live without him. 

He fucked you so well that he attached you to himself. 

A wave of strange emotions engulf you. 

“Namjoon,” you whimper, tears burning each corner of your eyes, and you don’t know what to do, you don’t know what is happening. He lifts his head, round eyes blinking, and he’s so quick to cradle you into his arms, letting you cling to him, letting you wrap your legs around his torso like a baby. And that’s precisely how you feel—like a baby. 

“Talk to me,” he encourages, caressing your back in circles, and you moor your face in his neck, inhaling his individual bodily scent. So masculine, so heady, so intoxicating. You sob, running your fingers through his misty, blond-streaked hair, needing to be even closer to him than is physically possible. 

Namjoon shushes you, kissing your shoulder, giving you the strength to speak, giving you the identification of what you’re feeling. 

“This was so intense,” you croak out and Namjoon hums, halting his touch to focus on you wholly. “Emotionally. I feel much closer to you. Too close.” 

And he’s not running out of things to give you. He gives you kisses on your neck that bear no sexual context—romantic, reassuring kisses that ease up your muscles, that part the raging thunder of your emotions. And he gives you such comfort that you feel as though you’re floating upon an open body of water, as free as a human being can be. 

“What we did was intense but it was right. What you’re feeling is normal. I’m feeling it, too. We’ve been hiding our feelings for so long and we let them out just now, so it’s overwhelming. It’s okay. You’re good. Such a good girl, my good little lady beetle, tiniest girl beetle in the whole universe. I will protect you from the other bugs. Let’s get this make-up off, hm?” 

You nod, sob and laugh softly at that solace. Namjoon carries you into the shower. Lets the cold water streak down on you while you shield yourself from it, nearly slipping off his grasp. Namjoon chuckles, hoisting you higher, taking a step back to wash you completely clean. You scream and his chuckle deepens, getting you away from the iciness by pressing you against the tiles. 

He truly won’t stop teasing you. 

The water turns warm by the time he fetches the make-up remover. Pouring some on a large cotton pad, he cleanses the remnant of your sex tears, the physical memory of how good he fucked you and how he bound your soul to his. He’s careful around your eyes, focusing so intently that his lip is caged between his teeth. Once he’s finished, he kisses you—with Mr. Kim’s gentleness. 

Washes you clean, especially thoroughly between your legs. Embraces you in the shower and lets you feel—creates a safe space for your feelings. 

And then he’s dressing you in the clothes you came here in. A dark green dress that ends at your ankles. He makes sure to kiss your butterfly tattoo as he smooths down the skirt and you think you’re ready to marry him. 

You want to meet his mother. Not now, not after what you’ve done together. But someday soon. And you want your mother to meet his. 

“I need a cigarette,” you comment as he’s scrunching your hair with a towel. He himself has changed into a pair of clean black dress pants and a plain white shirt, almost oversized. An outfit that made your mouth water. “Like right now. And at least two.” 

He huffs out a laugh. “You can smoke on the balcony. I’ll have one with you. Do you want a drink?” 

Your eyes light up. Your whole body, too. 

Placing a bathrobe around your shoulder, he gently slaps your butt and guides you forward to the balcony. He grabs that bottle of red wine you had opened and joins you.

Two chairs, one small round table in the middle. The view of the entire Seoul city and a fucking statue in the corner of the balcony. 

A beautiful girl, half dressed. The fabric of her forever garment falls off her chest and you’ve never seen a more spectacular sculpture in your life. You enkindle your cigarette and touch her cool face, feel yourself immersed in her seductive beauty. One day you shall be just like her—once Namjoon comes to collect you. Not a doll, but a girl. 

“Take a picture of me,” you say, getting into position, only to realize that Namjoon has been snapping pictures of you while you were acknowledging yourself with the statue. With a cigarette hanging limply in the corner of his mouth. 

You can’t love him any deeper. 

You pose with her. Mirror her body language, even shake off your bathrobe and let your straps fall off your body like her. Private pictures just for him and for you—a reminder for what awaits you. 

A future full of pure possibilities. And sex, lots of and lots of sex. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild , @jjk7k , @parkinglot-nights , @bethvar , @Sexytholland , @yoongibaybee , @crystaleah ,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan , @euphoricmyth , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk .

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I stand by my statement: the softest of the Hogwarts Bangtan Boys is Namjoon by a long shot! 🥺 He’s just so freaking precious and cute. Love Nerd’s sass, love that Soobin is also just precious. Such a sweet read to lift anyone’s spirits (aka written by a true Hufflepuff)!

Blooming; knj.

Pairing: Ravenclaw! Namjoon x Hufflepuff! Reader

Genre: Fluff. A little angst. Hogwarts! AU. Non-Idol! AU.

Summary: As your seventh and final year at Hogwarts is overshadowed by the return of the Triwizard Tournament, you find that it's the small moments and little thing hold the most magic.

Rating & Warnings: PG. A little mutual pining. Namjoon is really soft, Reader is very much in love. Choi Soobin makes a cameo appearance as our reader's best friend.

Word Count: 4.7k.

A/N: This piece is for the BTS x Hogwarts collab hosted by @homeofbangtan. I want to dedicate this to @joyfulhopelox, @delacyrose224, @hyungieyoongi, @imyourhobiii, and @rosietae. You guys are as much a part of this fic as I am. You are my inspiration and my motivation. Thank you for all that you do. A HUGE THANK YOU to @hobipaint for taking the time to beta this and to @ttaetae for creating the stunning banner!

Like my work? Join my taglist!

Sixth Year, Spring Term.

March.

You wouldn’t say that you were one to handle unforeseen circumstances with grace and dignity. Maybe that’s the reason you found yourself here now, an empty bucket caught in your white-knuckled grip with a very surprised, soil covered Ravenclaw boy standing near the greenhouse entrance.

“Seriously?” The Ravenclaw chokes out, dusting the dirt off of himself, a quick wince shifting his features when his fingers pluck an earthworm from his silver hair. “Did you really just throw potting soil at me? Are you insane?”

“I’m sorry! I wasn’t exactly expecting anyone else to come waltzing into the greenhouses tonight! Especially not this late!”

The boy stared at you incredulously, trying to wipe some of the dirt from his robes. “So you attack me with dirt?! How could that have possibly seemed like a good idea?”

“I said I was sorry!” You take a few steps closer to him, careful to avoid knocking off the freshly potted plants from the table as you set down the now empty bucket. “Are...Are you okay? What are you doing in the greenhouses so late?”

“I’m fine. I couldn’t sleep and I like it here.” He admits without hesitation. “Why are you here?”

“Same as you. Professor Longbottom turns a blind eye as long as I help out with the chores around the greenhouses he can’t get to during the day.”

He peeks over your shoulder to see what you had been working on prior to the all of the commotion before stepping up to the edge of the work table to get a closer look. He picks up one of the pots, holding it away from him as he gives it a thorough examination before placing it back down and repeating the process with the other.

“These are Moonseed and Fanged Geranium, right? I’ve read about them in Goshawk’s Guide To Herbology. ”

“Yeah. They are.” You nod, impressed. “Both highly poisonous as I’m sure you’ve learned through your research, so no more surprises, okay?”

“You have my word.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender, the ghost of a dimpled smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m Y/N, by the way.” You hold out a dragon-hide gloved hand in his direction.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. Initial impression aside.” He takes your hand in his, dimples further denting his cheeks as his smile grows wider. “I’m Namjoon.”

He moves to shrug out of his dirty robes, pushing the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.

“Mind if I help you? I’ve always wanted to get my hands on Fanged Geranium.”

You grab your spare pair of gloves from the table and hold them out for him to take.

“Be my guest.”

Seventh Year, Fall Term.

September.

“They can’t be serious, right? They’re bringing the tournament back after what happened last time?” Your best friend and fellow Hufflepuff - Choi Soobin - leans over, eyes wide and jaw gaping. “This has got to be some kind of joke! The last time they held the tournament, Barty Crouch Jr., a literal Death Eater, spent most of the year disguised as a professor while he kept the real Mad Eye in a trunk! Voldemort hijacked the maze task and kidnapped both of the Hogwarts champions! Someone died!”

“I don’t think this is a joke, Soobs.” You spare your best friend a solemn smile, the knot forming in your stomach tightening.

“I’m going to be sick.” Soobin pushes away his plate full of half eaten roasted chicken and fried potatoes, reaching for his goblet to wash down the bitter taste left in his mouth by the announcement of the tournament with a large gulp of pumpkin juice.

With the return of the infamous Triwizard Tournament, your seventh and final year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was bound to be unlike any that had come before it. Long gone were the dreams of days spent curled up on the couch near the hearth in the Hufflepuff common room and late nights tucked away in the greenhouses covered in soil as you listened to the sound of the crickets singing into the darkness.

No, the halls of the castle would be abuzz with the excitement brought on by the three tasks, each more daunting than the last. The normal sea of black robes would be intermingled with the silky blue dresses of Beauxbatons Academy and the red velvet and fur trimmed uniforms of Durmstrang Institute.

“This is insane! Surely the headmaster has lost his mind!”

You catch Namjoon’s eye from across the Great Hall, his own look of surprise surely mirroring the one etched onto your features. His dark eyes are wide, normally rosy cheeks flushed and pale. You wish you could read his mind and know what he’s thinking, what is running through his mind as his teeth latch onto his bottom lip, gnawing absently on the plump flesh. His fingers are threaded together, elbows resting on the deep mahogany of the Ravenclaw table.

He had written to you over the summer break, sharing the hushed conversations he had overheard his mother and father having late into the night as the new term had drawn closer. His father, the right hand of the current Minister of Magic, had heard rumors floating around about the return of the tournament but Namjoon’s father, and Namjoon himself, took it with a grain of salt.

There was always talk of it reemerging, but nothing ever came to fruition in the past.

Not until now.

Seventh Year, Fall Term.

October.

“Are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?”

It had become routine, sitting together in the classes you shared, partnering up for projects and sharing whispered conversations as the professor’s lectures droned on in the background. At night, you would steal away to the greenhouses long after the castle had gone quiet in search of each other's company.

Kim Namjoon spares you one of his heartstopping dimpled grins and a little wave as he slides into the empty spot to your left. He sets his books and wand onto the table in front of him without much thought, each in pristine condition unlike your secondhand tomes, the binding cracked and threatening to fall apart at the seams.

“Have you ever known me to pass up a chance for butterbeer or Honeydukes, Joon?”

The dimly lit potions classroom leaves shadows dancing across Namjoon’s features. Even the darkness of the castle dungeons can’t seem to dull the shine of the smile that spreads across his lips, dimples indenting his cheeks.

“That’s true.” He laughs, taking out his parchment form last class, the page filled with his slanted, messy scrawl. You had always found his handwriting endearing, messy and utterly Namjoon. “You’ve got to have the biggest chocolate frog and peppermint toad stash out of anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Hey!” You knock your shoulder against his, flipping your potions textbook open to the page marked at the front of the room on the chalkboard. “I wouldn’t have to keep so many if you didn’t steal them out of my bag all the time!”

“You’re the one who always asks me if I want one!”

“It’s called being polite!”

“Saying no when you offer me one wouldn’t exactly be polite, now would it?”

“Whatever.” You huff, rolling your eyes in jest. “I should make you pitch in to replace the ones we’ve eaten if you’re going to keep eating them, too.”

“Okay.” He picks up his quill as the professor begins the lesson. “Guess that means we’re going to Hogsmeade together then. Meet me in the courtyard at eight Saturday morning?”

Saturday morning, the air is crisp and cold, the wind stinging at your nose and cheeks as you walk the cobblestone streets alongside Namjoon, taking refuge in one of the many shops when the cold seeps through your coat. After seeing you shiver, Namjoon takes the tabongin off his head and pulls it over yours, making sure to cover your ears to shield them from the cold.

“There.” He pats the top of your head after the knit is secured to his liking. “Better?”

“Much.” You nod, chalking up the burning in your cheeks to the chill and not the result of his warm gaze lingering on you. “Where should we go first?”

Namjoon simply smiles, leading you towards the entrance of Dogweed And Deathcap, Hogmead’s one and only herbology shop.

Namjoon buys an assortment of herbology and astronomy books from Tomes And Scrolls and a new set of quills and ink from Scrivenshaft’s.

You drag him along behind you in Zonko’s Joke Shop, pointing to the products you had taken home after last year and telling him the stories of the pranks you had played on your muggle parents.

By the time you’re stepping out of Honeydukes, bags of peppermint toads, chocolate frogs, and sugar quills in hand, you’re more than happy to slide into one of the tables at The Three Broomsticks with a mug of warm butterbeer warming your numb hands, both of your closest friends joining you.

“Wait, so you’re the reason Joon comes back to Ravenclaw tower every night covered in dirt?” Namjoon’s best friend, playfully dubbed ‘Nerd’, nearly chokes on a sip of butterbeer after he introduces you. She sputters out a cough, Namjoon’s hand patting at her back in an attempt to help her recover.

“In my defense, the only time it was my fault that he ended up covered in dirt was the first time when we met last year! Every other time, it’s on him! I have never seen someone drop as many pots as him! Last night, he was reaching for one full of dragon dung to fertilize some puffapods and tipped it over and ended up covered in it! Oh, and last week he-”

“Okay, okay.” Namjoon cuts you off, pushing a fresh butterbeer towards you. “I think we get it. I’m a klutz.”

“I’m just teasing you, Joon.” You take a sip, the drink warming your throat.

You miss the way Namjoon’s face falls when Soobin reaches over to wipe away the foam left behind on your top lip after you take a sip of your drink, eyes following the movement of the younger boy’s thumb brushing across your skin.

“Don’t worry too much about. Y/N thinks you being clumsy is cute. It’s pretty much all she-”

You nudge Soobin in the side, elbow colliding with his ribs hard enough to make him wince and shoot a glare in your direction.

“Anyways! What do you guys think the first task is going to be?”

Seventh Year, Fall Term.

November.

You don’t know how long you had been pacing, surely carving a path into the greenhouse floor. The knot in your stomach and lump in your throat refused to ease up, your chest aching as your heart hammered against your ribs with the force of a jackhammer.

Namjoon was late.

Would he even come at all?

The first task had ended hours ago and you hadn’t seen him since. You knew that seeing Sunny collapse after her bout with the dragon had gotten to him, the sight of the Hogwarts champion and one of his closest friends unconscious wracking him with anxiety.

When the greenhouse door opens with a creak, you snap your head up to look at him. You move on instinct, meeting him a few steps into the room. Your arms wrap around his waist in a tight hug, eyes welling up with tears.

He lets out a heavy sigh, arms enveloping you back to return your embrace, cheek resting against the top of your head.

“I was worried about you.” Your voice is muffled by his chest but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s here, not when you know that he’s hurting. “Are you okay? How is Sunny?”

“She’ll be okay. She’s in the infirmary right now.”

“And you? You’ll be okay, too, right?”

“Yeah.”

You lift your head to look at him. He reaches a hand up, thumb brushing away a stray tear that had started to fall down your cheek. He lets his touch linger, even if only for a moment, before he steps back.

“I’ll be okay.”

There it was again.

The unspoken feeling that seemed to hang over you in moments like this, moments where Namjoon seems less like a friend and more like something deeper, more tangible. Something...more.

Seventh Year, Fall Term.

December.

“Go to the ball with me.”

“What?” You freeze, your lunch all but forgotten as you stare at Soobin in disbelief.

“Go to the ball with me.” Soobin repeats himself with a shrug, shoveling another bite of hash into his awaiting mouth. “It’s not a big deal. If someone else has already asked, it’s cool. I just figured it’d be fun to go together if neither of us already had a date.”

“No one’s asked me, at least not yet, but-”

“But you’re waiting to see if Namjoon does?” He quirks an eyebrow in your direction, smirking. “The ball is in three days, Y/N. If he was going to, I think he would have by now.”

You know that Soobin’s right, the bitter truth of his words sinking in and leaving you feeling like nothing more than a balloon that’s lost all of its air.

“Yeah. You’re right.” You sigh, pushing what’s left of your food around on your plate with your fork. “Sure. Why not? I’ll go with you.”

“Great!” Soobin grins, all wide eyes while he chomps on his hash. “It’ll be great!”

“Hey, Kim!” Park Jimin slings his arm across the back of Namjoon’s shoulders, easily falling into step with the taller boy. “Excited for the Yule Ball? Found yourself a pretty little witch to spin around on the dance floor?”

“I’ll probably just go with Y/N.” Namjoon is quick to roll his eyes, shrugging off Jimin’s arm and putting a bit of distance between them.

“That’s the Hufflepuff girl you’re always hanging out with lately, yeah? I hate to break it to you, buddy, but another Badger asked her if she’d go with him at lunch this afternoon.”

“What?” Namjoon stops dead in his tracks, hands tightening on the books in his grasp. “Did she say she’d go with him?”

“Would you say no to Choi Soobin? I mean, c’mon. Even I’d say yes if he asked me.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Okay, yeah, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t blame her for saying yes, though. He’s got the whole boy next door thing going for him. It’s the pout, I swear. How can anyone say no to that?”

“Earthworm...Y/N doesn’t like him like that.” Namjoon can feel his cheeks burning, heart thundering in his chest. “They’re just friends.”

Namjoon’s not sure who he’s working harder to convince: Jimin or himself.

“Whatever you say. You’re the expert on the subject. But between you and me? If you wanted to ask her, you should have before someone else beat you to it.” Jimin snickers and holds his hands up on surrender, turning on his heel to walk the opposite way down the hall towards his next class.

Namjoon’s feet move on instinct towards Ravenclaw tower, the common room password falling from his lips absently.

If anyone ever asked, Namjoon wouldn’t hesitate to say that the Ravenclaw common room was the best of the four houses.

At the top of a winding spiral staircase on the west side of the castle stands a door without a doorknob nor keyhole. The only indicator that it is a door at all is the bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle that rests at eye level. If one wishes to enter the Ravenclaw common room, they must answer a carefully constructed riddle posed by the eagle. If answered incorrectly, the student would find themselves waiting at the top of the staircase, hoping that another student came along sooner rather than later and was able to answer their riddle correctly.

The domed ceiling reflects the stars etched into the midnight blue carpeting, the patterns creating makeshift constellations. The walls of the wide, circular room are draped with blue and bronze silks, the fabrics swaying in the breeze on the days where the weather was nice enough to permit opening the arched windows. From the tower, you can see everything from the castle grounds and beyond - the Forbidden Forest, the Quidditch pitch, the Herbology greenhouses, and the towering peaks of the surrounding mountains. Portraits of famous Ravenclaw alumni are hung about, a white marble statue of the founder, Rowena Ravenclaw, stands next to the door leading to the dormitories. At night, the wind sings as it passes through the staircase leading to the tower, the perfect lullaby to drift off to sleep to.

Namjoon’s favorite part, however, is the house’s own personal library. While it may not be as large as the castle's main library, he was willing to bet it had just as many - if not more - books stacked on the shelves. He often found himself tucked into the back of the shelves perched on the divan in the farthest corner when he wanted a little alone time, flipping through whichever of the many books captured his attention.

He knows when he hears the sound of his name being called that his peace and quiet was about to be cut short. His best friend - affectionately dubbed as ‘Nerd’ by none other than the Gryffindor quidditch captain, Kim Seokjin, himself - finds him in the niche. He closes the book in his hands, his wand resting between the pages as a makeshift bookmark.

“Kim Namjoon. You and I need to have a talk.”

“A talk about what?”

Nerd rolls her eyes, settling into the empty chair across the small table from him. She lets the stack of textbooks and rolled parchment fall onto the tabletop with a huff, the items cluttering the surface.

“Are you really going to sit here and sulk?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not sulking.”

“You totally are! You’re sulking! Look, you’re even pouting!”

“I am not!” Namjoon forces his features to morph into a tense smile, the upturn of his lips awkward. “See?”

“I’ve known you since we were in diapers. It’s going to take more than a fake smile that is quite honestly a little disturbing to convince me. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” Nerd slouches in her seat, arms crossed over her chest. “Does it have something to do with Y/N?”

“Y/N? What, no? Why would me being upset, theoretically, have anything to do with her?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Joon. Maybe because you’re in love with her?”

“What? No, I’m not! We’re just friends!”

“Oh really?”

“Yes! Really!” Namjoon’s cheeks are burning, flushing more red than pink.

“Tell me the truth, Joon!”

“Fine! You want to know? I’m jealous that she agreed to go to the Yule Ball with Choi Soobin and not me!”

His outburst captures the attention of the fourth year, Taehyun, sitting at the table adjacent to where they’re sitting. The younger boy shakes his head as Namjoon mutters a quick apology.

“Are you happy now?”

“No.” Nerd frowns, the downturn of her lips makes guilt pool in the pit of Namjoon’s stomach. “I just...I want you to be happy and I know that she does that. Makes you happy.”

“She does.” He doesn’t bother fighting anymore, letting the emotions he’s spent months pushing down bubble up to the surface, threatening to overflow and completely consume him. “But what if I don’t make her happy? What if I couldn’t?”

“You’ll never know unless you try, Joon. I hate seeing you like this. All of the pining from afar is driving me mad. Especially when it is painfully obvious that Y/N is crazy about you. So, are you going to let her slip through your fingers and miss your chance? Or are you going to do something about it?”

“I...I’m going to do something about it.” A small, playful smirk takes over Namjoon’s face when he sees the relief coloring his best friend’s eyes. “Now, what about you? Are you going to take your own advice and finally say something to Jin?”

“Hey!” She raises her wand, fully prepared to send a hex in his direction. “This isn’t about me!”

Fall Semester, Seventh Year.

December, Christmas Eve.

Nestled in a nook on the right hand side of the kitchen corridor, concealed behind a stack of barrels, stands the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room. There is no password needed to reveal the entrance, no, instead you must tap the barrel two from the bottom, middle of the second row, in the rhythm of ‘Helga Hufflepuff’. When done correctly, the lid of the barrel will swing open, exposing a passageway that will lead to the basement if you crawl.

The basement itself is earth and warm. The close proximity to the kitchens always left the room smelling of freshly baked bread and sweets. The room is always sunny, the circular windows providing a view of dandelions and rippling grass. Plants are scattered about, hanging from the ceiling and lining the windowsills. The head of House, Pomona Sprout, is to thank for the greenery found in the common room and dormitories. She was always happy to encourage those with an interest in Herbology, sharing plants with them that could do everything from blooming only under the light of a full moon to singing and dancing. The Hufflepuff common room is the only of the four houses to have a portrait of their founder, the framed likeness of Helga Hufflepuff hung above the hearth. The wooden fireplace is enchanted to be fireproof, the grains carved with intricate patterns of badgers and lush woodlands.

There are various underground tunnels leading off from the common room, two of which are tucked behind perfectly circular doors that lead to the boy and girl’s respective dormitories.

Tonight, the common room is empty, the fire in the hearth warming the space and casting the room in a golden light.

When you push through the door of the girl’s dorm, you see Soobin standing alone off to the side of one of the many overstuffed sofas adjusting his tie. He’s wearing his best dress robes and sports a smile, giving you a once over.

“Y/N! You look incredible!”

You do a little spin, the silk of your skirt moving with ease, following your movement.

You had seen the dress in the window of Gladrags Wizardwear back in October. It had taken nearly a month to convince yourself that it was justified to spend a rather large chunk of your galleons and sickles on the gown.

“Thank you, Soobs.” You link your arm with his when you reach him.

“Ready to get this show on the road?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be!” You nod, allowing him to lead you towards the entrance of the common room.

Your eyes search the crowd of students gathered before the entrance of the Great Hall, looking for an all too familiar dimpled smile only to come up short.

“Wait, I’ll be right back.”

You let go of Soobin’s arm, lifting up the hem of your gown as you descend the final steps of the grand staircase when you spot Nerd standing near the entrance to the Great Hall.

“Hey, hi!” You spare an awkward half wave. “Is Namjoon here?”

She smiles, the sight of it bittersweet as she shakes her head.

“No, he made it out of the common room and decided he wasn’t going to come.”

“What? He’s not coming? Where is he?”

“He said he needed to clear his head.” She gives you a knowing look.

The greenhouses.

You nod, thanking her before making your way back to Soobin, weaving through the crowd carefully so you don’t knock into any of the witches or wizards milling about.

“Hey, I am so sorry but I have to go. I have to find Namjoon.”

“Go. It’s okay.” He reaches forward to pull your jacket tighter around your shoulders. “Tell him how you feel.”

“Thank you. I promise I’ll make it up to you!”

“There’s no need.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re my best friend, Y/N. As long as you’re happy, that’s enough for me. Now go!”

“Okay, okay!” You hold your hands up in mock surrender, pulling him into a quick embrace before turning on your heel and heading towards the courtyard and away from the Great Hall.

The sleeves of Namjoon’s wrinkled shirt are pushed haphazardly around his elbows. His suit jacket is laid forgotten at the edge of the table, his tie hanging loosely around his neck - the knot undone and ends hanging at uneven lengths. The thighs of his dress pants are covered in dust and dirt, thoroughly ruined.

He doesn’t hear you enter and you take advantage of that, watching the way he works. He handles the plants and tools laid out before him with care. Your heart breaks when he lets out a muttered curse under his breath and his shoulders slump, hands gripping at the edge of the table and head hanging limply on his neck.

You feel it then, the gravity of what you feel for him.

Your heart is nothing more than a piece of glass in Namjoon’s hands. Any slip of his hands - any tremble or stumble - would leave you shattered and ruined. But, none of that matters. Not when you would still choose to give it to him if you had to do it all over again.

And again. And again. And again.

“Joon? Are you okay?”

“Shouldn’t you be at the ball?” He ignores your question, instead posing one of his own.

“Why would I want to be there when you’re here?”

He straightens, keeping his back to you as he messes with the flowers spread out in front of him, holding the petals of the lilac gently between his fingers.

“You’ll ruin your dress.”

“I don’t care.” You refuse to budge, taking a step closer to him, the bottom of your dress brushing across the floor of the greenhouse. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I just…” Namjoon lets out a sigh, setting the pot in his hands back onto the table beside him before turning his attention to you. “I look at you, I hear the sound of your voice, and I can’t help but feel like you’re special. Like the universe took it’s time making you. And when you look at me...I feel like flowers grow in my chest, blooming until it’s impossible to catch my breath.”

His soil stained fingers reach forward to cup your cheek and you find yourself leaning into the warmth of his touch. His palm is warm, the feeling of it pressed gently against your skin comforting.

Up close, Namjoon smells like the earth, of the plants he spends countless hours nurturing under the moonlight and fresh parchment stained by a bottle of freshly opened ink. You can’t help but wonder what shines brighter, the little flecks of gold near his pupil or the view of the stars from the astronomy tower in the dead of the night.

“I should have told you sooner. I’m sorry if I’m too late.”

“You’re telling me now, Joon.” Your hands find his waist, clutching at the hem of his dress shirt and fisting it in your grip.

“Do you know what lilacs mean to muggles?”

“Love. First love.”

“Yeah.” He nods, cheeks dusted an unmistakable shade of pink, even in the dim light of the greenhouse. He motions to the other flowers on the table. “Sunflowers mean loyalty and adoration. Daffodils mean chivalry and new beginnings. I wasn’t...I’m not the best at telling you how I feel. So, I figured I’d show you in a way we both could understand. Through this, through plants and flowers.”

“You did all of this for me?”

“I did."

The smile that overtakes Namjoon’s face, his thumb brushing across the apple of your cheek in slow, lazy circles, is enough to leave your resolve cracking. Fracturing and splitting apart, caving to the warmth of his touch and soft glow shining in his eyes. You look away, all of it too much, letting your head rest against his chest. The steady beating of his heart leaves your own aching in your chest.

“I love you, Earthworm.” He means it.

“I love you, too.” You mean it, too.

Exploration No. 5

[namjoon x reader] [1k+ strangers to lovers?, fluff] A/N: This is loosely based on Reese Lansangan's Exploration No. 5. Whenever I listen to the song, I think the line "Hey, what's your favorite crustacean?" was written for Namjoon. Or the entire song might as well have been. Also, I just really miss him. I miss BTS.

-

You hated school excursions, but you think you can make an exception for this particular trip if your museum guide is this cute.

-

For most of the tour, you were spacing out. Walking past exhibits, mindlessly taking photos of artifacts you may or may not use as a reference to your sketches. It's not like you didn't like museums, you actually enjoyed them. But on your own time.

"Y/N, look," Jungkook calls for your attention, imitating the posture of a taxidermized creature.

"Cute," you reply dryly. "Ya!" You hear as you walk away, not in the mood for one of his shenanigans.

You were passing by a group gathered under the fossilized crustaceans exhibit when the guide, passionately explaining an in-depth history of crustaceans, caught your eye.

The museum wasn't exactly short of cute guys, but call it fate or whatever you want, but something had you glued to where you stood, a few steps away from him. And it's not like you stayed to gawk at the guy, you were genuinely growing interested and curiouser and curiouser with each discussion.

"So, any questions?" The cute guy asks. Cue crickets and tumbleweeds passing. "Right. Thanks for—"

"Is it true lobsters pair and mate for life?" You dumbly ask. Of all the questions you could ask.

Seeming shocked someone asked a question, Namjoon searches for the source of the voice.

Your eyes meet.

"Ah well, miss…"

"Y/N. Just Y/N"

"Just Y/N," he smirks, "I hate to be the breaker of bad news, but by nature, lobsters are not exactly monogamous. A male lobster would most likely mate with multiple females during encounters lasting days to weeks. So no, lobsters don't pair and mate for life." He clarifies with a smile.

Just when you thought he couldn't be more adorable, you're proven wrong with those dimples.

"Ah, I see," you return with a smile, "Bummer."

"But there are other sea creatures that stick to one when they find their pair; we have angelfishes, sea otters, even some species of seahorses," he ends with a soft laugh.

Fuck, he's really adorable. "Oh, cute," clearing your throat, "I meant the angelfishes, and the uhm..” You let out a half wheeze, half laugh noise.

Now he’s staring with mirthful eyes.

“I was saying it’s cute that there are species that, uhm, that are like, you know, monogamous. Sticks to one; ride-or-die couples, I guess." Great, you're now rambling.

And your group seemed to have moved on to the next exhibit.

Reluctant to leave but unsure how to continue the conversation, he picks it up for you and asks, "Did you get that 'fact' from friends?"

"Huh?"

"The one about the lobster. I presume you watched the series and got it from there."

Now you're embarrassed. "Heh, I did. Kind of embarrassed now to admit that I believed it for years," you titter, "have you watched the show, too?"

He hums in reply. And as he walks further to the fossil aisle, you follow. "My mom bought me all ten DVDs, and from that, I learned to speak English better," he continues. You laugh, thinking it was a joke until you chance another look at him.

"Oh, you're serious." Another smile, then he nods. "So, do you think you're more of a Joey, Chandler, or Ross?"

Now it's his turn to look at you. "Humor me," you continue.

"I guess I'm a bit like Chandler. I see myself relating to his character." You let a beat pass before shamelessly replying, "I bet you don't have much trouble getting girls, though."

At that, he loudly laughs, a few students turning to look in your direction.

Oh, you'd gladly lamely flirt with him in exchange for his amusement.

"That's actually the bit that I relate to. Aside from classes and this internship here at the museum, it's not every day I meet cute girls who would want to talk to me. But today must be my lucky day."

Again, he smirks. He definitely knows how it affects you, too. You blush. And if possible, melt. You don't think you can even look at him, so you turn to face the artifacts. You actually dare to be bashful now when you fired the first flirty remark.

Mouth still stretched to a grin, you turn to face him. "You must think you're charming, huh?"

"Well, I'm assuming if I struck your fancy, at least a little bit." You like the creases by his eyes when he smiles, you think.

"Okay, you did. And you are."

Like a still-frame from a film, you're stood in the middle of the museum, heart eyes staring at each other.

You were the first to break away.

You are about to ask him another question when your professor announces it's time to leave for your next museum destination.

"Ah, I guess you have to go now," he nods towards the corner where students start to gather. You turn to look and agree with a nod, hiding your disappointment.

You try to stall. Just a bit. You gather all the bits of courage you have, "I know this is a bit too direct, but—" You're cut off, "Y/N, come on, we gotta go." Jungkook calls for you.

You huff, "Yea, just a minute. I'm right behind you." You stare him down until he goes ahead without you. And he does, but not before glancing at Namjoon.

You look back at Namjoon to see him expectantly looking at you, "Uhm, so thanks for the fact-check.." You trail off as he nods. Your courage was quick to leave you, and with that, you accept defeat.

But as if your fallen confidence were caught by your feet, you were merely a few steps away when you walk back to him, "Hey, what's your favorite crustacean?"

Startled by the question, Namjoon stutters a reply, "What?" He sees you shift in your feet, "Well, I mean, there are a lot, and I guess there's—"

"Can you tell me through text?" You attempt to steel your nerves once again. You can let embarrassment consume you after you leave the museum, but now, you want to shoot your shot.

He laughs and looks at your leaving party, "I guess I can do that since we're pressed for time." He takes your phone to call his, and long fingers quickly types in his name and number before you hear Jungkook call for you again across the gallery.

"Thanks," you see his saved contact and smile, "Joon."

He smiles back with a nod.

Ah. There's that killer smile. You want to dip your finger in those dimples, you think.

You hold back your intrusive thoughts and rush to your friends.

Unbeknownst to you, Namjoon’s stupefied, in a good way. And as he watches you catch up to your group, you turn around and wave goodbye. He returns the gesture.

-

Sat at the bus and enthused, you send Namjoon a message.

"Hey, tell me again, what's your favorite crustacean?"

Exploration No. 5

[namjoon x reader] [1k+ strangers to lovers?, fluff] A/N: This is loosely based on Reese Lansangan's Exploration No. 5. Whenever I listen to the song, I think the line "Hey, what's your favorite crustacean?" was written for Namjoon. Or the entire song might as well have been. Also, I just really miss him. I miss BTS.

-

You hated school excursions, but you think you can make an exception for this particular trip if your museum guide is this cute.

-

For most of the tour, you were spacing out. Walking past exhibits, mindlessly taking photos of artifacts you may or may not use as a reference to your sketches. It's not like you didn't like museums, you actually enjoyed them. But on your own time.

"Y/N, look," Jungkook calls for your attention, imitating the posture of a taxidermized creature.

"Cute," you reply dryly. "Ya!" You hear as you walk away, not in the mood for one of his shenanigans.

You were passing by a group gathered under the fossilized crustaceans exhibit when the guide, passionately explaining an in-depth history of crustaceans, caught your eye.

The museum wasn't exactly short of cute guys, but call it fate or whatever you want, but something had you glued to where you stood, a few steps away from him. And it's not like you stayed to gawk at the guy, you were genuinely growing interested and curiouser and curiouser with each discussion.

"So, any questions?" The cute guy asks. Cue crickets and tumbleweeds passing. "Right. Thanks for—"

"Is it true lobsters pair and mate for life?" You dumbly ask. Of all the questions you could ask.

Seeming shocked someone asked a question, Namjoon searches for the source of the voice.

Your eyes meet.

"Ah well, miss…"

"Y/N. Just Y/N"

"Just Y/N," he smirks, "I hate to be the breaker of bad news, but by nature, lobsters are not exactly monogamous. A male lobster would most likely mate with multiple females during encounters lasting days to weeks. So no, lobsters don't pair and mate for life." He clarifies with a smile.

Just when you thought he couldn't be more adorable, you're proven wrong with those dimples.

"Ah, I see," you return with a smile, "Bummer."

"But there are other sea creatures that stick to one when they found their pair; we have angelfishes, sea otters, even some species of seahorses," he ends with a soft laugh.

Fuck, he's really adorable. "Oh, cute," clearing your throat, "I meant that's cute that there are species that, uhm, that are like, you know, monogamous. Sticks to one; ride-or-die couples, I guess." Great, you're now rambling.

And your group seemed to have moved on to the next exhibit.

Reluctant to leave but unsure how to continue the conversation, he picks it up for you and asks, "Did you get that 'fact' from friends?"

"Huh?"

"The one about the lobster. I presume you watched the series and got it from there."

Now you're embarrassed. "Heh, I did. Kind of embarrassed now to admit that I believed it for years," you titter, "have you watched the show, too?"

He hums in reply. And as he walks further to the fossil aisle, you follow. "My mom bought me all ten DVDs, and from that, I learned to speak English better," he continues. You laugh, thinking it was a joke until you chance another look at him.

"Oh, you're serious." Another smile, then he nods. "So, do you think you're more of a Joey, Chandler, or Ross?"

Now it's his turn to look at you. "Humor me," you continue.

"I guess I'm a bit like Chandler. I see myself relating to his character." You let a beat pass before shamelessly replying, "I bet you don't have much trouble getting girls, though."

At that, he loudly laughs, a few students turning to look in your direction.

Oh, you'd gladly lamely flirt with him in exchange for his amusement.

"That's actually the bit that I relate to. Aside from classes and this internship here at the museum, it's not every day I meet cute girls who would want to talk to me. But today must be my lucky day."

Again, he smirks. He definitely knows how it affects you, too. You blush. And if possible, melt. You don't think you can even look at him, so you turn to face the artifacts. You actually dare to be bashful now when you fired the first flirty remark.

Mouth still stretched to a grin, you turn to face him. "You must think you're charming, huh?"

"Well, I'm assuming if I struck your fancy, at least a little bit." You like the creases by his eyes when he smiles, you think.

"Okay, you did. And you are."

Like a still-frame from a film, you're stood in the middle of the museum, heart eyes staring at each other.

You were the first to break away.

You are about to ask him another question when your professor announces it's time to leave for your next museum destination.

"Ah, I guess you have to go now," he nods towards the corner where students start to gather. You turn to look and agree with a nod, hiding your disappointment.

You try to stall. Just a bit. You gather all the bits of courage you have, "I know this is a bit too direct, but—" You're cut off, "Y/N, come on, we gotta go." Jungkook calls for you.

You huff, "Yea, just a minute. I'm right behind you." You stare him down until he goes ahead without you, but not before glancing at Namjoon.

You look back at Namjoon to see him expectantly looking at you, "Uhm, so thanks for the fact-check.." You trail off as he nods. Your confidence fell off, and with that, you accept defeat.

But as if your fallen confidence were caught by your feet, you were merely a few steps away when you walk back to him, "Hey, what's your favorite crustacean?"

Startled by the question, Namjoon stutters a reply, "What?" He sees you shift in your feet, "Well, I mean, there are a lot, and I guess there's—"

"Can you tell me through text?" You attempt to steel your nerves once again. You can let embarrassment consume you after you leave the museum, but now, you want to shoot your shot.

He laughs and looks at your leaving party, "I guess I can do that since we're pressed for time." He takes your phone to call his before you hear Jungkook call for you again.

"Thanks," you see his saved contact and smile, "Joon."

Ah. There's that killer smile. You want to dip your finger in those dimples, you think.

Instead, you hold back and rush to your friends.

He's stupefied, in a good way. And as he sees you catch up to your group, you turn around and wave goodbye. He returns the gesture.

-

Sat at the bus and enthused, you send Namjoon a message.

"Hey, tell me again, what's your favorite crustacean?"

Purple Ink (RM)

[Words in bold are in Korean]

I begin another doodle on my arm. It's nearly filled now with sketches from my ballpoint pen.

"Seriously, I can't believe your soulmate's never asked you to stop. Your drawings are everywhere at this point" my friend Stacy laughs.

I finish up the rose I'm drawing, "I'm sure they love my drawings. They've told me themself."

Stacy sighs, "I wish my soulmate talked to me more.. do you think I'll ever find them?"

"Easy. Just write your name really big on your forehead, they won't miss you."

"That is FAR from a solution, Y/N."

I laugh and look back down at my arm. A small heart appears next to the flower.

----

A Weverse notification interrupts my thoughts as I walk through the door. "RM started a Live" I open the live.

Namjoon and Hoseok are painting. I giggle as Namjoon spills some ink on his arm. Shutting my phone off, I go to take care of the pile of dishes in the sink.

As I pull my sleeves up, I notice a splatter over my wrist.

"What the.."

I run over and grab my phone. Pulling up the app again, I stiffen at the sight.

Namjoon's purple ink stain covers his wrist, a few splatters on his palm. Exactly like mine.

"No way... it can't be" I mumble.

Slowly, I grab a pen and write a small note on my arm by the splatter. Like clockwork, it shows up on his arm: "Namjoon?"

-----

The next few days, twitter had been blowing up about us.

"Namjoon's soulmate is an ARMY?"

"Guys! She knows! She found him!"

"Aww, that's sweet. Let's be happy for them."

"Wait, you mean they haven't met yet?"

I sigh, bringing my head to my hands.

"What do you want to do about it?" Stacy asks.

"I don't know.. I'm happy but I'm sad and I just don't know what to do. I'm surprised that he's someone I've admired for so long, but I feel dumb for not ever noticing. And I never imagined meeting my soulmate would be like... this. What if ARMY hates me? I don't want to cause him trouble. What if-"

"Relax, girl. I've only seen supportive comments so far. Everyone knows that you can't control soulmates, I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Yeah, I just, i dunno." I slump down in my chair, "it's not like I'll ever get to meet him anyways. It's a lost cause."

"Hey! Chill out. What you need to do is give him a way to find you."

"Such as?" I grumble.

"Such as posting your art online. I've been telling you forever, your creations are too good to keep to yourself! And if you post them, soon enough either he'll find you or ARMY will"

"That's... that's not a bad idea."

And that's how you got here. You'd been posting for two weeks now, but only had about 12 followers.

"Trust the process! He'll find you. It takes time to build an account." Stacy assured you.

"I just feel like the art should be for me, not a faceless algorithm."

"I'm sure he'll find you. He sees your art every day."

"I hope so" I mutter.

-----

I scrolled on my phone half-awake. I couldn't fall asleep, so I decided to explore my feed on instagram. Suddenly, I received a like. And another like. And a follow. And soon enough, a message.

"Who..." I mumbled.

My eyes widened as I see the message they sent me. (Messages by them are in THIS COLOR, messages by you are in THIS COLOR :))

"I'd recognize your art anywhere"

I shiver at their words. Looking at their account, it doesn't help in figuring out who this is. A part of me carries a small hope. It must be Namjoon! He must have found me! But I don't want to get hurt.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Namjoon :) You draw on my arm all the time.."

No... no way. It can't be. What am I supposed to say to my soulmate? What if it's just Stacy pulling some sick prank on me?

"Hmm, prove it then."

Suddenly I feel a tingling sensation on my wrist as words begin to appear.  'Hello artist'. I quickly scratch out a message in our chat room.

"Oh my god, it's really you! I never thought I'd find you.."

"Well you did :) I love your drawings by the way. I'm a big fan."

"No, that's what I'M supposed to be saying. You're music is seriously amazing. I can't believe I get to be your soulmate.."

"You're so cute"

I blush. Not sure what to say, I wait for him to speak again.

"How long have you known?"

"That I'm your soulmate haha"

"Oh, uh, I was watching your live with j-hope"

"Ah, so when I spilled the paint on myself? That isn't very romantic..."

"Well, I'm glad you did regardless."

A question sits at the back of my throat. Suddenly my fingers begin to type it.

"How did you find me?"

He begins to type.

"It's actually kind of similar. I've been following you for a while now. I found your page maybe, two weeks ago? You didn't have too many posts up at the time but as you started posting more, I guess I just kinda realized one day. Like your drawings felt like home to me. And one day I was looking at your art on my Lock Screen, and then down at my arm, and it just hit me. So I decided to message you haha"

"Dfbivaldhflvahf ok wait you made my art your Lock Screen?"

"Shoot. Shouldn't have sent that part"

I giggle.

"Um, I guess where do you live?"

"No no not like that-"

"I feel like I'm messing this whole soulmates thing up already??"

"Like do you also live in Korea or..?"

"Ah, no.. sorry. I live in (INSERT COUNTRY NAME)"

"Don't be sorry! Y'know.. we're actually going to be doing a comeback soon with a tour :D"

"I'll talk and see if we can go there!"

————

I shiver in the cold hallway. He told me to meet him here, is he still coming? Maybe I should leave.. NO! That's silly. He's coming, Y/N. Just be patient.

Suddenly I hear sneakers squeak against the tile. Turning to my left, I notice him. Him. The boy I've been messaging for 7 months now. The one I've been waiting to meet. The one I love.

His dark hair bounces as he runs, star-like shimmers glimmering in his eyes. He slides in front of me, skidding a bit on the slick floor.

"It's you, you're here, I" He pants.

"Hi Namjoon" I smile.

Suddenly my head goes blank. All those months of texting, and I have nothing to say.

"Erm, good luck with the concert."

He checks his watch, "Oh, right, haha. I was so excited to meet you that I forgot about the concert."

"Hey! ARMYs paid good money to be here tonight. Don't forget about them because of me"

He smiles and pulls me into a hug. We swing from left to right as we talk. After around 15 minutes, a staff member informs us that we have to go for him to perform.

Once he leaves I sink down to the floor, clutching my phone to me. I daydream about reality, the moments only seconds ago that somehow already feel so distant. Wonder when I'll see him again. Wonder if it'll be soon.

"I can't believe she's his soulmate"

"I know, right? I mean, is the universe sure that they're destined?"

Laughter from the two staff members pulls me out of my lovely daze. Why are they so rude? What did I do? Do they assume I don't know Korean just because we spoke in English?

A third girl working there spoke up, "C'mon guys, let's not be so mean. We don't even know her yet!"

"Yeah, but like, have you seen her?" The previous staff questions.

"Yeah, what about her?"

"She's just... not what I thought she'd look like."

"She could be listening now," the third girl said, "I think she seems perfectly nice. You should give her a chance."

Without another word she walks out of the room and into the hallway, where I was listening. I look up to her from the floor, my eyes glistening with tears.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! You must have heard them. They're like that to everyone, don't worry."

I nod and turn away, "Yeah no, it's just... old insecurities coming back"

"Well don't let them," she smiles, "I, along with I'm sure Namjoon, think you're gorgeous."

I laugh, "Thank you. You are too"

"I have to be! It's hard keeping up with my worldwide handsome boyfriend" She jokes.

"Wait, are you?"

"Minji, Kim Seokjin's soulmate" She grins.

We talk together while we watch the concert from the waiting room. Apparently she's been with the boys for 2 years, which is a little intimidating. Am I going to have to meet them later? What if-

"Everything alright?" Minji asks.

"y-yeah!" I nod.

"Don't worry, you'll be okay"

I turn to her. Did she know? Suddenly, Namjoon and the rest of the members pour into the room.

He pulls me into a hug, "How did we do, baby?"

I blush at the nickname, mumbling, "You guys were amazing"

"Were you nice to Y/N?" Seokjin asks Minji.

She sighs, "yes, but Ari and Chaeyeong said stuff about her"

"What did they say?" Namjoon yells.

"They were just being rude. Talking about what she looks like and if she's good enough for you, and...y'know"

Unknowingly, I had begun to tug harder at Namjoon's shirt while tears threatened to form. He pulls his arms tighter around me, "Hey, hey, it's okay. You're perfect. Don't listen to them, Minji's right. They're always like this. We are all here for you, we love you. None of the things you're insecure about mean anything to me. To me, you are perfect."

"I-I.." He pulls away to look at my face.

"You're crying but you're smiling.. I don't understand"

"They're happy tears" I grinned, "Because, I can't believe the universe thought to give me the luck that is you."

Written in the Pages (RM) CH5

𝄆 Namjoon POV 𝄇

"I have to go to bed. I'll talk to you later"

I frown at the blue screen. Was that too far? I shouldn't have done that. Now she probably doesn't like me. She hates me. She-

"Namjoon? Everything alright?"

"Uh, yeah." I say, still staring at the phone.

Hoseok takes the phone from my grasp, reading through the messages.

"Woah"

"Hey! Give it back!" I yell, trying to steal it away.

"I didn't know you were such a flirt"

"Well, it didn't do me any good. She hates me now."

"Why do you say that?" Hoseok asks.

"Did you read the message? She left immediately. I should've known it was too far."

"Maybe she just got flustered." He suggests. I shrug. "How about you go apologize to her tomorrow. I'm sure you didn't upset her that much. She just said she had to go, you probably didn't upset her."

"You think so?"

"Yes. Now you go to bed too. We've had a long day, you need your rest." Hoseok ushers me to bed.

𝄆 𝄞 𝄇

The next day I stumble up to her desk. She sets down her book and glances up at me. She flinches and looks away, staring at the birds out the window.

"Listen Y/N, I just.. wanted to say I'm sorry"

"What?" She asks, her sight going right back up to me.

"I'm sorry for the message I sent you last night. It was too far, I should've known you weren't-"

"It's okay! I know you didn't mean it that way" She laughs.

"What way?"

"I know you were only joking," she bites her lip, "people like you don't like people like me"

"I like you!" I defend.

"Yeah! As a friend. Ditto!" She says.

But..I like you as more than a friend.

I start, "but I-"

"We still on for lunch today?"

𝄆 𝄞 𝄇

𝄆 Y/N POV 𝄇

I frown as I think back to the moment from earlier. Why does he have to taunt me like this? Make me confused... I know he'll never see me as anything more than a friend. I have to be okay with that.

"Y/N, you okay?" Namjoon asks.

"Namjoon-Oppa!"

Two girls run up to us, "could we talk to you for a second?"

"Uh," he pauses, glancing over at us, "sure?"

"Alone?" She asks.

"If you have something to say, you can say it to all of us." Jin says, getting annoyed.

"Fine." She huffs, "Namjoon-Oppa, I like you. Do you want to go out with me?"

"U-uh.." he looks over at me. Why is he looking at me?? Rubbing it in my face? "I appreciate it, but I'm not interested."

"W-well you might have fun! At least give me a chance, oppa." She pouts.

"Sorry, I already like someone else."

A choke forms in my throat. I cough, bringing all the attention to me. Great.

"Y/N, you okay?" Jungkook rests a hand on my shoulder.

"Yeah yeah!" I croak, "I uhm, I'm gonna go to the bathroom. Be right back"

I stumble from my chair to the familiar beige halls. Pressing my hands to the sinks edge, I glare at the image across from me in the mirror.

He likes someone already? I should've known, she must be pretty great for him to turn them down. They're beautiful.

No, no he's smarter than that. He wouldn't date someone for looks. She probably is amazing. And she's definitely lucky.

"Ugh, I can't believe that! That was so embarrassing"

"Don't even worry about it girl! He's stupid anyway."

Voices of the earlier girls echo against the brick walls. I rush into a stall, hands clutching the lock. I try to quiet my heavy breathing.

"I mean, who could she be?"

"I don't know!" Her friend says, "but it doesn't matter. He doesn't have any taste, clearly. He isn't worth it."

My grip tightens. Wanting to jump out there and defend him. Wanting to chew them out. I force myself to calm my nerves and slump down. To fade to the door until they leave.

"And that girl earlier?" The girl who confessed starts, "what a joke. Why is she even sitting with them?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying desperately to release the anger. My face burns. A tear slips down onto my shaking hands.

"She's been sitting with them for a few days now. They must be doing it as a joke, they would never sit with someone like her on purpose."

"After how that confession worked out? Maybe they would." Their laughs slowly start to fade as they leave the bathroom.

I creep out of the bathroom, checking first that they really left. Then I let out my frustrations, tears streaming down my face. I make no attempt to stop them.

𝄆 Jungkook POV 𝄇

I follow behind Y/N. I hope she's okay.. she seemed kinda thrown today. Plus I want to make sure she isn't actually choking. I duck behind the lockers as the two girls from earlier strut into the same room

Oh no...

They gossip for a bit. Bashing Namjoon-hyung and basically just feeling bad for themselves. Then they start to say mean things about Y/N. They must not know she's in there. I urge myself to stay calm and not go in and fight them.

How could they say such things? From what we know so far, she's just a sweet, quiet girl.

Eventually they leave and I move to hide again. I wait for Y/N to come out, but she doesn't.

I begin to hear shattered sobs. Twisting around the corner, I contemplate the idea of going in and comforting her. All before she starts to speak:

"Why... can I never be good enough. Why am I always lacking. Why can't anywone.." she cries.

I start walking in, "HEY! What do you think you're doing?" A teacher calls out.

I shuffle backwards, "what do you-.. OOOHHHHH, this is the WOMEN'S restroom, my bad!"

The teacher continues in. I spare one last longing glance towards where Y/N is, then rush back to the rest of the group.

Written in the Pages (RM) CH6

𝄆 Jungkook POV 𝄇

"Guys! Guys!" I huff.

"Woah, where'd you go man?" Hoseok questions.

"And why are you breathing so hard?" Taehyung jokes.

"I.. Y/N..."

Namjoon jumps up, "Y/N? What happened with Y/N?"

"She went to the bathroom, and I followed her, and, and those girls," I heave, "they were trash talking us and then they started bullying Y/N, she must have been hiding from them, and then they left and she was crying and-"

"I'm going to find her" Namjoon growls.

Suddenly, she strides up to the table. Grabbing her stuff, she bows to us, "thank you for lunch. I have to go now." Her eyes are puffy and her face is red from obvious crying.

"No, no no no." Namjoon pulls her to face him, "you don't look okay. We heard what happened. We-"

"It's fine. I'll see you around." She starts to walk away.

"Hyung, maybe-"

He bolts after her. They both exit the cafeteria. I turn to the rest of the boys, their faces showing equally confused expressions.

𝄆 Y/N POV 𝄇

I run into the library, the only place where I know I can be alone. Except I'm not. As I approach my favorite table in the back, Namjoon is still trailing behind me.

"I said it's fine."

"It's not fine" he says, "I don't know what they said, but I know they hurt you. And I never want to see anyone hurt you."

"Why do you care?" I sneer, "You guys aren't actually friends with me. I'm just your charity case. You don't want me around."

"Don't say that!" He cries, "I care because I lo-"

"Save me the pain." I whimper, "save me the pain of knowing you'll never feel to me how I feel about you."

As if on cue, the bell rings.

"I have to go, Namjoon. Just forget about it. I'll work on forgetting my feelings, and we can all just move on."

𝄆 Namjoon POV 𝄇

She walks back to her class. I stay frozen in the library, orange sun painting the shelves.

"But I don't want to move on."

Written in the Pages (RM) CH7

𝄆 Namjoon POV 𝄇

"So she must like you back! What else would she mean by 'feelings'?"

"You don't get it," I grumble, "she isn't interested in me anymore. She doesn't want to hear from me."

"How oblivious can you be?" Yoongi jokes, "they must have said something that made her think we don't want her around. She's clearly just insecure, so why don't you show her how much she means to you?"

I ponder that for a moment, "how would I do that?"

"We should write a song for her!" Jimin pipes up.

𝄆 𝄞 𝄇

𝄆 Y/N POV 𝄇

It's been a week since I've heard from Namjoon. It may sound ridiculous, but part of me had hoped he would continue to try and talk to me. I guess he gave up, just like that.

I walk home slowly, feet trudging against the cobblestones I once skipped on. Along the way, I see the two girls from earlier chattering. they walk in the opposite direction, snickering at a glance of me.

I pull my hood over my head and try to walk faster. eventually, I arrive back home. The silence pulls me in, no one to laugh at me now. I don't understand, things were so much less complicated before Namjoon. Yet somehow, I still feel the thrills. Him talking to me gives me enough energy to do anything.

Then I remember the words from earlier. "They must be doing it as a joke, they would never sit with someone like her on purpose." And my heart sinks again.  I'm tired of this. I'm tired of trying to figure out if he likes me as more than a friend just to be hit with the rejection of a punchline. I'm tired. I'm tired of trying to prove myself to people who don't care.

I need to love myself. Not the version others see. I need to focus on myself, and I can't do that if I'm trying to swim in pools too deep for me. Trying to date someone I can never have.

Trying to find myself in people who aren't me.

a knock on the door pulls me from my monologue. I open it without checking the peekhole.

"Y/N, thank god you answered. I need to talk to you. I know you don't want to listen to me, but please just hear me out. please" Namjoon begs from the doorway.

"How do you know where I live?"

"I.. I followed you home, I'm sorry, can I please come in?"

"You followed me home?" I demanded.

"Yes I,.. look I know this sounds bad but please just give me a chance. I can explain everything."

Sighing in defeat, I pull the door open wider and let him in. Leading him to the couch, he speaks before I can even ask.

"Okay. So, when you left that day at lunch, Jungkook had followed you to make sure you were okay. He filled me in on what they said and everything and I just want you to know  that I truly do care about you. We all do. And I wouldn't pretend to be friends with someone as a joke, the only person who would do that is someone like those two girls who I rejected. I need you to know all this before I continue."

"Okay, well, thank you for saying that Namjoon." I force a smile, "but continue with what?"

"What I've been hiding from you for the past week," He replies. He takes his phone from his pocket, pulling up an app and pressing play. Suddenly, a song begins to play.

He softly starts to sing, "Just one day, if I can be with you

Just one day, if I can hold your hands

Just one day, if I can be with you

Just one day

If only we can be together"

The music fades out. He brushes his hand next to mine on the couch, slowly intertwining his fingers with mine. I let him.

"Y/N, I have been pining after you for so long. If you don't feel the same, I understand... but I wanted you to know. Since last spring, I've been admiring you. Your hair, your smile, the way you talk and the words you choose, how you treat people with kindness, your quiet demeanor, everything. I'm obsessed with everything about you. And..."

He pauses and I can feel his hands sweat from nerves as he fidgets.

"I'm in love with you."

Wildflower | KNJ

Pairing : Namjoon x gn!reader

Genre : fluff, slice of life, husband!namjoon, non-idol!au

Summary : On a beautiful Sunday morning, you and your husband pick out flowers to make crowns.

Word count : 2.6k

a/n : fluffy comfort drabble. Namjoon is adorable. This is my first BTS fic. English is not my first language. Enjoy !

You woke up to the feeling of the sun warming up your skin. Your eyes fluttered open as you welcomed the morning light seeping through the white curtains. You smiled listening to the soft breaths of the man behind you, holding you delicately, an arm draped over you, hand resting on your lower stomach. 

  You turned to face your sleeping husband, moving quietly so as to not wake him and took the time to admire him. How his soft obsidian hair fell over his closed eyes, long eyelashes delicately kissing his cheeks. How the sun shined on his tan skin. With fondness, your eyes traced the line of his long charming nose, stopping at its cute little button. Your eyes followed down to his soft supple lips, waiting to be kissed. 

  As he slept, his breathing even, you could see a small smile crawling its way on his face, which made his adorable dimples appear. It warmed your heart, the love you had for him beaming out of you as you watched him sleep peacefully.

  You finally got up, put on your favourite fluffy pyjamas and headed to the small kitchen. 

  Your cottage was a simple one, made of one main room separated to your bedroom by a sheer snow-white chiffon curtain you had embellished with embroidered flowers. The living room held three cotton white walls decorated by bookshelves and various craft items you had created over the years. 

  Your absolute favourite space was the book nook you had installed under large windows. Adorned by fairy lights, homemade scented candles and a beautiful terrarium your beloved had made. A soft mattress and fluffy pillows made it the perfect space for you to escape to your latest fantasy novel, or work on your crochet projects while your husband was deep in a literary book or writing poems and lyrics, letting his brain flow naturally.

  A light blue accent wall painted with white clouds and a bright moon was the home of a piano and music equipment for your husband to write and compose. Oftentimes, you would find him lost in his work, focused eyes, teeth biting his inner lip as he typed away, breath heavy. You loved those moments when you got to be with him while you both worked on your own projects, enjoying the peaceful domesticity. 

  Waking out of your contemplation, you found your way to the kitchen to prepare a special Sunday breakfast. Just as you were finishing up, you heard a yawn, followed by featherlike footsteps coming in your direction. You turned to see Namjoon approaching you, hair tousled from sleep, eyes half opened, a sloppy grin on his face, dimples greeting you lovingly. You grinned as he came up to engulf you in a big hug, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. You could smell his flowery scent, relaxing instantly in his arms.

  'Good morning my love.’

  'Good morning Yeobo.' you could feel the smile on his lips as he answered you. 'Smells good, I'm so hungry' he said, his stomach growling in agreement.

  'I know, I made crepes!' you said excitedly. Namjoon beamed at that. His hands came to cradle your face 'Do you have any idea how much I love you ?' he asked dramatically. You giggled as he closed the distance between you and kissed you softly. 

  After a delicious breakfast spent in light conversation and loving touches, you both went to get ready for the day. It was warm and sunny outside, spring gifting you with a delicate weather for your day off. Which meant, you got to put on your favourite spring outfit. 

  Namjoon came out of the bedroom wearing a simple white tee tucked in loose egg white linen pants.

He had put on the light ivory jacket you had knitted for him. He looked stunning. Of course, he always did, but there was something about seeing him in comfortable light clothes, balancing his obsidian hair and caramel skin that made him look angelic.

  'You look so beautiful my love' you whispered, circling your arms around his shoulders bringing him close to you. He looked at you lovingly, caressing your nose gently with his, you could feel his breath on your lips. You closed your eyes, feeling at home in his arms as he closed the distance and kissed you deeply. You melted into the kiss, your hands coming to softly weave in his hair while his hands pressed on the small of your back bringing you impossibly close. Breaking the kiss when you ran out of breath, you were greeted with a wide gummy smile and you took the opportunity to kiss both his dimples.

  'Are you ready?' he asked, wiggling his eyebrows to which you nodded excitedly.

  You had a little tradition for the first Sunday of each month. No matter what, you would always spend it together and pick a new activity to try. 

You would pick an activity to do together. It could be anything but it had to be something that you wouldn't usually do. Last month, you painted flower pots and filled them with each other's birth flowers. They now stood proudly right by the entrance of your cottage. 

  You hadn't planned it that way, but after a few months of doing this, you realised that you always chose activities where you made something to gift the other. Thanks to that beautiful tradition, you now had so many tributes to the love you shared displayed in your cosy home. You absolutely adored looking at them and in a way, you loved all the empty spaces tool. They represented Sundays to be had and love to be shared. The empty spaces were your future and you couldn’t wait to fill them.

  Namjoon had a bright smile this morning leading you outside, a wicker basket in hand. You both walked peacefully to the meadow, holding hands, chatting lightly. The sun was bright, enveloping you in its warm embrace. It was a beautiful morning.

  When you got to the meadow, you set off to pick out flowers. Your husband, in all his romanticism, proposed that you would make flower crowns for each other. You absolutely loved wildflowers and was so excited to spend your morning picking them for your lover. 

  You had started by picking out clematis, Namjoon's birth flower. You then chose flowers in different shades of blue, his favourite colour. You mainly pick forget-me-nots, the very symbol of true love, representing perfectly the aura you wanted to give his crown.

  When you were satisfied with the different flowers you had picked out you sat down on the grass, enjoying the sun, watching your elegant husband walking around focused, stopping here and there to pick a flower. When he was done, he came to sit next to you, bumping your shoulder, a big smile plastered on his face.

  'You are so beautiful Yeobo. All perfect, surrounded by flowers almost as pretty as you are. I'm so lucky to have you'

  You smiled bashfully, cheeks heating up. 

  'I think I'm the lucky one, my love. I've never been as happy as I have been since I met you.' 

  'Maybe it's not luck at all,' he said dreamily, taking your hand in his. 'Maybe we’re just meant to be' 

  'I like that idea' you replied, squeezing his hand. 

  You stayed lying on the grass for a little while, enjoying the sun, making each other laugh, exchanging tender kisses. 

  As you got up to go back, you noticed Namjoon had mostly picked purple flowers, your favourite colour along with a few small sunflowers, his favourite flower. Your heart grew and a beaming smile appeared on your face. 

  When you got back home, you went to prepare two glasses of iced tea, while Namjoon got the supplies ready. He layed out some craft wires, a hot glue gun, some pearls, ribbons and a very large amount of glitter. 

  He had put on soft music and turned on fairy lights, creating an ethereal atmosphere as you both got to work quietly. You stayed focused, your crowns hidden from the other's view. 

   You carefully mapped out how you wanted the crown to look. Alternating between large clematis and smaller forget-me-nots. You covered a few bluebells with glitter and put them all around the crown. Attached some ribbons to the ends of the crown to make a cute bow. You were very thorough when you handled the flowers, watchful not to damage them. You put as much love as you had into the making of this crown and you were very proud of the result. 

You couldn’t see what Namjoon was doing, but you would sometimes sneak a glance and find him completely enthralled by what was between his hands. You could see the dedication to what he was doing. His focused state making him slouch slightly, while his brows furrowed and a cute pout appeared on his heart shaped lips. You knew he was determined to make this the most beautiful crown he could while also focusing on not ruining his meticulous work with his clumsiness.  

  You cleaned the table when you were both satisfied with your work, then proceeded to go outside, sitting on the bench swing by the cherry tree at the back of your garden. 

   You sat legs folded, facing each other, your fists levelled to decide who would be sharing their work first. Much to your delight, your scissors beat Namjoon’s paper. You smiled knowing you would be the first to show your creation. You carefully picked up the crown you had hid behind you on the bench and presented it to your lover. 

  He beamed when he saw the mix of bright blue flowers, perfectly arranged together and a few clematis here and there embellishing your work of art. A light blush came on his cheeks as he let you delicately place it on his head. He grabbed one of your hands, brought it to his lips to place a tender kiss there.

  'I love it, thank you so much Yeobo. This is the most beautiful flower crown.'

  'A perfect match for the most beautiful human' you answered proudly.

  You kissed him quickly before sitting back with a huge smile plastered on your face. 'Now my turn!' you said excitedly. You absolutely adored flower crowns, having so many different ones matching varying outfits for different occasions. You knew this was the reason why Namjoon chose this activity and you were so grateful for it. Not only was it incredibly romantic, but it also meant one of your many crowns would have been handmade by the person you loved most in this world. You didn’t need to see it to know it was already your favourite one.

  Seeing you so eager made your husband chuckle. He would do anything to see you so happy and he would bask in your happiness for as long as you would let him. Which would be forever if he had his way. He made you close your eyes which you did happily, waiting impatiently for the moment he would let you see his work. You giggled when he took advantage of your closed eyes to kiss your nose. He then whispered for you to open. 

  You gasped seeing the flower crown. You were breathtaken. Namjoon had positioned the flowers in the cutest way, each one complementing the next to perfection. You had tears in your eyes seeing the small sunflowers tangled with -your favourite flower-. The crown was beautiful and you told him as much. 

   He leaned in to put it on your head and you took advantage of that new position to kiss him deeply. He melted instantly into the kiss, cradling your face with one hand while the other came to bring you closer until you were straddling him. Separating when you were out of breath, you stared lovingly into his eyes while your fingers came to lightly trace the soft features of his face. He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, humming softly. You whispered praises to him, thanking him for the crown. 

You sat back admiring your beautiful husband and took his hands in yours. ‘I love you more than anything’. He knew that of course, but you would never stop reminding him. And he would never stop saying it back to you, for the rest of your lives.

a/n : Thank you for reading, i hope you liked it! Don't hesitate to give me some feedback.

Me Time (Namjoon x Yn/Reader)

Word Count: 7.23k

Pairing: Namjoon x Y/n

Rating: 18+/Mature/Explicit

Warnings: Kissing (french and other), oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, clit/pussy sucking, orgasms (multiple, yours and his), flirting, seduction, semi-missionary sex, intense sex, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie, Namjoon has money/a nice place/is a rich guy in this one. If I missed one, it is what it is. 

Genre: Strangers to Lovers, PWP

AUs: None

Summary: You head to the woods for a Me Day. When you encounter a handsome stranger more than once, it becomes an ‘Us’ day that you could get used to. 

Author’s Note: Glad to be back and I’m happy to have my comeback be a Namjoon adventure. This was requested by @worldwideseal a bit ago and I've been trying hard to finish it.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed it, let me know in a comment. 

Tag list: @askkrisachan @kiestrokes

It was a solid battle. A contemplation in the drinks aisle, door open and chilled air rolling over your sun warmed skin. If you were accused of debating too long, it wasn’t something you’d deny. The cool air felt nice on the sting of what had clearly proved a bit too long in the midday sun. 

A wonderful way to start your weekend: an unexpectedly challenging hike that was supposed to take less than 30 minutes from the parking lot. But that proved to be for those initiated types–the ones who made a hike with a considerable grade look like a jaunt. 

For you it was a bit more like a gauntlet of misery. So you’d more than justified it to yourself, leaning against the drinks cooler door frame, letting your profile crush against the frosted surface. 

You hadn’t heard the footsteps approaching but the voice came through. Clear. Amused. No need to look because a grin stretched the distance between the few words over your shoulder.

“Contemplating life or flavors?” 

You straightened, grip finding and holding the door handle. The chilly rush over your cheeks did something to help the panic, which helped a little. You couldn’t blame that kind of tell on lack of sunscreen or an unplanned too-long-hike in the sun.

“It’s rough.” You barely replied. Eyes popping, you grabbed the brightest color visible front and center: blue ice. Lowest on your list, but it was in your hand and you stepped aside.

A large hand grazed your own as grips traded on the door handle. 

The form stepping into your spot in front of the open case was just obvious enough: Big. Broad. Tanned just right. The kind of golden that said it was real deal stuff. No spray tan or tanning bed nonsense. 

The man leaned forward, eyes closing as he hummed into the same cold air your pores sucked up earlier. 

You swallowed, eyes lingering on the necklines. And the biceps, rounded, stressing the cuffs of his white t-shirt sleeves just enough. Suddenly you were hungry–the handful of crackers and cheese burned up long ago in the car. You’d eaten fast and should have prepared more, but now you saw something meaty. 

Something in a healthy, hunky shape, grinning your way, eyes finally open and meeting your nervous stare. Your eyes widened again. At least you kept your mouth neutral–an even line. 

He had a nice smile as selected the same flavor you’d chosen, nodding your way.

“Good flavor. You like it too?” 

You looked down, turned the bottle over in your grip, and looked back up.

Shrugging, you waved the bottle a little. “It’s up there.” 

One perfectly thick brow arched as the man offered a timid smile. He didn’t move much, but his bangs still lolled. The tips feathered his forehead, hypnotizing your senses for a moment. You’d barely noticed the world huffing up the winding trails outside the store, melting under your tank top and workout leggings.

He had the faintest sweat–something normally unappealing. He’d managed to make a biological response magical. The slickness on his skin looked good.

“Up there? Not your go-to?” 

In the middle of the only store for 45 minutes in either direction, there wasn’t room to be choosy.  Trade offs were made for a weekend away from your city apartment. A lot more space. A lot LESS amenities. 

But sometimes there were unexpected perks—exhibit A standing just within reach. 

Blue Ice traded hands as he reached into the case again. This time he selected a considerable bottle of Evian and shook it, like you’d done before. Both his cheeks developed dimples as he beamed.  

Your fingers tightened on the cold plastic bottle that you now gripped for dear life. Your throat was tight enough. It wasn’t the only part suddenly unable to relax. The reason was familiar and longer overdue: Attraction. Raw and unbridled. Washing over you.

“Can’t beat water. Perfect palette cleanser.” Murmuring, his fingers wrapped both bottle necks with room to spare as they overlapped.

“You’re not local.” He added once his assessing gaze finished at your face. 

A scoff dislodged the lump in your throat, allowing a breath.  

“Is it that obvious?” 

You boiled inside all over again–as warm inside as the surface of your skin felt outwardly when a wide, warm smile changed the entire handsome face in front of you. 

If he was a local you’d eat the map you’d grabbed from the gift shop ‘section’ of the store. 

“Maybe.” He added a wink, then looked beyond you, towards the clerk leaning into the counter by the register, yawning her way through the local paper with low lids. She hadn’t looked up when you came in, but she couldn’t have missed this guy.

“Are you?” It was natural to ask so you didn’t feel awkward about it. 

“Yes and No.” 

“I don’t live here year round. I visit now and then.”

“What’s that mean?” You watched his free hand go into a pocket, then come back out with a square of leather.

His head jerked towards the end of the aisle and you took a step, matching his as he walked and talked. 

“Family?” Your eyes scanned the shelves as you moved along, trailing the man but also debating just how hungry you felt before it was too late and you were back into the hike back to your car. It seemed just a touch too far away right now and those Oreos on the upcoming end cap looked all too tempting. 

“No.” He chuckled, glancing at you, then following your eyes to the Oreos. With a rakish grin, the man grabbed two packs and they joined the drinks, tucked against the inside, pinned in place by the inside of his arm. 

You suddenly wondered what that arm would feel like around your neck. Maybe bent over the counter, with his lips along your ear, his hips screwing slowly against your ass. Bold and full of fire. 

That kind of body heat wouldn’t be the worst thing to suffer. You were piping hot in a few places as it was. 

“I own a place up the hill.” He was stopped at the aisle end. You thought about going around, but didn’t. No need to end this encounter any sooner than it was going to be over. It wasn’t getting any less hot outside either. 

“Yeah?” You returned a smile. 

“Mmhm. What’s your name?” 

You hesitated, bringing the drink bottle to your neck and rolling it along one side. You kind of like it more than a lot that his eyes followed the motion. His patient smile didn’t falter but something flashed in his eyes. 

“Y/n.” 

“Nice to meet you.” He said. “I’d shake your hand but—”

Your hand shot out. Until now you weren’t the type for hand shakes. How quickly that changed. 

“Namjoon” He pumped your hand as he spoke again. That big palm was warm and smooth. Silky and dry. By contrast you wondered just how dewy your palm still felt. You’d spent quite a bit of time wiping palms on your thighs as you’d paused all too often on every hill during the hike. But he didn’t have to know that. 

Namjoon gave no indication he minded, if anything was amiss. “Nice to meet you.” 

Finally he moved again and you watched his back as he stopped at the counter. The employee barely looked up, coming away from the counter to situate herself mostly behind the register. The beep of each scan started. In between Namjoon made more conversation, which was a relief because you couldn’t keep your focus on talking with the way your eyes feasted on his ass and calves.

Everything from his hips down looked impossibly tight in his light gray workout pants. 

“You hiked up here then?” 

Leaning around him, you stole a look at your chosen drink still on the counter, then sighed. 

“Yeah.” 

Namjoon moved your bottle towards his selections. The girl was efficient, scanning so fast you had no time to protest. With a single blink you pointed. 

“...That’s mine.” 

He had to forget. That was it. Best to remind him. Just like him, you’d queued up to pay. Reasonable for how you expected things to go. Even if you hadn’t expected to meet someone in the middle of choosing. But that was life sometimes: unplanned, bringing pleasant surprise on the back of undesired situations.

“I know.” Namjoon opened his wallet. 

You noted several cards in various colors. Even black—you knew enough about people who owned a black card. It took a certain level of financial security and comfort to get one of those. 

He’d already paid and turned towards you again with your drink held out in offering. You took it. When he passed a pack of Oreos along after, you sputtered. It wasn’t an insult to injury for the extra sugar, or the worst thing. The cheap energy would help your dreaded trip back down the hill. 

Still… How he’d decided to be so kind. To a stranger. 

“Why?” You inquired, low and confused. Feeling all kinds of knotted up inside at his kindness and that flame still going inside your chest. 

Namjoon stepped around you and started for the door, taking your focus with him as you turned, and paced him with your stare. Looking back, he held the door open and spoke. 

“I wanted to. Be careful out there.” 

---------------------------------------

You kept replaying things in your head, carefully shuffling sideways down the steep hill. There hadn’t seemed to be so many on the way up, but the grade felt a lot more intense going the other direction, towards the store. 

Now, having some distance from the store, you felt a little sheepish over quietly cursing your decision to come up here. It was a lovely day outside, instead of the boiling, sun soaked hell you’d sworn it had become earlier.

Unscrewing your drink cap you took another healthy swallow and swatted at the tinny whine of a mosquito hovering near your ear. You slapped another away from your shoulder and marched down the hill again, taking more cautious steps. 

As you came around a corner, you noticed a form and barely glanced further beyond, where the hill sloped down again, into the shadows of forest canopy. Darkness and coolness was promised and you couldn’t wait. 

You made your way by with measured steps, almost shuffling to keep from tumbling down the trail, treading on the loose gravel and natural divots of long dislodged rocks.

It wouldn’t be attractive to go the rest of the way down on your backside. 

“Y/n?”  A curious voice, tinged in muted surprise.

You looked towards the voice as your pace slowed and  the figure turned to greet your approach. Clear as day: the tall frame with white t-shirt impressively stretched over a broad front. 

Namjoon’s face, still fresh as it’d been meeting him a bit ago, beamed. 

His sunglasses were off, resting on his head and he wiped a hand on his thigh, then extended it. You tried wiping a hand too, missing a good amount of the dirt kissed palm. Namjoon shook hands anyway. 

As he glanced where you’d been heading, you stole a once over. Namjoon didn’t look any more sweat soaked than he’d been. The hill grades weren’t a challenge for him. If he’d hiked to get to that store too, he was in MUCH better shape. You’d never have guessed he’d just come up these hills, looking unflagged in front of the drink cooler.

“So you didn’t drive to the store.” You voiced the determination, earning a raised brow. 

“Is that bad?” 

“No.” 

“I DID drive to the parking lot down there.” Namjoon motioned in that direction. “The road is too long and winding through the woods to get up there safely. From the parking lot it’s an easier walk.” 

An easier walk. You scoffed softly and wiped the back of a hand across your brow. 

“You parked down there too?” He continued, casually wiping trail dust off his shirt. 

“Not quite.” When he looked up again, both brows rose. The least you could do was a little more explanation. Lamely you added “..My friend dropped me off. I have to meet her back down there in a little bit.” 

“That’s nice of her.” He murmured with a smile. His cheekbones had a brief glimmer. Even the overhead sun couldn’t do a thing to dim his appeal. Sweaty or dry as a bone. Rain soaked. Something told you that Namjoon was all-weather handsome. 

“Yeah.” You agreed.

You watched your sneaker toe bully through the dirt in an uneven line. Your muscles protested menacingly from this tiny action. Much too much. Burning and twitching had found a nice home there. The croissant and half a coffee you’d wolfed down for morning fuel hadn’t left a single ounce of energy by now. You were paying for it now, even with half a sports drink down. 

“You should walk down there with me.” 

You were equally surprised and thankful he asked. The  company was welcoming and you needed to see his car. Having several cards in his wallet and looking so good even after a moderately intense hike? Namjoon wasn’t driving a beater. 

“Sure..” You responded, waiting just long enough to look like it’d been a little debate. 

Namjoon pushed upright from the leaning he’d been doing against a tree just off the trail and stepped towards you. Turning to face downhill, he strode forward and you followed, falling into pace. His strides were long, but he went slow enough. It was like he sussed your flagging energy and mounting fatigue. You weren’t exactly projecting boundless energy.

However long the hike felt going uphill, time bent again and it seemed over all too soon as you paced Namjoon to the parking lot’s asphalt edge after coming around the last trail bend a short time later. 

As you stood next to him, looking at the few cars in spaces scattered across the lot, Namjoon turned his face up to the sun and let his head fall back.

You slid your pack straps off both shoulders and brought it around to your front. Namjoon rifled through his pocket, doing the same to free himself from his mid-size backpack. The keys jingled as he looked away from you, to a far corner of the lot. 

“Your friend here yet?” He inquired, squinting.

You scanned. Nowhere did you see the familiar rust nibbled Isuzu. An antique by some measure but it served her father well in college and he’d maintained the interior parts enough to keep it going even now. The car got you up here and you were fairly confident it’d get you back to town. 

“Not yet.” You thought about calling but didn’t go for your cell phone, setting your pack at your feet instead. Namjoon noticed, double taking. 

“Well..” He began, leaning down and grabbing a strap, then lifting the pack like it was empty. It certainly hadn’t felt that way going up OR down the trail. “..Let me drive you? Where are we headed?”

“You don’t have to–” A tut cut you off toot suite.

“I want to, Y/n. Where are we going?” 

Inhaling, you almost choked on trail dust still lingering at the lot edge. The dread of the trip back home in a car without AC was pulling you down into despair. In spite of your friend's optimism, all the windows down had not helped nearly as promised and it wouldn’t be better now, sweaty and tired. 

You glanced at Namjoon after a moment.

“...Well.. Where are you going?”

Namjoon’s smile was cheeky. “Me? I have a place about 20 minutes drive from here. You’re welcome to hang out there and wait for your friend.” 

“I could do that.” You should, not wanting to go all the way back up that hellish trail, to the store. No way you’d make it. No need to even delude yourself. The Isuzu and the trail would not see YOU again, for now. 

“Yeah? I know it’s cliche. Stranger danger..”

“Maybe but.. What the hell. It’ll be nice to see your place and find out there’s more than a few damp cabins out here. So long as it’s not a rotting shack in the pines, we’re golden.” Your mind supplied endless visions of bugs, bears and poison oak. It was anybody’s guess what you’d encounter but there was 1 of those 3, minimum. 

“Hmm.” A playful glare leveled your way. “There’s not much land value in a moss covered single level dwelling these days. The market wouldn’t bear it and I’m not into that kind of ambiance.” 

“Thank goodness.” 

Namjoon reached where he’d been looking: the lot corner, and a cobalt blue sedan parked there. It was dusty but otherwise in great shape. MUCH better than no-AC and AM radio only.

You followed, keeping within a step or two. As you both made your way, Namjoon spoke again. 

“You can call your friend when we get to my place and hang out until they get there. Deal?” 

You nodded.

He opened the passenger door first and watched you climb in, then moved to that back passenger door and opened it. A gentle lob had both your packs situated across the back seat.

As Namjoon settled into the driver’s seat, you buckled your seatbelt,then let your legs stretch out. The footwell was roomy too. This was proving to be a good decision the more time went on. You wouldn’t have bet on this kind of luck turn hours ago.

Namjoon was smiling, watching you get comfortable. The car came to life. He adjusted the rearview mirror.

“I wouldn’t object to some food too.” You suggested, watching him study the mirror’s reflection, then glance back as he reversed out of the parking spot. He shifted to drive, jaw muscles briefly flexing before he spoke.

“I can take care of that.”

---------------------------------------

You finished the last bite of apple and chewed, staring out the picture window. 

Namjoon had more than a ramshackle place with walls, windows and a few doors. It was like something out of Mountain Living magazine–of which you were sure you’d seen a few issues neatly stacked on the coffee table in the living room when he’d led you through. 

This kitchen was spacious. More than any other cabin you’d spent time in.Even if that number wasn’t high, THIS place was impressive. It shouldn’t have been a shock, spotting all the cards in his wallet. That was plenty of foreshadowing. 

Even if assumptions weren’t fair.

You swallowed and turned away from the view, setting the remains of the apple on the kitchen table and headed for the living room. You took a loop around the perimeter, studying the bookshelf, paying close attention to the single shelf dedicated to what looked like photo albums. 

You were tempted to pull one off and go through it. But you didn’t, turning your attention to the photos on the nearby wall: lots of candid photos of nature. Namjoon’s selfies tended to be unique: his form standing in the distance of the shot, back to the camera. 

Or in silhouette barely at the edges. You liked a particularly vibrant one of his bare back to the camera, shorts soaked to the skin with water, flesh glistening in the sun against the expanse of a sky so blue it hardly seemed real. 

It looked like some kind of lake. You wondered where this body of water was, hopeful it wasn’t far, then went to work pondering how it would have been behind the lens, taking the shot.

...And what would happen after, when the picture was done and Namjoon turned around with that smile. 

A smile you’d grown to really like A LOT since the store. 

Hearing a door close, you turned towards the dark hall where the sound had come from. There was a little motion under the door at the far end, shadows moving across a sliver of light at the bottom. 

A moment later the door came open and Namjoon’s form filled the newly made space. Not long after his footsteps came towards you. When he came through from the dark into light, your senses reeled. 

Namjoon was flushed and smiling, hair wet and slicked back, cheeks plumped in a shy grin. He’d changed shirts. This one was thinner and more ivory than optic white. You knew that shape at the front of his chest and the tiny perking points. 

You blinked away the stun and smiled back. 

“You reach your friend?” He asked, walking towards, then around you, heading for the couch. 

You turned. “Yeah.” You’d hit voicemail. It wasn’t your best message and you probably sounded breathless, describing what had happened on your hike and trying to summarize Namjoon in the space of 30 seconds. 

Lord knows how your friend would take it. 

“I…” You paused and Namjoon’s head turned your way. 

“Hmm?” He’d paused arranging the couch cushions, even though they looked perfect to you. “What is it?” 

God you felt…dumb admitting this but it was best to spit the truth out. Time would betray you eventually. 

“I wasn’t sure of your address so I couldn’t leave one on the voicemail.” 

Namjoon chuckled warm and slow. You wanted to grab a throw pillow nearby and stuff your face into it, to swallow up the responsive squeal aching to escape your throat. 

“I guess I hadn’t thought about that.” He motioned to the magazines. “You could have done it the sneaky way.. That’s got my address.” 

“I’m not a sneaky type.” You replied. Namjoon nodded. 

“Appreciate that. Well.. “ He inhaled and picked up one of the smaller pillows, then lobbed it at the far end of the couch. “...If you want to call them back, I’ll give you my address–officially.” 

Did you REALLY want to call your friend right now? This place was pretty damned nice and so was the company. Mulling it over, you finally shrugged. 

“In a little bit.” Namjoon’s brows dropped. You fumbled, continuing. “...If that’s okay? I mean…I can—” 

“It’s fine.” His brows were soft arches over dark, comforting eyes again. “I like the company.” 

“Me too.” It was exciting how the confession sent heat through you. Rubbing at your neck, you realized how sweaty and icky you still felt. Namjoon’s head cocked as he walked closer to you. 

“I’m really glad we met today, Y/n. I like the isolation here but…Having another person around is even better, when I’m in the mood.” 

“Is it?” You croaked, swallowing a lump. Your nod was almost a twitch. “..You’re in the mood to have someone around today?” 

“I wasn’t at first.” Namjoon’s pause dragged on until you met his stare, gazing into the depths of his eyes right there, just above you. “..That changed…” He snickered and softly murmured “...for some reason.” 

You could tell he was being cheeky and it was delightful. You couldn’t help giggling too. 

“I wonder why..” You sighed. 

After a minute, Namjoon looked around. “Let’s get a little more comfortable then. You want to go clean up? My shower’s back there..”

He indicated where he’d come from, with a nod. As if you hadn’t watched him go there prior, the apple pressed to your lips and heart pounding as you drank in this entire place. 

“Thanks..” Was all you managed, head bowing a little. You slipped past him. Namjoon’s turn to watch you go briefly clear in your peripherals. 

“Just pick whatever out of my dresser. Plenty to choose from. See you soon.” 

“You have a beautiful bathroom.” You confided, watching Namjoon standing next to you. It was getting to a really nice addiction: you and he, just sharing this space. It’d only been a few hours but it was like a lifetime away from the rest of the world.

Namjoon looked away from the living room window and smiled at you. “Thanks.” 

What you’d WANTED to say was ‘This whole place is amazing.’, but you weren’t psychic or brave enough to voice that–just yet. 

Combing wet strands back, you shook your hair out again. It was still a little damp from the shower, but you felt so much better with the grime and sweat washed away.

You hadn’t realized just how much you’d collected tromping up and down the hills out there. Not until you’d felt the rivulets of perfectly hot water winding down your body under the massive shower head, did you really conceive how messy you’d gotten. 

The whole shower experience here left your skin humming and nicely warm. A far cry from your apartment’s modest water pressure and scalding or ice cold temperature poles. If you were honest, you could get used to this. 

“I appreciate the compliment.” Namjoon finally said. “I wasn’t sure about the head but it’s got your approval. Think I’ll keep it.” 

When you locked eyes, he winked, grin wider than before. He was more handsome with dimples. 

“What else do you do out here, alone?” You voiced your curiosity this time. Maybe it was the inhibitions washed away with the sudsy heat or something else at play, but it was out before you could regret.

Namjoon took it well.

“Alone? Hmmm. Sometimes I sit out on the back deck or soak in the hot tub outback and stare at the sky. Listen to nature. Ponder the big questions in life..” 

It all sounded pretty damned good. Beat the hell out of your couch and the usual television fare. 

“Hmm.” You stared at him again. Another question slipped out as quickly as it had popped into your mind. “...And when you’re not alone?” 

You matched the way Namjoon raised a brow. When he chuckled your chest went light. 

“Bit of an intimate kind of question, isn’t it?”

“Maybe.” You retorted. “If what you do is something intimate.” 

Like storm clouds rolling across a sky, darkening the beauty with impressive danger, a shadowy energy flitted through Namjoon’s eyes. But you weren’t scared. You were absolutely riveted. For once in your normally gun shy, socially conservative life. 

“And if I said it was something intimate?”

He was good, dodging a direct answer just enough. He knew just how to feed your interest with words and the things between them. You licked your lips, feeling them twitch as your tongue rolled along. 

“..Sounds like a good time. Care to share?” 

Who were you, suddenly digging for details? Normally this was kosher for your friends. You’d earned the right, but with a basic stranger like Namjoon? You knew you had a lot of nerve. And you were taking a HUGE gamble. 

“Mmm.” Namjoon stepped close again, not much space now between the front of his body and your own. You didn’t back up, lifting your chin to keep eye contact. His smile shrank. 

“I do whatever I want. Or..my guest wants. I’m interested in being the best host I can, if I have company.” 

“Yeah?” 

Namjoon nodded. He let you take another breath, then continued.

“You’re my guest. What do you want to do? What’s your pleasure?” It was really, REALLY sexy the way Namjoon was opening his place to you. And from the energy you detected, he was willing to give himself too. 

“Have you ever done it here?” 

“Done ..’it’? What’s it?” He queried, teasingly. Your forehead felt hot again. You blinked and Namjoon leaned down a little.

“..You mean sex? Are you asking me if I’ve fucked here?” His breath washed across your lips. You couldn’t help nodding or the whine that escaped. Namjoon’s hungry stare burrowed into your soul. He nibbled briefly on his lip.

“I have. Plenty of times. It’s been a while, though.” 

“Has it?” You squeaked as he ran fingertips along your jaw and added pressure at your chin, tipping your face up more. 

“Mmnhmm.” Namjoon’s smile unfurled again. “..Has it been long for you?” 

You stammered, suddenly amnesiac over the last time you’d properly fucked. Of course you had, and the experiences rated ‘okay’ by usual standards, but work and life wedged a lot of time between each session. Forgettable was too perfect a way to describe how it all seemed now.

“It’s been a minute.” You finally managed. 

“Want to remedy that?” 

Maybe it sounded corny coming from anyone else, in a dark, muggy club dancefloor or bar, but Namjoon’s suggesting it now came off only as unadulterated heat. And something you wanted so very much. 

“Yes.” It was a gasp. Maybe a plea. 

“God Y/n..” Namjoon watched your fingers circling his broad wrist. You pulled his hand closer to your lips and grazed them over a few fingertips. You tingled as his lips parted and his lids lowered.

Whatever he was trying to say you were sure it was the same feeling flooding through your entire body. Pulsing inside you, ending right between your legs as they trembled like they’d never done before. More than any hike could ever induce. 

You cut him off.  “..Relax me, Namjoon. Make me forget everything for a while.” 

It was like the shadow darkened hallway stretched on forever as Namjoon moved, carrying you. You couldn’t wrap around him more, but you wanted to try, tightening your thighs around his waist. 

He didn’t have wide hips, but they were sturdy as he walked, pacing slowly across the wood floor in a leisurely path to the bedroom. You dimly knew the space waited beyond that doorway at the far end. And you wanted time to condense again, to bring you both where nature said you should be: in Namjoon’s bed. 

Doing things that nature intended for two people at the mercy of attraction were fated to do. 

Namjoon didn’t pause kissing you as he opened the door, then bumped it wider with a hip. You were in the bedroom, the setting sun’s rays barely filtering through the treetops outside the nearby window. 

As he paused at the bed, then leaned over it, the kiss broke. Reds and fiery orange hues outlined Namjoon’s triangular upper body as he braced a palm into the bed, finally leaned over enough that your back met the mattress. 

“Let go.” He whispered. 

You fell entirely into the bed, grateful for the cushioned fall. Your hair and limbs splayed. Namjoon’s eyes stayed on your, enjoying your slow wriggle as he grasped his shirt and hauled it up, then off. It met the bed nearby. 

Your own hands clutched down the length of your body, finding the shirt you’d chosen from his offered selection.

“Don’t.” Namjoon growled, dropping his bottoms next. Then his briefs, unbothered at the ferocity of his erect cock springing vertical on escape. He mounted the bed on one knee, outside your hip, then the other one joined and he loomed over your again, head to toe bare of a stitch of clothes. 

Sure you’d pondered how he looked in that shower when he’d taken his turn. And under those tight workout pants in the store. Now all was coming clear. All was on a platter, right in front of you—or over you, as it were. 

Your body arched, breasts jostling. Namjoon cupped the outside of a breast and stroked his thumb across the nipple. It perked and he studied the shape through the t–shirt. A garment you desperately wanted to lose. 

In the game of ‘naked’, he was leagues ahead of you. 

“I’m…Namjoon, please–” You sputtered, then groaned loudly when he pinched that tight nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then tugged. His touch was gone in a blink and he gathered your shirt, pushing it higher, up to your neck. Head bowed, he backed down towards the foot of the bed a bit more, until his mouth stopped above your navel. 

“Let me.” He purred, peeling down the boxers you’d borrowed too, and taking them to your knees. While one hand pushed them to your ankles, then off, Namjoon’s nose spiraled your mound. 

You heard his inhale. The groan he let out was sinfully needy too. You bent your right knee, drawing that leg up a little more and lifting your ass off the bed. Delivering your pussy right against his wide open mouth, swooping in to latch onto your clit. 

Namjoon sucked deep and tight, lips perfectly sealed. Then the pulsing started. He was quiet enough, only making a pop sound when he pulled away now and then. 

It wasn’t like he needed to suck your clit or slide his tongue through your folds to open them. It already felt hot and slippery. Your flesh ached in a way that said making out had long since done the trick. 

But Namjoon was enjoying himself and explored with his pointer finger, tracing it through you, stopping down at your opening. Teasing the winking muscle until it clenched again and your thighs shook. 

“You’re so wet..Y/n. You like this don’t you? Are you always this ready when it’s been a while?” 

You nodded. You couldn’t be sure it was true but if that’s what he wanted to hear, if felt like the truest answer you could give. He seemed to accept it diving down to lick, then stab his tongue deeper into you, pushing through your muscle. 

He scooped your widening thighs up and wrapped them over his shoulders. Hugged them against the sides of his neck as he moaned, jaw dropping wider open. Pushing into you, lifting your hips higher and bringing your ass off the bed again.

A lake of heat was swirling in your belly. You wanted to tell him you were close because you felt like the edge was right there, you precariously toes over and staring down into the fall. 

But you couldn’t get the words out. It was only a long, confused hiss of pleasure as fingers slid into you. Pulled out and dipped in again. Namjoon’s fingers worked to stir you up inside, drawing slick out from the depths, slathering it all over you on the outside. Making a delicious mess. 

When you couldn’t take it anymore and your chest heaved, Namjoon pulled back enough and shrugged your legs off his shoulders. He joined them together and turned you onto one side, hooking them neatly over the bend of one elbow, palm planted deep into the bed with an impressive divot.

It was so much concentrated weight focused into one point, you felt the bed sink just a little. Namjoon’s face came into view over you. He groped between your bodies, finding himself and guiding the tip to nest perfectly against you. 

When his bare cock slid inside you, it was done in a single, firm stroke. It wasn’t about the power of his thrust. It was the unhesitant drive in his hips, planting his cock deep and pushing a strangled gasp right out of you. 

Your upper body twisted, neck and head craning away. Profile bracing into the bed, you inhaled, head spinning off the scent of clean, fresh soap, light sweat and errant traces of Namjoon’s natural scent. 

You keened as he pulled back, slid a hand down your side and cupped the hip facing up, then sunk back in. The pumping was seamless. He flowed in and out of you, building speed but keeping the perfect depth. Hitting spots inside you that sent sparks across your scalp. Sent rails of fire down your spine. Curled your toes, when he circled into you and his hips snapped. 

“You feel so good on my cock.. God baby..that’s it..” Over you, Namjoon’s exhale coasted along your skin, burning hot as he muttered wondrously.

You could only whimper, nails sunk into the crook of his nearer elbow, head rolling back to keep your briefly open eyes focused on the ceiling beyond Namjoon’s rocking head. 

He murmured. Fucked. Pushed your knees high as he folded your twisted body up more. Condensed what little tight, wet space was inside you, more and more. There was only so much room and it was full–slick came out more and more as he pulled out and rammed back in. 

It was an unmistakable wet slap loud and clear over Namjoon’s huffing. He was putting in the work and you were back at the edge, now something invisible wrapping and pulling you over. You tumbled, cumming hard. Cumming quick, seizing around his cycling cock.

Namjoon’s head lolled backwards, but he kept going, through your rippling walls. Working up a froth through the creamy mess building as you squeezed and pulsed. Your throat opened as you groaned out a “P..Please..don’t s..stop…”

Your guts seized so hard you couldn’t cry out when Namjoon heeded your request and let himself really go, fucking you deeper. Harder. Jerking your whole body up the bed as he followed. You weren’t escaping–not from him. Not from the gut wrenching orgasm ripping through you. 

The world whited as your eyes rolled up entirely, leaving you sightless. Your purpose on this earth: to feel every bit of ecstasy rushing through you and sending you to the brink of human experience. 

With the release of pressure a trickle followed down to your ass. Namjoon faltered. His lips dove down to your ear.

“..Inside or…o..out..” 

No time to think meant no room for regret. You HAD to know. 

“Inside. Fill me up, Namjoon..” Your lips joined in a deep, ravenous kiss, gobbling up his moan as he shuddered. A few rough thrusts later, he was still, plunged deep, pulsing. Your twitching pussy probably felt like heaven to him as he emptied every drop into you.

When it was over, Namjoon carefully pulled back. His cock slipped out and you felt emptier. For a moment your muscles stayed open, then closed up tight. Like they were determined to hold onto every ounce of what this man had just given. 

“Holy…shit.” Namjoon wiped a forearm across his brow and laughed slowly, Adam’s apple dancing. 

“You felt..so good.” You blurted out. It took a few moments to see beyond the last rays of sunset through the window. The bouquet of colors was gone, leaving a muted, reddish haze. 

Namjoon’s shoulders flexed back as he rolled his neck. “..If you could understand how your pussy feels.. Fuck..” With a groan he combed his bangs back. 

“Worth the wait?” 

You tickled the downy trail running south, below his navel, then situated both calves on the outside of his hips. Namjoon’s hands rested loose on your hips. He wasn’t shy, eyeing your whole body and wearing the smirk of a job well done. 

There was no doubt he’d smashed your previous experiences. Your insides twitched and your head had barely cleared. You’d just come back to the present, cobbling together enough focus for basic conversation. 

“And then some..” Namjoon hummed, seizing your wrist and bringing that hand to his lips. He tucked a kiss into that palm. Leering down at you, he cupped that hand against the center of his chest. Right between those big, perfectly muscled pecs. 

“Ready to call your friend?” There was a distant hope sparkling in his eyes. You knew as well as he did: No was acceptable, again. 

“In a little bit.” You murmured, then glanced at his bedroom door. He’d left it open. His mouth shifted into a half grin. 

“Something else you want—maybe somewhere else around here?” 

“Well I noticed a hot tub outside.” 

“That’s right.” Namjoon’s muscles shifted under your palm. Your fingers curled along his skin, lightly pressing in, trying to feel more. You wanted more of him, not just the tour of his place. 

“We should try it out.” 

“We can do that. A soak is good for the muscles.” 

“I’ve heard that. ….Got time to give me a full tour after that?” Whatever he might have planned for the rest of his night, he didn’t flinch and his expression stayed pleasant. Welcoming, like his gaze following your legs up to your core and taking a long time to linger there. 

“You’re really changing my mind about this whole cabin in the woods thing.” You added. Namjoon puffed his chest and leaned forward, releasing his hold on your hand as if he knew you’d keep that palm against him. 

You didn’t prove him wrong, adding the other palm as he pressed down over you. A kiss was on the horizon and you tipped your face up. His weight felt good on you–Namjoon’s large frame trapped you in the best way. 

He was warm. His cock was tacky but already semi hard as it inched across your belly. 

“I’m always up for a chance to change an opinion. We can go have a soak and you can think about calling your friend after.” 

You offered a faux pout. “Are you saying I have to leave?” 

“That’s not even close to what I said. Definitely wasn’t thinking it..” Even being faintly chastised felt good. You couldn’t say you had the same take away back at work, in front of your boss or direct report. 

“Good to know.” You snuck a look down to what you could make out of your body underneath Namjoon. It was still damp enough between your thighs. You knew it wouldn’t be as bad as it had been still in the act, but you knew a wipe down was in order before you dared stick a toe in his hot tub. 

Call it respect, but you also wanted a chance to explore what things looked like after you’d been daring enough to ask for and receive what had to be a healthy load inside. That hadn’t happened since your last committed relationship. 

You looked up again, watching Namjoon’s face disappear as he sucked a kiss at the bottom of your neck, where it joined your shoulder. Afterwards he sat up and backed down the bed. He offered both hands to help you up. 

When you stood upright face to face, the bed at your back, you felt shy. Your legs felt surprisingly weak. You swallowed, finding your mouth cottony. 

“Let’s grab a drink too. You can show off your kitchen and the living room? You’re into photography I noticed.”

“What makes you say that?” He tugged you along, taking a step at a time backwards towards the bedroom doorway. If it hadn’t been his cabin, you’d wonder if he’d walked around his place in the city like this. What was that place like? 

You wanted to know more about who Namjoon was beyond this big getaway spot in the woods and his generous many-card credit power. 

“I saw photo albums on your bookshelf.” 

“Yeah.” Namjoon’s features smothered darkness as he crossed the bedroom door threshold into the hallway. “I dabble now and then. Whenever I’m here.” 

“Would love to see it.” 

“We can add that to the tour. I do like to keep my guests happy.” 

“And I think I like this whole day in the woods. Might be time to find out about what a weekend away would be like.” 

Namjoon’s body was against you again as your travel paused midway down the hall. You didn’t have to see, only feel and you knew he was going for a kiss. You surrendered your mouth and he took his time, tongue exploring lightly. 

“A little Me Time…I can support that–in more than one way.”   

Change Of Plans (Namjoon x Fem Reader)

Word Count: 6.15k

Pairing: Namjoon x Fem Reader

Rating: 18+/Mature/Explicit

Warnings: Oral sex (you receiving), sucking, kissing (french and other), dirty talk, talk about money/being rich, seduction, take charge and submitting, orgasms (multiple/squirting), overstim elements, light force, undressing (you to him), teaching and praise kink, intense fingering, clit sucking/rubbing, shyness/shame (at first), handsome rich Namjoon in this one, sexually experienced versus inexperienced (but not virginal), wet kink, talk about Namjoon being hard/big. Probably missing something but that's how it is!

Genre: PwP, established relationship (new)

AUs: CEO BTS/CEO Namjoon

Summary: You've experienced a lot since you've started dating a CEO. A nice, fancy planned night out turns into something else when Namjoon decides to change things and teach you something you've always wanted to learn.

Author’s Note: I got a wild hair and wrote this. No good reason, just wanted to read about Namjoon doing this as a sexy rich guy. I always say I won't write any more stories about him for a while but I always fail. I love CEO Namjoon too much. He's a hot M-fer.

I tried to proof read but no doubt missed typos/have misspellings, etc. Overlook it and enjoy the content.

Also for @worldwideseal because we know she's his biggest seal and will drop it on command for that man. I don't blame her.

Thank you for reading. If you liked it and feel like telling me in a comment, I'd treasure it. Reblogging is appreciated but never required.

Tag List: @kiestrokes @askkrisachan

He was standing outside when you arrived at the restaurant, as if the beginnings of the coming storm didn’t seem a concern in the least. As a reward you were greeted with the shining shapes of his cheeks as he smiled when you climbed from the passenger seat of the car. It was the one thing that moved him: coming close to hold out his hand.

A wide, warm hand that enclosed yours in the perfect way to show just how much of a size difference existed between you and this man. This handsome man with a wealth spanning beyond this continent. 

Whose eyes looked deep into your own as you stood upright and came up onto the curb, facing him.

“Namjoon…tell you haven’t been standing out here for long?” You couldn’t imagine how much that suit cost. It must not have been much in the scheme of things, from the way he took a single glance down before his attention returned to you through the misty curtain of a light drizzle.

“Long enough. You look beautiful. Did you bring your appetite?” 

You tried to look past him but Namjoon leaned in such a way to keep your focus on him. Not letting you see around his broad shoulders–not that it would have been much easier if he stood still. 

“I did.” You wiped the back of a hand across your cheek in frictionless motion thanks to the slickness of droplets. Soon your hair would be flat from the wetness and you weren’t willing to let that kind of expense go to waste. Your budget didn’t have that level of elasticity. 

“...Can we go inside? We’ll end up waterlogged.” You continued. 

Namjoon smiled as he offered a bent arm to loop your own through. It felt right to cling to him and let his forward motion carry you. He was a natural leader–the air around him spoke of it. No need to announce. He was just that kind of man. 

At the doors of the restaurant Namjoon reached out first, opening one side and nodding into the dark warmth beyond the doorway. Without having to follow it with a suggestion, you slipped through and a moment later he was standing just behind you in the lobby. So close his warmth was back, lacing around you in a slow creep–not that it was anything to complain about. 

“Reservation for Kim.” He smiled from behind you to the hostess, who returned his greeting with a relaxed, shy grin and a brief nod. She murmured something akin to “This way, Mr Kim.”, then rounded the corner into the main dining area.

Then went beyond it, weaving through to the back and 4 darkly painted doors, closed tight to the world. Stopped at the second one, she opened it then stood aside, polite and quiet. Namjoon let you lead and followed seconds later. After a murmured exchange the door clicked shut. 

By then you’d focused on pretending to study the table settings. Everything was immaculate, from the silver ice bucket with an emerald bottle frosting under the lights at the table’s center, to the plates with an expensive looking line work running the perimeter and even the glimmering flutes, empty and waiting in front of each place setting.

Namjoon caught your glance as he parted ways and came around to stand across the way, on the table’s other side. “I think we’ll enjoy this..” 

Your brows lifted as you touched the back of the chair directly in front of you. It wasn’t long before your fingers curled the darkly finished wood as nerves had tiny hairs on the back of your neck lifting. 

“We will?” You ventured, adding a miniscule smile. Relaxation came when Namjoon nodded.

“I think so. You’ve been out to dinner before.. I’m sure.” 

“Yeah.” You conceded. “Not here though.” It shouldn’t matter but it did–between you and this man there were a lot of economic gaps, although he never flaunted it in a way that made you feel like you didn’t belong. 

THAT was all of your own making. And right now it was particularly strong when you noticed the name on the bottle when Namjoon leaned over the table to grab and lift it from the ice bucket. He hoisted it up enough to peer at the label, then shot you a look.

“You’ve had alcohol before?” When you nodded he mirrored it, going on. “Good. This is a special bottle. Very,VERY rare.” 

“Should we be wasting it?” He set the bottle down on the table then came around to you again. Standing close his skin had dried enough that he was rosy from the returning warmth, out of the cool night air. And hints of his cologne teased your senses, inducing an unconscious swallow.

It wasn’t like this was the first night you’d been out on a date. Or even the first night you’d been out to dinner with Namjoon, but something about this night felt beautifully tense–especially with the size of the knot it was winding deep in your belly. 

Namjoon had the chair out and inclined his head. “Sit. Please?” Another smile–full of dimples. 

He pushed you close to the table and moved away a moment later, taking his seat quietly. When you took a look at the small menu near your plate, he turned focus back to the bottle, working on opening it. 

You wanted to watch how easily he opened the champagne. You’d seen it done in movies but couldn’t ever master it, even with the cheap bottles from the store. No telling how much THIS one cost and that meant there was even less of a chance you’d take the risk of “practicing” the act. 

Instead you squinted at the small type on the creamy cardstock between your twitching fingers. You went over the appetizer and main course unsure of a few words. French hadn’t been your strong point and some of the ingredients you didn’t recognize from all your episodes of Top Chef to have a single clue. 

The cork pop as Namjoon opened the champagne made you jump and pulled his eyes to you again. This time he half smirked. 

“Sorry..” He filled one glass roughly halfway and passed it over, then poured for himself. As you sniffed the glass contents you watched him return the bottle to the bucket, then touch the flute rim to his lips. No hesitation, Namjoon tipped the glass and his head back, swallowing a sizable mouthful. You watched the flexion in his throat and licked your lips. 

“What do you think?” He asked and you looked up from the menu again. No luck once more. You decided to give up. It would be a nice surprise to see what came out soon. 

“Of?” You blinked, then giggled when Namjoon pointed at the champagne. “Ah…It’s…interesting.” 

“That’s telling. Not your preferred brand?” 

“It’s not that.” You laid the menu down, feeling warmth climbing your neck. For a single moment you wished to be back out in the chill of the night. It would help even out your body and brain. 

“Explain?” 

“I haven’t had anything like this before, to be honest.” 

“This?” He wasn’t mocking and there was a sweet, curious interest in his tone. You couldn’t be mad at that. Maybe any other date would be a prick about your lack of experience with the finer things in life. 

“Well.. a nice dinner at a place with a menu I can’t read.” Except for the prices, you couldn’t understand anything else and that universal language of money was enough to put you back in the understanding that you weren’t meant to be somewhere like this, let alone with someone like Namjoon.

But he didn’t seem plussed. In fact, he eased back into his chair and tilted his head with an easy spread to his lips. 

“I can translate.” 

“It’s not that.” You returned to the same feeling again, offering a weak smile. “I just…This isn’t me.” 

“If I’m honest it’s not really what I wanted tonight, either. I wanted to experience things with you, Y/n. I can’t always hit a homerun. Sometimes I get it wrong—we can go somewhere else.” 

You hesitated this time, searching that handsome face across the way for any betraying microexpression but none showed. For all you could tell he wasn’t upset in the least. Which was nice. 

“--You sure? This is a beautiful restaurant. It’s got…fancy food.” Fancy meant expensive and probably so good you’d ascend. But that also felt like a lot of strangeness you might not be able to get over. And he HAD made the comment about wanting to experience things with you. 

“Let’s get out of here then. Where do YOU want to go?” Namjoon leaned into the tabletop with both elbows, voice a few decibels lower. 

You scoffed. “Seriously?” 

Namjoon nodded. “Absolutely. Doesn’t matter where–anything goes. The only criteria is that you're comfortable and relaxed. If you want to try things with me, then let's change it up a bit. You take ME to something you’ve always wanted to try. We can make this night end much better..” 

“Okay.” You only took a moment to consider, then nodded. Namjoon was up again and came to your seat. He was even faster pulling it away from the table enough for you to stand. 

“We just came in from the rain out there–” You protested, but lambasted yourself to get the hell out of your own way. He was trying to reshape the night, open to adapting any plans he had. The least you could do was NOT complain about trivial stuff. 

“--And we’re going back out into it.” His breath caressed your cheek, his fingers gliding through to gather your hair back. Namjoon smiled again and continued, every syllable delightfully tickling.  “..You lead the way. We’ll learn together.” 

--------------------------------------------------------

“You can take your shoes off in here or the main living room.” Namjoon called back as you let the penthouse door shut at your back. You’d been here before a handful of times and it was a little easier each time. Even as new as things were with him, you were at least used to this space and THIS collection of expensiveness all in one place. 

Namjoon’s form strolled through the foyer, broad shoulders writhing as they escaped the suit jacket. He dropped it onto a rack of hooks as he passed them by and finally turned to face you. With the light at his back it was impossible to see his face. To read his expression. But from his tone he was smiling. 

“Don’t be afraid. You know I don’t bite. Been a while since you’ve been here.” 

“It has..” You murmured, pacing his path, nipples tightening from the chill of the bare marble foyer floor under your soles. As you came close Namjoon undid his tie and tugged it down to a yawning O, letting it hang around his neck. 

“What do you want to do here? I can make us something—or if you’d like another drink, I have A LOT more options.” 

“Water is fine.” You smiled. There wasn't much preamble between Namjoon’s silence to study you and when the back of a few nails traced the apple of your cheek. You turned into his touch, savoring the blooming warmth of his naked palm. Your thoughts and the world slowed in a pulse that started right between your thighs. 

“I can get that for you.” You didn’t have time to say thank you before Namjoon and his touch were both gone,into the living room area, then beyond. A door opened and closed far away as you strained to listen and imagine his movements with your vague familiarity of his penthouse layout. 

He was back soon enough,small glass of water in hand. You took it and sipped as he took the tie off and dropped it onto the top of a small side table nearby. He started to reach up to the buttons of his dress shirt then paused. 

Like he’d been struck with some sudden and miraculous idea, Namjoon stalled. He arched one brow. 

“Y/n..” 

“Yeah?” You managed after swallowing a healthy mouthful of chilled water. A pity the glass was half empty now. You hadn’t realized just how parched you’d been, but staring at Namjoon was hard work. And that meant the thirst was real, on several fronts.

Your friends could never, EVER appreciate it, even when they’d oohed and ahhed over his interviews in various Fortune 500 type magazines that you’d checked out from the library to give them proof of life. 

“I want to try something with you.” 

“That’s a huge opening you’ve left. I could drive a semi through it. What’s the catch?” You set the glass down, determined to finishing it sooner rather than later.

“No catch.” He chuckled. “I’m being a little vague but I want to make sure you’re comfortable here. Are you?” 

“Yes. I wouldn’t have asked to come here. I could have just asked to go back to my place.” 

“True.” He nodded. “And you know I’d take you there in a heartbeat.” 

You sighed, a little dreamily. “Yeah.” 

Namjoon paused again, like he was calculating something under his lowered brows, then began again. 

“What you said in the restaurant got me thinking.” 

“I said a lot. Which part?” 

“That restaurant…it wasn’t you. The…experience–expensive food and decor. The overall environment. We’ve been dating a little while but I want to give you things you haven’t experienced.” 

You nodded. “You have.” 

“Maybe I’m not talking about money wise.” 

You met his heavy stare. It wasn’t in the least bit awkward the way he stepped close, his front almost touching you, staring down his nose, right into your eyes. And you, swaying lightly, looking up into his relaxed face. Calm curiosity was back on his features. 

I wouldn’t object if you gave me the experience of touching me again. You coughed gently, hinting. “What then..”

“There’s things you haven’t done. ..Experienced.” A nod. He had to ask these softball questions fully knowing. But why? 

“Yes.” 

“I’m going to ask you something and I want the truth. We haven’t really…discussed this and I think here is the best place–now is the best time–to have that talk.” 

Uh oh. “Um–”

He tutted when your lips worked as fresh chills washed over your torso. Had he gone rogue and dug up some dark secret from your background? Namjoon’s level of wealth and power, he had to know how to vet someone in ways they couldn’t hide even with the most herculean efforts. He’d find it out–wouldn’t stop until he did. 

“It’s not like that. This isn’t a gotcha. Just…want to ask. And I want the truth. Fair enough?” 

“Sure.” You watched his hand come up and fondle a strand of your hair before sliding it behind your ear. He tickled that lobe and smirked. 

“You’ve been with a man before.” He waited for your nod. “...Have you ever..undressed a man?” 

“What?” You swayed a little more obviously. Namjoon’s grip settled on your shoulder, righting you gently. “What’s that mean? I’ve seen a guy undress.” 

“Not what I asked.” There was a sweet patience in the twist of his lips. 

“I.---” 

“Y/n..” When he caressed under your chin your head lifted and fell back from the ghost of pressure. Your lids gained several pounds and you whined in the beginnings of horny confusion. 

No need to hide that from this man. Namjoon had seen every inch of you naked. Maybe not at every angle, but you could be open to changing that. He was a grown man. Healthy. Interested in you. Raring to go. And that was turning your brain into a blended mess of hormones and chaos. 

“Yes?” You gasped. When the back of his pointer finger knuckle traveled along your lips, you pressed them to the point and exhaled when his lids lowered in response. 

“It’s one thing to see a man take his clothes off. Have YOU ever taken a man’s clothes off.” 

“A shirt, sure.” 

“--All of it. Head to toe. Shirt. Pants..under those things…” 

“No.” You quietly conceded. He didn’t let your head lower. It was more habit than shame. Namjoon never made you feel awkward or bad about your green nature with a lot of this relationship stuff. 

“Will you do it for me?” 

A long blink and his face blurred until your eyes focused on those soft dimples and the faint parting of his lips in a flirtatious grin. 

“Undress you?” Namjoon nodded and his thumb pulled at your lower lip. You whined and his teeth sank into his lip. 

“Please?” He whispered. “You can say no…if it’s really—”

“Yes.” You coughed. “I…just.. I don’t know what to do but..if you don’t mind me fumbling through–.” 

“I was inexperienced too. The best way to learn is to do. The hands-on approach is the best route, if you ask me.” He had the knowledge of years–lord knew how many–of experience at this. It was hard to believe he was ever inexperienced or new. Nervous or fumbled at anything, especially with the way he touched you. 

Eventually you let your head bob and he stepped back, gently collecting your wrist. He didn’t speak, heading for the living room space. Then going beyond it–right for the hallway. The one that led to the bedroom. 

Namjoon stood just out of reach from the end of the bed. A california king style, spanning what felt like the entirety of the room. In reality it was impressively wide–like Namjoon himself, but right now you had a bit of a skewed perspective. Bravely you stepped close to him. Within reach of that big chest. His eyes trained on your face, he inhaled,puffing a bit. 

“I took care of the tie..” Namjoon chuckled. “Hope you can forgive my robbing you of that.” You snickered and reached up to put your hands on his pecs. The firmness was palpable through the crisp fabric. You walked fingers inwards, heading for the buttons. 

“That’s right..” He murmured. “Keeping going..” 

Your fingers felt weak. Uncoordinated. But you managed anyway, popping several buttons open, heading down to just above his navel before you paused again, checking his stare for approval or direction. He only offered a serene smile and silence. 

You undid more buttons, rewarded with the tight, perfect smoothness of his skin–the line of belly muscles and upwards, where the firm shapes of his pectoral muscles waited when you spread the material apart further and further. Namjoon groaned briefly and his head went back when you leaned close. Like he was anticipating your next move. 

And the things it did to your insides… You felt light headed again but rallied. Pushing the shirt off his shoulders, you watched it slide down, pooling around the crooks of his elbows. At least he wasn’t wearing cufflinks tonight. You’d seen them before and he even tried to explain the differences before, but you were only supremely grateful right now for one less roadblock. One less challenge for your confused mind. 

He twisted a little to help you push the sleeves down his wrist and tug each one off. The shirt hung around his waist, still tucked into his slacks. You touched the waist of the pants and heard his breath hitch. 

Heat swelled between your legs. No way you dared to look up right now. His scent washed over you, almost choking every molecule of air from your lungs–not that you minded. Your nostrils flared when the waist button popped open. The slacks zipper was almost silent sliding down. He didn’t move as you pushed the pants down his hips. The shirt free, it finally dropped to the floor at Namjoon’s back. 

“That’s much better.” He grumbled. “Keep going. A bit more left, sweetheart.” 

Your head swam dangerously, fingers gripping his hips. Underneath that grasp the material of his boxer briefs provided a nearly frictionless glide. And what that tight material encased just above his thighs was enough to humble you even to the edges of your best, more explicit fantasies. Until Namjoon, you had no conception how good a real man could feel when he was yours alone. 

“You’ve got me so hard already. Take it all off. Almost there..” His quiet murmuring eventually penetrated the hum in your brain, clearing away the fog. 

“Jesus..” You whined, lips touching the center of his chest as your thumbs dove between his skin and the waist of the briefs. The material dropped, sliding down the pillars of his thighs slowly. He barely lifted one foot, then the other, shaking each until the briefs met the ground around his feet. 

Immediately your hand found Namjoon’s cock, wrapping the thick shaft. He was already pulsing as your fingers tightened. His eyes rolled a little and he gulped, then let out a louder groan. 

“You feel so good..” You gasped, turning your profile into his skin. Inhaling and letting the tip of your tongue explore, leaving a wet, meandering trail. Fingers combed up the back of your head and he palmed your skull, guiding it back. 

He was kissing you deep so suddenly. And it lingered on until you had to pull away and suck in a breath. The euphoria of being oxygen starved rushed through you and everything around you in the room became wobbling shapes. Shadows, changing form in a blink. 

“Y/n..” He broke another kiss, lips close enough to graze your lower lip. If he only knew how badly you wanted the suction and the satisfying pop of release. He’d already proved to have amazing lips–strong and firm. Could suck the soul right out of you, if you let it go on too long.  

“Mnnnnn.” You whined. 

“What else haven’t you done with a man? Tell me. I want to do it. I want to be a first for you.” 

Jesus Christ Namjoon. You ARE a ‘first’. You in my life is a thing so brand new it’s unheard of for me. You swallowed and tried to chase his lips but however closer you leaned, Namjoon kept his mouth just as far away, controlling things. As was the status quo. He was much less at the mercy of his hormones than you. 

“I haven’t really felt fingers…” 

“Where?” His smile spanned so wide there was a devilish angle. Teeth flashed and he nosed your chin, forcing your head back. His lips rode down your jugular. 

“You know..” 

“I don’t..” He hissed at your collarbone. “Tell me.” 

“I..Inside me.” 

“Your mouth? Where, baby?” He was probably enjoying the coy, ignorant side he was playing right now. It worked well to force you to reply. But so did the growing ache chewing through your folds under the darkness of your dress and the satin panty barrier separating your modesty from the undoing that was coming down the pike. 

“Namjoon..” 

“Y/n..” A feathering touch traced up your inner thigh and stopped short of going under the dress where it was wet and burning hot. You wanted to faint but screwed your eyes shut. “All you have to do is tell me. We can make it happen..” 

“Inside me. My…pussy.. Here..” You slid a palm over your mound, cupping. The pressure was driving you mad but it was also serving to make it clear–if he still wanted to play dumb. He pulled back and glanced down between your bodies and circled the back of your knuckles of the hand still cradled over your sex. 

“You’ve never been fingered before?” 

“No.” You wheezed. It was the god’s honest truth. If he wasn’t bullshitting he’d be down to remedy that tonight. So far Namjoon’s track record was favoring “asking because he wants the answer and wants to fix it”, so you weren’t worried. 

“That’s…God.. Who would pass up a chance to slide inside you however they can fit?” He rumbled behind sealed lips, then stepped away, taking his touch with it. Your hand moved from that molten center at the top of your thighs and you trained swimming vision on his retreating form. 

“Considering how sensitive you are normally..this is going to feel good for you.” He observed at normal volume. Casual. It was hard to determine if he was talking to you or thinking out loud. Either way it had you woozy again.

“Let’s satisfy that curiosity then, hmm? Get on the bed–on your back, please.” 

The bed was as comfortable as it had proved to be from your memory of all the previous times you laid here. Post sex. Pre sex. Gasping and sweating. Tangled up with Namjoon’s long limbs, lips sucking and pressing. Losing your mind under impossible thread count sheets. 

The coolness was a nice change as you set and scooted back until your feet were just at the end. Namjoon had walked away, then came back and laid something on the bed near your left leg. You tried to look but he kissed your shin and growled. 

“Eyes on me.” 

“The thing I’ve learned about exploring and pleasuring a woman is that it’s most important to have as much direct skin contact as possible. There’s so many nerve endings in every square inch. Maybe more than a man’s body..” He droned quietly, watching the dress slide up your skin, to the space just above your hips where it was narrow, then out again, up to your breasts. Then off into a haphazard pile on top of one nearby pillow. One of many barricading the headboard. 

As he commanded, you did, watching the crown of his head lower as he slid fingers up your legs, then your thighs, escaping up under the dress until he found the panties. They came down faster than his briefs. Bunched in his fist, he brought them to his nose, huffing deep and slow. Once soft, adoring eyes, hardened to something more primal. Hungry.

He dropped the panties on the bed near your foot and mounted the bed, crawling up between your calves, working them apart with his widely spread knees digging into the yielding plush of the memory foam mattress topper. 

“I’m..nervous..” It came out as Namjoon’s eyes roamed your naked skin. He’d been about to cup your breasts and paused, looking up again. 

“I get in my own head too, sometimes. Close your eyes for me. It helps..” 

“I can’t..” You were telling the whole truth. As heavy as your lids felt earlier, the nervousness was back, pinning your eyes wide open. Your belly trembled with several deep breaths. Namjoon watched your navel shivering as it rose and fell and cooed. 

“Sweetheart..” A spiral around the divot of your navel froze you. He followed down to your mound, riding the shape further. When he touched your hood your ass lifted off the bed a little and Namjoon growled again. 

“So responsive. There’s probably the most nerve endings here..” He swept the wide pad of his thumb over your clit, pulling the hood back and letting it slide back in place. Electricity crawled your scalp as you shuddered.

Your thighs fell away from each other and Namjoon moved both his knees wider, pinning them just a bit further apart. It felt good but the stretch at the center of your core wasn’t much diminished. The cool bedroom air washing over your folds helped for a second. 

“Let’s see..” He breathed, tracing the tip of his pointer finger around your hood, then dipping into your flesh and splitting your seal. It made your thighs shake as they tried to fight his strong muscles to no avail. The convulsion to snap shut was eliminated. It wasn’t happening so long as this man was kneeling between your legs. 

When his finger entered you it drew another lungful of air when you gasped. Your breasts arched, head pushing backwards into the bed. A low moan rippled up your throat as his finger pulled back and dove in again, deeper. It was a few plunges and he went to the last knuckle. 

“I…Oh my god..J..joon..please..” You keened, feeling drunk. Feeling like fire was running right up the center, splitting your pussy in half. Namjoon added a second finger after a few slow thrusts. Your eyes finally shut, upper body rolling sharply to one side. He planted his other palm gently onto your abdomen. 

“Now now..princess..” He chuckled. “That’s a common reaction. Feel good?” When your head snapped up and down he murmured approvingly. It was getting wetter. Sliding much too easily. You could hear the soft crackle of your pussy sucking up both digits when they dove in and retreated. 

But it went on for a while, the pleasure building in your belly in the form of a giant, heavy ball. Namjoon slowed, fingers paused inside you, to spiral this thumb against your clit. Your walls squeezed and he hissed through set teeth. 

“Fuck..that’s what I love. Finding the right spot and the squeezing—” He trailed off, dropping his head between your thighs. Latching onto your clit, Namjoon sucked, sawing his fingers firmer and faster, in and out. 

Minutes swam by. Before you knew it, he’d come up just enough to talk into the moist skin of your mound. Wetness clinging in ropes against his lips and your flesh as his lips moved. He sounded almost breathless. Excited. 

“Y/n…Baby..” He crooned. You couldn’t lift your head. Couldn’t open your eyes. Couldn’t do a damn thing but pull at his fingers with your aching muscles. You needed more than that, but it was almost too much at the same time.

The sensory overload told the same story: enough to override everything and have you cumming soon. You knew that buzzing in your flesh. You knew the tightening in the skin below your opening. You knew the spastic flutters when he sucked just hard enough or stabbed at just the right angle. 

Your body twisted, chest rising and falling in a fresh panic. You were close to a high that promised to be just as impressive as any session with a vibrator or riding this man’s perfect cock the few times you’d had it. 

Syllables left your lips. From the fragments Namjoon could glean enough that he was heading the right direction. Praise rained on your senses again as his fingers moved, deeper. Twisted and pressed. A third joined the first two and your spine straightened, heels digging into the bed. Namjoon leaned into his palm as he swept over your front wall and lightning crashed through your brain.

You stiffened, choking on nothing as pressure turned into a wash of ecstasy so unique. Different from the clit stimulation he’d been giving. He was watching your face, modest smile on his shining lips. 

“Like that… It’s a nice spot. Once you find it..you can’t leave it alone. You tell me when you can’t hold it anymore, Y/n. Don’t worry about what happens. Just relax and lean into it.” Whatever he was saying was vaguely registering. Instead your ass rocked up and down against the bed as he fucked his fingers into you firmer and faster. 

Your hands clawed the sheets. Found skin, bare and muscle, and sank against it, tugging. He didn’t change pace or pause. If it hurt, it wasn’t showing on his face. All that remained was Namjoon’s heavy stare, watching you like a hawk. 

Another stab right into that spot he’d massaged before and a wave of cold washed you from head to toe. Your spine changed to an S shape as you twisted two directions–from the waist up and down. 

“That’s it..” He snapped, breathing against you as he worked your pussy, stirring against your g spot. Pushing and probing like he was expecting any moment you’d blow. “Hold it as long as you can…. I know it’s a lot of pressure..you just want to push.. Just..a little more, Y/n..” 

He’d only finished the request and your mind whited as a massive, menacing clench seized your walls. You shrieked and shuddered, wrapping fingers around what had to be his forearm rising from the palm braced against your abdomen. 

“It’s…I…” You gurgled, going dizzy again. “P..please..” Pleading for no reason but also beaming every single ounce of desire that he NOT stop. The orgasm was so slow and explosive as it opened up inside you. 

The pressure exploded as something eventually rushed out of you, chasing Namjoon’s fingers as they slipped free. His distant, approving laugh was almost musical as you came. And continued to cum. Wet heat pooled below your ass and grew in size until it was clear: this wouldn’t be a modest little spot on clean white sheets. 

This would be something else entirely and the urge to push finally passed as you fell back against the bed. 

“Oh my god..” You lamented at full volume, forearm shielding your eyes as you turned away from the confusion and reality flooding in. Your chest still burned for air as you laid there, drinking in lungfuls. 

Namjoon hadn’t moved from where he’d been, except to lean down and lick a wide stripe across one nipple. Then he tugged with his lips and popped free. 

“Know what you just did, baby? It was so fucking hot..” 

“I’m sorry..” You bleated. “I…ruined your bed I—”

“No.” Namjoon barked against the underside of a breast as he rooted there, kissing. Sucking. Making art out of love bites ringing the plump, doughy flesh now bathed in a light sweat. “Your body responded perfectly. In the best way. Guess you didn’t know you had a g-spot did you?”

“..A what?” You replied. 

“Uh huh… Not every girl responds like that but god…YOU did. And I love it. So SO much. When it happens from my cock–”

“You can…make me feel like this on your cock?” 

“Mnnnhmmm.” He purred, coming up to lean over you, gazing down into your eyes. “The mess is even better. Something happens inside. Fucking through that kind of wetness… It’s such a beautiful, rare thing. There’s positions that work so good… We have some time tonight, if you want to explore them.” 

“Is that what YOU want?”

“I left the night up to you, Y/n.” He laughed quietly, bringing your head off the bed, cupped in the comfort of his palm, then his lips sank against you. Moans traded between you as your lips wrestled against Namjoon’s, drawing out his tongue and pushing it back with your own. 

He was SUCH an amazing kisser. You’d lost so much time kissing with partners who barely understood the first thing about a proper, satisfying kiss. Here Namjoon was, rectifying and rewriting history. 

After another long, deep, lingering kiss you spoke again. “Namjoon… What…what happened? What did I…do?”

“You ruined my sheets, Y/n.”

“God…you make it sound—”

“Shh. You never had this happen before?” 

“No. This is the first.. You’re my…first.” 

“Oh my god..” His eyes almost rolled up and shut as Namjoon’s chest boomed again with a long groan. “That’s going to make me pop… and I’m not even inside you. You handled my fingers as well as you took my cock. I really didn’t doubt it but…”

“But I..made a mess..” You wiggled underneath him, more aware of the rapidly cooling dampness under your ass. It was getting more unpleasant, which meant more understanding it was YOUR fault. 

“And it’s fucking HOT. I’ll take care of that. Promise me…you’ll let me make you do it again?” 

“Joon…god..” You buried your face against one broad shoulder and Namjoon didn’t pull away, nosing along your scalp. 

“I’m serious, baby. This isn’t something that we do once. We can explore it. I’m prepared to show you some other firsts in that vein of experience. Do you trust me?”

“Wouldn’t be at your place, naked, spread on your bed if I didn’t.” You scoffed. 

“Mmnnnn. And I’ll do what it takes to show you I love having you like this. Now… I’ll grab some water and a towel. You stay here, got it?” 

“Joon..” 

“Say yes, Y/n. This isn’t a debate. It’s a Yes or No.” 

“Yes.” You finally sighed, letting your body sink back into the bed when he pulled away, sat up, then backed down the bed to stand upright. You only watched so much as he turned and walked away, engorged cock slowly swaying and bobbing with every few steps until his shape disappeared from the view you had with the strength barely scraped from the meager remains. 

This beat the hell out of a fancy dinner with dishes you couldn’t pronounce. But that also meant another bonus: Namjoon spoiling you tonight: being your teacher and your cook. Your boyfriend. Your complete indulgence and the key to things you hadn’t even begun to learn about yourself. 

Which meant this night was going to be pretty damn good.

mami (m) | myg/knj

title: mami (m) pairing: myg x reader(f) , knj x reader(f) , slight jhs x reader(f)😛 rating/genre: m (18+) ; smut ; battle rap au , roommates au summary: you somehow have a conversation with yoongi, and you tell your roommate about a date date. note: heavy 00s vibes, this is just the beginning of a collection of parts instead of just a oneshot let’s fucking goooo🦋 note 2: this is pretty unedited lolll if there are mistakes i’m so so sorry! warnings for this part: language, choking, joon in sweats, bathroom s*x, b*ckshots, friendly sp*nks from your roomie🤪, it uhhh starts right out the gate lmfao, hobi in silk and a robe, yoongi is a warning in his own right, light sl*pping, you get called mamiii😗 so if that’s not ur thing i’d skip this series !!, joon is too smooth, a secret fourth guy lmfaoooo, battle rap scenarios! drop date: september 26th, 2023, 10:07pm est word count: 3.7k  mood: here 

Czytaj dalej

new guy (m) | knj

title: new guy pairing: fuckboi!namjoon x organization president!reader(f) rating/genre: m (18+) ; smut ; university au, enemies to lovers? summary: all you want to do is have a successful meeting after experiencing dwindling attendance. but the new guy is completely disrupting things… or is he? warnings: cursing, blowjob, choking, smartass joon in those grey joggers, size kink, hitting it from the back, unprotected (pls be safe), edging, namjoon does have a chain who is shocked, manhandling, creampie, light face/cunt slapping, body worship, jimin in business profesh lol notes: hi ! this is for @thebtswritersclub​’s january prompt “new” and i speedily wrote this entire thing bc i would very much like to stay a member LOL thank you to the admin team for being so understanding. love you all and appreciate all the hard work you do! also, thank you cee @yutasthetic​ for letting me use your pretty name! note 2: this is a bit unedited so i apologize in advance loll release date: january 29th, 2022, 7:17pm est word count: 5.5k

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“Thank you all for coming this evening! We have a lot of items on the agenda to discuss so please leave any questions for the end.” 

Czytaj dalej

real magic (explicit)

genre: smut, fluff, bangin’ your boss, m attempts kidfic - part of a hyung holiday collab !

pairing: namjoon x reader

summary: the holiday season has never meant anything to you beyond suffering long hours for minimum wage and awaiting the collapse of capitalism— but this year, you’d be willing to add making out with your dilf coffee shop boss to the list.

word count: 16.7k 😩

contains: ~*~explicit sexual content (after kind of a slow burn sorry lol)~*~ the "moving back to your hometown" hallmark trope, a nick jonas poster (yes that's a warning), some taekook slander in the beginning because i thought it was funny, namjoon is so buff and so dumb but so wise and so hot, moni is a little shit, namjoon is a dad!, namjoon's kid uses they/them pronouns but it's not like A Focus of the story it's just flavor, reader thinks joon has a dead wife for like one second 💀 mentions of teenage pregnancy and co-parenting, one incredibly stupid asshole customer lmao, mint choco slander (it's what namjoon would want 😌), obviously there is an employee/boss power dynamic but they talk about it and figure it out because this is namjoon and he overthinks everything, namjoon driving (he's a dad i have to assume he would get his license if he had a literal child!!!!!!!!) and a lotta sentimental holiday and life talk. here are ur sex specific warnings: making out/going to second base in a car in a parking lot (what is it with my namjoons and cars in parking lots yo), fingering, semi-drunk sex, and fuckin' rawwwww with a smidge of size and breeding kink lmao (but she's on the pill!!! no more kids!!!!!!)

A/N: hello hello hi merry crisis this damn fic is finally here lmao~ as i have been babbling on about for days i really really (REALLY) love how this namjoon turned out he's just hesjkrgdhtgk such a fucking himbo but a good dad and wise and did i mention hot aaaaaa 🫠 all the love in my gay little heart to @goodsoop for their barista wisdom and real life experiences that went into this one (the cookie story will never not make me laugh) ! and to @sailoryooons for beta reading this 50 million times and encouraging me when i was convinced it sucked ass, and also for making all the gorgeous banners for this collab 😭

which btw - be sure to go check out @gimmethatagustd & @sailoryooons & @nabiolive 's fics tooooo !!! i've loved collabing with them so very much even when we were all hashtag Going Through It, we got the whole damn hyung line you hear meeeeee 🎁🎁🎁🎁

read on AO3!

Rudely awoken by the incessant beep of your alarm, you open your eyes to find Nick Jonas staring back at you, and you sit up with a scream.

Realization washes over your sleep-addled brain in waves: first, that you aren’t actually staring at a real person. He’s just smizing on a hot pink poster, held up by some remarkably durable masking tape you stuck to the wall fifteen years ago. Second, it comes back to you that you are staring at said poster because you’ve woken up in your childhood bedroom. It’s been left untouched since you were a teenager, like a weird time capsule of all your high school obsessions.

After reaching for your phone to silence the alarm, you kick your way out from under the blankets, trying not to make eye contact with Nick, or Justin, or Zayn as you stumble to the bathroom. The circumstances of your grand return to living in your goddamn parents’ house linger like a bad taste in your mouth, one that all the tongue brushing in the world can’t remove.

It still doesn’t feel real. Taehyung, your best friend in the world since freshman year of college, kicked you out. Sure, it may have been phrased more like a gentle request, but as far as your ego is concerned, it still feels like exile. Banishment, even. The person you thought you could never be parted from made his choice, and he chose his fucking boyfriend over you.

Jungkook. You think the name with all the venom your cold, dead heart can manage as you spit toothpaste into the sink.

Jungkook, the weird, bug-eyed kid who put his toe-socked feet on your couch, drank his banana milk out of your favorite mug, and ate up all of your Samyang ramyeon because he ‘thought it was communal’. 

Jungkook, who ruined your sleep schedule nightly, either by fucking Taehyung senseless on the other side of your paper-thin apartment wall, or by blasting the same four Ariana Grande songs over and over on his bluetooth speaker and singing along in an annoyingly good voice. Either activity would go on well into the early hours of the morning, until you had to bang on the wall so hard you nearly put your fist through it.

Jungkook, whose dog once took a shit right on the floor in the middle of the kitchen.

Bam was cute enough to forgive, of course. But you can never forgive Taehyung for his betrayal. Especially when he knew you’d just been fired from your shitty coffee shop job for the stupidest reason ever, and he didn’t let that derail or even delay him. He still went ahead and delivered the killing blow.

Et tu, Taehyung? you think angrily to yourself as you stand in front of the suitcase containing as much of your closet as you could possibly fit. You still need to go back for your bigger furniture, and little things like your plates and your mugs and your silverware, which Jungkook is probably putting his grimy little fingers all over at this very moment. But until you’ve checked out of your indefinite vacation at the Nightmare Parental Hotel, there doesn’t really seem a point.

If you were less upset, you might take consolation in the fact that your parents aren’t actually here, that they’ve jaunted off to their timeshare until the new year, but you’re busy being too swallowed whole by your misery to find an ounce of joy in any piece of your current reality.

You dig through the pile of clothes until you manage to pull out something halfway decent. The first order of business now that you’ve moved back in is simple: acquire another stupid coffee shop job. You have no plans to stick around long, you just need something seasonal that will give you some meager income while you start looking for a real gig, one that is ideally not in your hometown.

Watching yourself in the mirror as you pull on a simple black blouse and your least-stained pair of jeans, you attempt to mentally dust off your interview skills. You conjure up your best fake smile and customer service voice, both of which are second-nature at this point.

Why do you want this job? “I’m just so passionate about coming home sticky and verbally abused by caffeine-addicted assholes every night.”

What’s your biggest weakness? “Clearly it’s the fact that I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.”

Why were you terminated from your last job? “Oh, well, I attempted to get my previous employer to improve their standards of worker treatment. You see, I selfishly requested that they raise the bar a single notch above hell. Certainly won’t happen again!”

This should go well, you tell yourself, and your reflection grimaces back.

With several hours to kill before your job interview and a growing desire to avoid the weird nostalgia of your childhood that seems to lurk in every corner of your parents’ house, you decide to take a walk.

The sky is bright blue and cloudless, and though the air is brisk, it isn’t terribly windy. You tuck in your earbuds as you shut the front door behind you and pick a direction, aimless, letting your mind wander to the soundtrack of your “seasonal depression” playlist.

A whole new crop of families must have moved into your parents’ neighborhood in the years since you moved out, because the streets are more alive with kids than you can ever remember them being, even when you were a kid yourself. Bikes and scooters lay abandoned on the sidewalks between homes, and you can hear the repeated echo of a basketball dribbling on a driveway, punctuated by distant, playful screaming.

Even in the daytime, you can tell these families have spared no expense when it comes to Christmas decor: some homes have every eave outlined in string lights, some have candy cane stakes dug into the perimeter of their perfectly manicured lawns, and some have been seemingly invaded by small armies of inflatable reindeer and snowmen. You can’t help but giggle a little at the inflatable decorations that have been set to turn off during the day, the way the airless material lays limp in the grass, giving the impression of a yard strewn with dead bodies.

But you remember what it looked like when you drove in last night, everything lit up and brought to life.

Your parents definitely didn’t have inflatable lawn decorations when you were a kid, but you’d get so excited every year when your dad would drag the ladder out and spend the day stringing up the simple rainbow lights you did have. You still remember the little spark of joy you’d feel in your chest when the colors would click on after dark, the way you would run outside every night just to see them twinkle, your breath puffing steam clouds in the air, your bare feet freezing on the ice-cold driveway.

It felt like magic then. But somewhere along the way you grew up. And now that feeling’s gone. Even at night, the lights just look like… lights.

Distracted as you are by the music in your ears and thoughts of your childhood that have brought you to a standstill on the sidewalk, you don’t notice what’s happening until it’s too late. 

A blur of red and white is suddenly circling around and between your legs, and you feel something twining over your ankles, then tugging with a force that threatens to knock you off balance. As you lean forward in an attempt to right yourself, the chaos in question slows enough for you to realize it’s a fluffy white dog in a red sweater, who has excitedly tangled you up in his leash.

You manage to find the looped end of the leash and slowly get yourself unwrapped while the dog continues to pant and jump and occasionally yap at you. With your legs freed, you squat down for a proper greeting, laughing to yourself as he lifts up on his hind legs, balancing his paws on your knee to lick an enthusiastic greeting across your cheek.

“Hi, puppy,” you murmur, trying to get him to hold still long enough to read the name on his tag. A voice beats you to it.

“Moni!”

When you glance up to find Moni’s owner jogging up the sidewalk, you have to make a conscious effort to keep your own tongue in your mouth, because good lord, he is fine.

He’s tall, towering over you even once you bring yourself back up to standing, and the black workout tank and athletic shorts he’s wearing do absolutely nothing to hide the thick, well-defined muscles of his arms, chest, and thighs.

Despite his lack of clothing in the cool winter air, you can see his face and neck are slick with sweat, his white-blonde hair damp with it too. There’s even a dark patch that’s soaked his shirt at his sternum, making the firm swell of his pecs that much more apparent. It takes you an extra second to break eye contact with them, but when you do finally manage to drag your gaze up to meet his, you realize his face is just as nice of a view: honey-tan skin, full lips, and cute dimples that pop as he gives a sheepish, appreciative laugh.

“Thank you,” he says, a little breathless; his voice is deep and slightly husky in a way that makes your face grow hot. You blink stupidly at him for a few moments, your mind reeling, and then it occurs to you that you still have his dog’s leash in your hand.

“No problem,” you manage, handing the looped end back over and double-checking to make sure your ankles are still free from their entanglement. Though now that this man is holding the leash, you kind of wish they weren’t.

“Moni’s usually good about not taking off when I stop to do a circuit,” he explains, like you’re the dog owner police. It makes you wonder what kind of Karens must have moved into this neighborhood since you left it. “I don’t know why he ran, maybe he saw a squirrel or something.”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him with a smile, admiring Moni as he stretches and settles into a polite seated pose. “I like his sweater.”

“Thanks,” he laughs again. “C’mon Mon.”

You can’t help focusing on how big this guy’s hands are as he slips his fingers through the end of Moni’s leash, tugging slightly as if to encourage the dog back in the direction he came from.

Moni blinks and stays right where he is.

“You little shit,” his owner huffs under his breath, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. You distantly realize you should probably leave them to it and continue on your walk, but this is too entertaining to turn away from now. Your hot neighbor tries one more futile attempt to get Moni to move, then seems to give up entirely.

He stoops down with a low grunt of effort that makes your core flutter as he grabs the fluffy dog and hoists him up in his arms. You try to force yourself to stop noticing the way his biceps flex, the fact that the muscles of his arms are nearly bigger than your head.

“Thanks again,” he says with a final grateful smile, and your only response is to swallow hard and stand there like an idiot as he turns and carries his spoiled dog back home.

When you arrive for your interview, you’re delighted to discover that Indigo Coffee is nothing like your last job. It’s warm and bright, with large picture windows that flood the space in sunlight, and there’s a cozy personal touch to it, the likes of which you’d certainly never see in your former corporate shell of a workplace. The sitting area is dotted with live edge wood tables and mismatched chairs. There are an array of framed paintings on the walls that look handmade in a good way, simple yet bold brush-stroke lines in a deep blue color scheme. And, you realize as your eyes linger, the shop is absolutely overflowing with plants: in simple clay pots lined up along the windows, free-standing between tables, and tucked into bookshelves placed artfully throughout the space. 

You step closer to inspect one as you wait on your interviewer and are pleased to see that it’s real, that they all are— no waxy fake leaves jammed into a thick block of cement, but real greenery sprouted in real dirt, deep brown soil gone soft from what must have been a recent watering. These are plants someone cares for, coaxed and kept alive by someone’s time and patience and love. The thought makes you smile a little despite yourself.

There’s still fucking Christmas music playing, but you figure that’s inescapable this time of year.

“Are you here for the interview?” someone asks over your shoulder. As you turn away from the plant, you wonder if you’re imagining that the voice in question sounds slightly familiar, and then you find yourself once again staring up at a fine-ass man with white-blonde hair and a sweet pair of dimples.

He’s clearly showered since your last encounter, and is now slightly more covered up in a pair of faded jeans and a gray-green flannel thrown over a black shirt emblazoned with bold white lettering: Protect Trans Kids.

“Oh.” Moni’s owner blinks back at you, and the shock on his face is so apparent that a giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Uh, hi again.”

“Hi,” you echo, equally flustered, before realizing you failed to answer his initial question. “Oh, yeah. Yes. I am. The interview. I’m— that’s me.” So well-spoken, you mentally kick yourself.

One dimple deepens slightly as he extends a hand. “Kim Namjoon. Owner of Indigo Coffee. And the world’s least obedient dog, as you saw earlier.”

You offer your best handshake in return and a smile that you surprisingly don’t have to force as you give Namjoon your name. He gestures to a table in the corner, and you each pull back a chair to have a seat. You try to banish any potential horny thoughts from your brain, but shifting into interview mode proves difficult as he rests his large hands on the table in front of him, drumming idly along to the horribly cheery music.

You manage to tear your gaze away from Namjoon’s fingers when he speaks again. “If it’s cool with you, we can just chat a little? I’m not so good at conducting formal interviews. Too inauthentic.”

It’s like you can feel some of the tension release from your shoulders. “I— yeah. That sounds great.”

“Cool,” he nods, and you try to ignore the rush of heat up your neck at the intensity of his stare. Professional, be professional. “So I saw on your resume that it looks like your last few jobs were out of town. Did you just move here?”

“Moved back,” you say quickly. “Yeah. I grew up here, actually.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen a little in clear interest. “Really? What brings you back?”

You purse your lips as you consider how to phrase it. “My life… kind of fell apart. So. I moved in with my parents for a bit. Like a winner.” His dimples pop when he smiles at your joke, and you drop your gaze to the table. “Just trying to figure out what’s next, and find something seasonal in the meantime.”

“Well, we could certainly use the help,” Namjoon admits. When you chance a glance up, there’s a look on his face like he’s choosing his next words carefully. “I saw in your application that you were terminated from your last position.” He leans in, lowering his voice slightly as he continues. “I’m gonna be honest, I hate that we even ask that question. But can you tell me a bit about what happened?”

You keep your stare fixed on the wood grain in front of you as you try to stay calm. “Well, if I can be honest too...” Squeezing your eyes shut, you tell yourself to just say it. “I was fired for trying to unionize.”

“Oh.” Namjoon sounds surprised, but you can’t manage to look at him. “Really?” You nod slowly, biting down on your bottom lip. “That’s— fucking illegal.”

That makes your gaze snap back up to meet his. His brow is furrowed slightly, a muscle in his jaw pulled tight.

“Yeah,” you say belatedly. “Yeah, I know. They made up a bunch of fake excuses as to why I was fired, but I knew what it really was. It was because I wanted them to actually pay us what we were worth, and hire more workers so we weren’t being scheduled to death. And I was getting everyone else riled up too, and I guess it scared them.”

Namjoon sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Huh. Man. Well, I’m sorry that happened to you.”

It takes you a second to process what you’re hearing. Union has always been a scary word for any person in upper management you’ve previously encountered. You hadn’t expected this to be so… easy. For him to understand, or sympathize. “I— yeah. I am too.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Namjoon continues quickly, “I think it’s great, what you tried to do. I’m very pro-union.” He pauses for a moment, his face twisting slightly in thought. “I mean, admittedly, we don’t have one here. Granted, there are only five of us. I should probably ask, though, if they want one.”

You can’t quite hide your smile. “I’m gonna take a guess that you probably treat your employees pretty well as-is.”

“I try,” he says with a shake of his head. His eyes meet yours again. “So, here’s the deal. You have a ton of experience, and with holiday time off and a few people out sick, I’m super understaffed right now. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders, and hopefully you feel like you can come to me if you have any issues, without fearing retaliation.”

You blink slowly, and he must be able to read the disbelief on your face. “What I’m saying is I’m offering you the seasonal position,” he clarifies. “Is that— do you, uh, accept?”

“Yes.” The word is chased by a dazed laugh, and Namjoon’s dimples resurface around a small smile.

“Cool. I told you I’m bad at interviews,” he huffs, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. You try to ignore the swell of his bicep, clearly visible even beneath his bulky flannel. “I know this is a lot to ask, but. Is there any chance you can start, like, right now? Because Jimin’s shift ends in…” He tilts a little, fishing his phone from the front pocket of his jeans, and his mouth drops open in surprise when he gets a glimpse at the time.

“Oh, shit,” Namjoon murmurs, and then he raises his voice to call across the mostly empty store. “Jimin-ah! I’m so sorry!”

You turn around, your gaze landing on the barista leaned up against the counter next to the register. His dyed-gray hair dusts over his eyes, which pull into crescent moons as he laughs. “It’s cool. I knew you were almost done. But I’m gonna clock out now, if she’s good?”

“Yeah,” you answer, turning back to Namjoon. “Yeah, I can start now.”

The two of you move behind the counter, and you sweep your hair up out of your face while Namjoon starts to go through a basic run-down of where everything is located. The overhead bell tinkles as Jimin shoulders the front door open, and he lifts a hand over his head in parting.

“See you after the holidays!”

“Alright,” Namjoon says as he waves to Jimin, a little breathless from having rambled on for the better part of several minutes. “That was a lot. Do you want to just start on register? I feel like that should be easy enough, and I can train you on everything as people come in, since it’s pretty dead right now.”

You shrug. “Works for me.”

Within half an hour, there’s a line out the door, and Namjoon has managed to spill espresso grounds all over his shoes for a second time.

“Ah, shit,” he groans, taking a step back. “Sorry. Been a minute since I’ve had to be back here.”

“It’s okay,” you try to reassure him, but you can see from the faces of the customers who have been waiting on their drinks for several minutes— including one who’s had hers remade three times, all of them incorrect— that it is very much not okay. You certainly lack the people skills to smooth over any of Namjoon’s mistakes, and you can feel a stress-induced eye twitch starting to flare up, brought on by Kelly Clarkson’s incessant yuletide belting.

You give your boss five more minutes, wherein he scalds his hand on the milk steamer, forgets about a cookie in the warmer until it’s burnt entirely black, and nearly turns the blender on with the lid off, before you finally intervene.

“Hey, Namjoon?” You do your best to keep your expression pleasant when he glances over at you, wiping at his brow with the back of his hand. “Maybe we should switch?”

“A-are you sure?” he stammers, apparently torn between wanting to be a good boss and a clear desire to just take the L. “I feel bad, this is literally your first shift.”

“I think I can handle it,” you reassure him, lowering your voice a little. “Let me take care of the drinks, and you can do your… endearing golden retriever thing. Keep the people entertained.”

Color blooms in the apples of his cheeks as his dimples make a brief appearance. “Oh, okay. Can do. Just let me know if you need help.”

You can’t imagine a universe where his clumsiness could in any way be considered helpful, but you keep that thought to yourself as you smile at him. At least he’s cute.

Things improve dramatically once your roles are reversed: as you expected, Namjoon is far more charismatic than he is coordinated, and he chats endlessly with the people waiting on their drinks, hardly pausing long enough to take a breath, while you scramble around trying to get your bearings in a new environment. The steady stream of customers doesn’t let up for the rest of the evening, until the last few finally trickle out of the store a few minutes after close, and you waste no time locking the door behind them with a sigh of relief.

You spin around, letting your back thud against the door for a moment as you watch Namjoon fight with a broom and dustpan in a futile attempt to get espresso dust out of the grout between the tiles. There’s a dull ache starting to thud in your skull, and it’s only deepened by the shrill opening notes of another fucking a cappella song.

“Namjoon?” you ask as you cross toward the counter, and his head instantly snaps up. “Do you think we could maybe turn off the Christmas music?”

“Oh, sure.” He’s already fumbling to grab his phone, and he taps a few buttons until the music suddenly switches, a soft voice starting to croon over an old school beat.

“Thanks,” you say, and you can’t help the pity smile that pulls up your mouth when he returns to his useless task. “I think the grout might be a lost cause, but I can go ahead and mop whenever you’re ready.”

He rights himself with a defeated sigh, nodding his head to the storage closet in the back. You follow his lead to retrieve the mop, then set about filling up the bucket with water and cleaning solution. Namjoon’s voice floats in from the front of the shop as he busies himself with his own closing tasks.

“Imagine smokin’ weed in the street without cops harassin’ / Imagine goin’ to court with no trial / Lifestyle cruisin’ blue Bahama waters / No welfare supporters, more conscious of the way we raise our daughters...”

You’re laughing a little as you roll the bucket out, starting at the door to work your way back. “Is this… Nas?”

He glances up, like he’s just remembered other people exist in the world. “Yeah, sorry. I can turn it off.”

“No, no,” you say quickly when he starts to reach for his phone again. “This is good. Much better than Pentatonix. I’m just… you really know every word.”

Namjoon shrugs, clearly embarrassed. “He’s my favorite.”

The revelation surprises you, and you pause to think as you pull the mop back and forth over the tile floor. It didn’t even occur to you that Namjoon would have a favorite kind of music, apart from the soft elevator muzak you imagine must play on a steady loop in his brain, given the way he fumbles through life.

“I actually wanted to be a rapper,” his voice comes back, and you look up again, your interest piqued. “When I was younger. But you know. Life had other plans.”

“Ah yes, the rapper to coffee shop owner pipeline,” you muse, and he barks a laugh that you wish you didn’t find so hot. Shaking your head, you force yourself to look back down at the espresso-studded tile, doing your best to shove your attraction aside and not think about it. He’s your boss, dumbass.

Still, it’s hard to ignore, particularly as he continues to rap along to each song that comes on, his voice deeper and huskier than you’ve heard it thus far in casual conversation. He doesn’t miss a word, and you can’t deny that it’s impressive. And sexy. Fuck.

Once the floor has been successfully mopped and everything else is put back together, you hop up onto the counter to wait for the tile to dry, and your gaze lingers over Namjoon’s large hands as he cashes out the register. He flips through the bills in time to the music, still humming under his breath as he goes, and you do your best to hold in your laugh when he inevitably loses count and has to start over from the beginning. Thankfully the second attempt sticks, and he smiles proudly to himself as he zips everything up into the deposit bag.

“First shift down,” he announces, as if you might have forgotten, and then his eyes find yours and you swear your breath gets stuck in your throat. “How do you feel?”

It only occurs to you now how close he’s standing to you, and with the way your legs are casually dangling over the edge of the counter, it wouldn’t take much for him to step between them. And god, he’s so damn tall, you’re practically eye-to-eye.

“Uh,” you manage, your mouth suddenly gone dry. “Good. I feel good.”

“That’s good,” he answers, his voice dipping into that throaty tone again. You find yourself wondering absentmindedly if maybe Namjoon has a customer service voice, too, and then for the briefest flash of a moment, his gaze flits from your eyes to your lips and back again. It’s so quick, you can’t be sure it even really happened.

You tell yourself it’s just your exhausted post-shift brain seeing things that aren’t there, wanting this fine-ass man to be into you, too.

A sudden bang on the front door makes you flinch so hard, you come dangerously close to kneeing Namjoon in the crotch. He takes a large step back as you whip around to look over your shoulder, only to see a kid’s face pressed to the glass, framed by two small hands. You’ve never been great at telling the age of children on sight, but this one looks like… maybe a middle schooler?

“Whose fucking kid is that?” you say automatically, blinking, dumbfounded. Namjoon’s laugh is a low rumble behind you.

“That would be mine.”

It takes several days for the shock to wear off. Your boss has a kid. Kim “could’ve burnt the building down with a single cookie” Namjoon is at least partially responsible for keeping another human being alive. Which means you have a crush… on a father.

A father who also happens to be your boss.

You try not to think about any of it.

There’d been brief introductions when you left the shop that first night, but all you’d really managed to glean was the kid’s name, Sol, and their pronouns. As someone who is historically terrible with children, you’d excused yourself the minute Namjoon locked the front door, after what felt like an eternity spent watching him pat each of his pockets twice before he finally managed to find his keys.

“I hope it wasn’t weird,” your boss says out of nowhere in the middle of your next shift, during a much-needed moment of peace after the morning rush. “For you to meet Sol like that. It’s just been hard, since their mom, uh…”

Namjoon trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished. You glance up, eyes widening as you put the pieces together.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry.”

His gaze meets yours, and it’s like you can see the wheels in his head turning before he catches up. “No, no,” he says quickly, and then he starts to laugh. “Wow, I really did not start that sentence well. She’s not dead. She just got married, and she’s on her honeymoon for most of December. The logistics have been hard, is what I meant.”

An embarrassed heat creeps up your neck, and your elbows thud against the countertop as you press your face into your hands, attempting to muffle your own laughter. “In my defense,” you groan, “you really made it sound like you had a dead wife.”

“Not dead! She’s fine!” Namjoon’s dimples are as prominent as you’ve ever seen them when you peek up at him from your full-body cringe. “Very much alive, very much not my wife.” The muscles in his arms flex as he crosses them over his chest, leaning up against the counter next to the register. “Never was, actually.”

“Really?” you answer automatically, your damned curiosity getting the better of you.

He nods, his voice a little more serious when he continues, rambling on in the way that you’ve already started to suspect is his default setting, talking as if to fill empty space. “We were seventeen when we got pregnant. I knew we were young then, but I don’t think I really realized. Now that I’m almost thirty, I know: seventeen is fucking young.”

The line of his jaw tightens, thoughtful, as his gaze sweeps over the floor. “I thought I wanted to marry her, or at least felt obligated to. Like it was the right thing to do, but. We didn’t have any money, and then it all got so hectic after Sol was born. Didn’t even take a year for us to realize it wasn’t gonna work, not for us.”

You blink, trying to take in all the new information. “That sounds really hard.”

“It was,” Namjoon admits. “But we were both on the same page about it. That no matter what, Sol had to come first.” He glances up with a shrug. “It’s all good now. She’s a great co-parent, and her new husband is really good for her. And… well, I have Indigo.”

The tinkling of the bell at the front door snaps you out of a daze, makes you realize you’ve been staring at him, dumbfounded. You do your best to shoot Namjoon a soft smile, and to ignore the pang in your chest as he turns to greet the customer that’s just wandered in, already starting to babble on about the weather.

You find yourself more grateful for Namjoon’s presence with each passing shift, in a way that you try to convince yourself is thoroughly platonic. Between fairly steady work and his very steady chatter, your time spent in the warm, sunny space of Indigo turns out to be a good distraction from your own miserable excuse for a life. The repetitive motions of making drink after drink are oddly comforting, and you have to admit, Namjoon really is good with the customers.

“Peppermint mocha to go.”

You do your best to follow up the sentence with a polite smile as you set a drink down for the customer who has done nothing but scowl at you the whole time you were making it. The silent prayer you’ve sent out to the universe that he’ll take whatever personal problem he has elsewhere and leave you alone has clearly gone unanswered.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps, and you can feel your shoulders creep up towards your ears in anticipation of nothing good. Here we fucking go.

You blink twice, trying to keep your service persona engaged. “I’m sorry, is that not what you ordered?” It is, you know it is, you heard him say it.

“No, that’s mine,” the man quickly responds, reaching out to snatch the cup in a motion that makes you flinch. “But do you hear this fucking song?”

The honest answer is no: at this point the ever-present Christmas music might as well be white noise, so you have to make a conscious effort to tune back in and listen. It’s a few seconds, and then you pick up on the melody. “…Last Christmas?”

“Uh, yeah,” he continues, explaining like you’re stupid. “The original. Last Christmas by Wham!” When it’s clear you still aren’t putting the pieces together, he scoffs in pure frustration. “You just made me lose Whamageddon! I’ve won every year for the last five years, I can’t believe you would even put this on your fucking playlist!”

Your face pulls into an incredulous grimace before you can think to control it. “Uh, I’m sorry, but I didn’t make the—”

He cuts you off. “First off, I don’t need the fucking attitude. And surely you’re at least capable of checking what songs are on there, right? That’s not too advanced for you to handle?”

You didn’t even hear Namjoon walk up from the back office, but he’s suddenly stepping in front of you, and you’re more than glad to move back and let him handle this dude before you end up in jail. “Woah, woah, alright,” Namjoon interjects, his voice loud enough to carry. “What’s going on?”

The man beats you to it. “I’m trying to file a legitimate complaint and she’s rolling her fucking eyes and getting an attitude with me!”

“It’s the song,” you explain briefly, trying to keep everything about your expression neutral. “He’s mad that we’re… playing Wham.”

Namjoon’s face twists in an expression that you would find funny if you weren’t so fucking livid, one that you’re pretty sure is the mirror image of your own reaction minutes earlier. “The song? Seriously?”

You can see the guy scrambling, clearly starting to get embarrassed at his own dramatics. “Alright, I don’t have time for this. I guess I just need to take my business elsewhere, because this is ridiculous. What ever happened to the customer is always right?”

Namjoon goes silent for a minute, and you try to ignore the way the look on his face makes your pulse quicken, thudding brightly in the hollow of your neck. His voice is deadly serious when he speaks again. “I appreciate that you’re upset, but if you’re going to look my employee in the face, after she just performed a service for you, and disrespect her like that? Over a fucking song? Nah, I’m not gonna tolerate it. Maybe the next time you want someone to make you a toothpaste drink, you should take your ass to Starbucks.”

It takes every ounce of strength you have to keep the reaction off your face until the asshole has stormed out the front door, nasty drink in hand. As the bell finally tinkles to signal his departure, you collapse forward, just barely catching yourself on the counter so you don’t crumple straight down to the floor.

“Oh my god.” Your laugh of disbelief comes out more like a groan, at the ridiculous complaint and your boss’ insanely attractive comeback alike. “I fucking hate this time of year.”

“Hey.” The word is punctuated by Namjoon’s shoulder bumping into yours, and you look back up at him, still laughing a little at your own misery. His eyes search yours, sincere. “Assholes are assholes no matter what season it is. I’m sure that guy finds plenty of things to complain about the other eleven months of the year, too. Don’t let him ruin it for you.”

You can’t help rolling your eyes, if only because you can do it freely now, without a man standing over you and yelling about your ‘bad attitude’. “I guess,” you huff. “And thank you.”

Namjoon shakes his head, like it’s nothing. “Chin up, okay?”

The two of you breeze through closing that night, familiar enough to fall into a steady routine now. You’re wiping everything down behind the counter and humming along to Tupac when Namjoon’s voice drags you back out of your thoughts in a way you’ve already grown accustomed to.

“You know…”

You glance up, only to realize that he’s started to flip chairs on top of tables to clear the floor, and is grabbing them two at a time, one in each hand. The image makes you a little dizzy, and you tell yourself to focus on his words, not his biceps.

“I think we make a pretty good team,” he concludes.

“Yeah,” you breathe, trying to keep your composure at the unexpected compliment. “I was thinking the same thing. And thanks again for, you know. Handling that guy.”

Namjoon shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Hey, you’re doing me a favor, taking this seasonal job. I’m not about to let anyone fuck with you.”

You bite down on a smile as you head towards the back to grab the mop, and then you hear a loud bang on the front door— it’s another sound you’ve gotten used to in your brief time at Indigo. There’s the click of the deadbolt, chased by the tinkling overhead bell and Namjoon’s chiding voice. “Homie, if you break my door I’m gonna make you get a job to pay me back for it.”

“You think I don’t know about child labor laws?” you hear Sol retort, clearly not intimidated, and the attitude in their voice has you biting back a laugh.

Wheeling the mop bucket out of the storage closet, you glance up to see Namjoon jut his chin toward the large front window, indicating Sol to take a seat on the ledge. “Feet off the floor, she’s tryna clean.”

Sol complies, plopping down in the window with their eyes glued to their phone as Namjoon disappears back toward the office to grab his things. You watch as Sol pulls their knees into their chest so their chunky black boots clear the tile, and you can’t help noticing that said boots are adorned with oversized silver bat-shaped buckles, reflecting the amber streetlight gleam that leaks through the window.

“I like your boots,” you say, more to yourself than Sol, half expecting them to be so engrossed in TikTok that they don’t even hear you.

But to your surprise, Sol looks up.

“Thanks,” they say, glancing at their feet. “I just got them. I’m in my post-hardcore era right now.”

The statement is delivered without a trace of irony, and you do your best to hold in another amused giggle as you respond. “Wow, you are… so much cooler than I was when I was your age.”

Sol seems to consider this for a moment, then shrugs. “I mean, you didn’t have the internet back then, right?”

The question hits you like a train, and you have to pause and press a hand over your heart at the impact. “Okay, ouch, I’m not that old.” They grimace apologetically, and you lean up against the mop handle in thought. “But the internet definitely wasn’t like it is now. The only social media that really existed was Myspace, and my parents wouldn’t let me make one. I mostly just used the internet to, like, play RuneScape.”

“Oh shit,” Sol remarks, sounding remarkably like Namjoon in the process. “You played old school?!”

It’s like you can feel your bones crumbling to dust inside your body, and you wince as you resume dragging the mop over the tile. “Hey, back then it was the only kind of RuneScape we had. But yes, you can consider me a… founding father of that game.”

“That’s cool!” they exclaim, sounding so genuine it makes your head spin. When did RuneScape become cool again? “My friends and I play old school all the time. It’s the best, for real.”

You shake your head in disbelief as you continue to mop, and a long pause settles between you, with Sol’s interest clearly returning to their phone.

Fuck, you think to yourself, what else do kids even talk about? Marvel movies? It’s like your mind has gone totally blank, unable to conjure up a single topic of conversation, and you practically huff out an audible sigh of relief when their voice breaks the silence again.

“I think my dad has been happier since you started working here.”

The mop nearly slips out of your hands entirely, and you glance up, eyes wide. “I— really?”

Sol nods, playing absentmindedly with the strings of their black hoodie, then bringing the end of one up to their mouth to gently chew on. “It’s a theory I have. A game theory. I plan to ask additional follow-up questions tonight.”

At this, you can’t help but laugh. “Well, I’m sure your investigation will be very thorough.”

There’s a flash of a dimple in Sol’s cheek, like the mirror image of their dad. “I can tell you what he says, if you want.”

You wonder how telling your own smile is. “I mean… I can’t say I’m not curious.” You’re distantly aware of the sound of the office door closing, chased by Joon whistling to himself, and you lower your voice conspiratorially as you drop the mop back into the bucket. “I look forward to hearing what you find out.”

Monday morning, when you wake up to the omnipresent smize of Nick Jonas, you can’t help smiling back. 

You made it through your first week of work, and it wasn’t even that torturous. And best of all, Namjoon reminded you the night before that Indigo is closed on Mondays, which gives you an entire day to spend as you please. A real day off, which was truly unheard of at your last job, where you’d spend your non-scheduled days still anticipating an incoming emergency text asking you to cover a shift last-minute. More often than not, you’d end up working after all.

“But not today,” you announce to Nick.

A grand plan has already started to form in your head, one that involves a party size bag of Hot Cheetos and all eight episodes of The Fabulous, and yet. There’s a lingering urge at the back of your brain that you can’t quite ignore. With all the day-off energy you can muster, you drag yourself out of bed and tug on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, then shuffle into the bathroom to at least make yourself halfway decent.

You’re just going for a quick walk around the block to get some fresh air, you tell yourself. That’s all. Certainly no other reason.

It’s only a few minutes after you step out your front door that a fluffy white blur nearly collides with your shins, and when you stoop down to lift Moni into your arms, you once again can’t keep the smile off your face. Huh, who could’ve seen this coming?

But when you glance up, there’s no hot buff man jogging up the sidewalk after his dog. In fact, you realize as you look back at the ball of fluff in your arms, he isn’t wearing a leash or harness at all, just another cute sweater.

“Are you even supposed to be out here?” you ask Moni. His only answer is to drag his tongue up the side of your face.

You shift him a little in your arms so you can fumble for the tag attached to his collar, and thankfully, there’s an address listed. It takes you a second to get your bearings in the neighborhood, having not lived here for close to a decade, but it eventually comes back to you where the listed street is, and you start to walk. Moni is already blinking sleepily in your arms, clearly enjoying his preferred mode of transportation.

A laugh bubbles up in your chest as you approach the house in question— even if you hadn’t had Moni’s tag to guide you, finding his home would’ve been easy enough as soon as you passed this street, because you can hear old school hip-hop bumping through a speaker despite still being several houses down the block. You suppose Namjoon can get away with it during the day, when all the neighborhood kids are still in school.

As you make your way up the driveway, you realize the music is actually coming from behind the house, and when you follow the path that leads around back, you spot the culprit: a simple wooden-slat fence surrounds the yard, and the gate has been left wide open.

Before you can even make it over the threshold, a familiar voice reaches your ears, sounding much closer than the music. “Ah, shit.”

Namjoon comes barreling through the open gate so fast he practically runs you over, and Moni yaps, like he’s annoyed at being jostled as you quickly try to stumble out of his owner’s path.

“Oh. Uh, hi.”

You wonder if you’ll ever be able to take in how shock looks on Namjoon’s features without giggling a little. Today is certainly not that day. It’s just so endearing, the way his eyes widen and his mouth pulls into a perfect o-shape.

“Hi,” you breathe out around your laughter, trying to ignore the heat that flushes into your face when his dimples appear in return. “I think I found something that belongs to you.”

With a wave of his hand and several profuse thank yous, you follow Namjoon back through the gate, and wait until he firmly shuts it behind you before letting Moni down to trot off across the yard. It’s only now that you take Namjoon in properly: he’s in a gray hoodie under a pair of denim overalls, both of which are splattered artfully with paint in a variety of colors.

“I was just in my studio,” he explains, tipping his head toward the small shed in the yard, which you quickly realize is also the source of the music that led you here. “Doin’ some art. Do you, uh… wanna see?”

“Yeah, okay,” you answer with a nod.

“Fair warning, I’m really bad at it,” he calls over his shoulder as he leads you in the open studio door, raising his voice to be heard over the music. He reaches for his phone, propped up in the windowsill, to turn the volume down a few notches.

There’s an easel up against the far wall holding what must be his current project, a half-finished scene that you realize upon closer inspection is thousands of tiny dots of color, painstakingly blotted onto the canvas to form a mountain landscape at a distance. A few more pieces that he’s already completed have been leaned up against another wall to dry, one featuring an abstract array of featherlight brushstrokes, and another where the paint’s been globbed on in thick layers.

Namjoon is talking a mile a minute as you inspect the canvases. “I thought maybe I’d do cyanotypes today, but it’s not sunny enough, and I’ve made that mistake before. I’m really into texture right now, so I’m trying out some different techniques with paint. I want to get better at pointillism, but it’s a lot harder than you’d think it would be. ‘Cause it’s just dots, right? But you have to be able to see the forest for the trees, too.”

“These are amazing,” you finally manage to murmur, and to your surprise, the compliment actually renders him silent. When you turn back over your shoulder to look at him, he’s glancing down, almost like he’s embarrassed.

“Thanks. But I just do it for fun. ‘Cause I love art.”

“I can tell,” you say, and when he looks up, you offer him a smile you hope reads as encouraging. “Did you make the art at work, too?”

He nods, still sheepish, and that answer also surprises you. You recall thinking on your first day that the paintings hung on the walls looked handmade, but it never crossed your mind that they might have been made by Namjoon’s hands. Maybe because you’ve grown so accustomed to seeing him drop and break things, you haven’t ever considered him as also capable of… creation.

And yet, here he is. Proving you wrong.

“Sorry,” Namjoon’s voice makes you refocus on him, and your brow furrows in confusion at the unexpected apology. “This is literally your one day away from me and here I am, taking up your time. Thanks again for bringing Moni back.”

“It’s okay.” You shrug. “Don’t have much going on today, honestly. I never really know what to do with myself when I’m not working. Which I’m aware is very sad.”

“Well, uh,” Namjoon starts, and when he takes a single step closer, you swear you feel something flutter in your stomach— or maybe lower. “Sol’s got a half-day today, since it’s the last day before break, so I’m picking them up in a bit. And we were gonna go on a hike, probably take Moni too. You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like?”

Your eyes widen at the invitation. “Oh. That sounds great. I mean, if you’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding?”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up just so. “Nah. I actually think Sol really likes you. At least, they wouldn’t stop asking questions about you at dinner last night.”

“Is that right?” You do your best to keep your expression neutral.

Namjoon drives far enough north that there’s actually snow on the ground when you climb out of his front seat. You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket as you follow him across the gravel parking lot towards the trailhead, a few paces behind Sol and Moni.

Sol shoots an expression of pure mischief at you over their shoulder, and then immediately starts to sprint up the marked path through the woods, Moni easily keeping up.

“Bye, nerds!” you hear them call before they disappear between the trees.

“Stay on the trail!” Namjoon shouts back, sounding as dad-like as you’ve ever heard him, and you can’t help but laugh. The two of you quicken your steps slightly to not fall too far behind, tracking the set of boot and paw-prints they’ve left to mark their trail.

For a moment, it’s silent between you, save the crunching of snow underfoot. It’s nice, being out in nature like this, time spent with Namjoon where you aren’t suffering through Christmas music and ungrateful customers. Where you can just… breathe. It makes you feel a little less sorry for yourself, a little less fixated on your own miserable life.

You glance over at him as that strange seasonal melancholy starts to settle into your bones again. “Are the holidays… better? With a kid?”

Namjoon makes a face, like he’s surprised by the question. “I mean, they’re definitely different. Then again, it’s been a long time since I did the holidays without a kid— not since I was a kid myself. What do you mean by better?”

Self-consciousness washes over you, your gaze drifting down to the path beneath your feet. “I don’t know, there’s just… I can’t shake this weird feeling now that I’m back home. This time of year used to be so exciting for me when I was Sol’s age. Everything felt special. Magical. But now I’m back here, and nothing’s really changed, except me. But I just keep feeling like the magic is gone. It’s… sad.”

He nods, taking a moment before he responds, and he’s chuckling softly to himself when he finally does. “You know, it’s kinda funny. When Sol was younger I actually felt a lot of stress this time of year. I couldn’t really enjoy it, because I was too busy trying to make sure that they had the best holiday I could possibly give them. That they didn’t feel like they were getting any less, since, you know. Their mom and I aren’t together. It’s funny that you bring up the magic, because I put a lot of pressure on myself to make that magic happen. But now that they’re a little older, I don’t know, it’s different.”

“Different how?” you prompt.

A dimple deepens as he hesitates. “It’s gonna sound corny. But really, I realized that the holidays aren’t about the gifts, or the decorations, or every little thing going perfect. You can make yourself sick over that shit, and I did, but kids don’t really care about it.” He pauses, and for a second you think that might be it, but then he keeps going, eyes fixed on the towering pine trees ahead of you.

“The year I opened Indigo, I had sank so much fucking money into it that I was broke. Broke broke. I couldn’t afford a single gift, a tree, not even a turkey. Sol and I sat on the floor of my shitty apartment and ate Chapagetti and watched Friends. And I felt like the biggest fucking failure imaginable. And then you know what happened?”

“What?”

“Sol turned to me, and they said, ‘This is the best Christmas ever, because we get to hang out, just the two of us.’” He blinks a few times, like he’s trying to ward off tears, and his voice comes back slightly less steady than before. “I still don’t know if they said that because they really meant it, or if they could just tell that I needed to hear it. But either way, I thought to myself: how fucking lucky am I, to have such a great kid? Like what did I ever do to deserve them? I still feel that way.”

Namjoon shrugs, as if to shake off the emotion. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s not helpful to you, but. I just see it differently now. It’s not about the what, or the how. It’s about the who. Spending this time of year with the people you care about, and making sure they know you do. That’s the real magic.”

You realize the trail has carried you up the sloping hillside, and is now flattening out at the edge of a clearing, where you can see Moni chasing Sol through the snow, can hear their high-pitched laughter ringing out in the wide-open air.

When you turn back to Namjoon, he’s already looking at you.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel the magic right now. I didn’t either, for a long time. But it does come back, I believe that. It’ll come back for you, too.”

You blink up at him, overwhelmed by his willingness to be so honest, and by the wisdom of his words. “I— thank you,” you finally manage to say.

Namjoon doesn’t answer, just glances up to where Sol and Moni are still playing, and your gaze follows his out over the snow-covered field. Sol is dusting off a sizable stick, and they call out for Moni to fetch before launching it into a dramatic arc, high up in the air.

Moni watches it go, entirely disinterested, then settles onto his haunches in the snow with a yawn.

“You’re so bad at being a dog!” Sol shouts, and that’s enough to make you and Namjoon both dissolve into laughter. They look up at the sound, hands-on-hips, before yelling again, this time in your direction. “My dad said he has a crush on you!”

Your jaw drops open, and Namjoon’s eyes are wide as you’ve ever seen them when you look up at him.

“Damn, dude, you said you were gonna be chill about it!” he exclaims, and you press a hand to your mouth as a fresh wave of giggles overtakes you. Given how long Namjoon’s legs are, it only takes him a few strides to catch up to Sol. You stay a tentative distance behind him, but still close enough to be able to make out their conversation.

“Uncle Hobi says you need to be bolder with women,” Sol chides, matter-of-fact.

“Uncle Hobi says a lot of shit,” Namjoon mutters under his breath.

“He painted my nails,” Sol raises their voice, clearly talking more to you than to their dad, and holds up a hand for you to see, waggling their fingers proudly.

“They look great,” you call out in response.

Namjoon turns back to you as you step in closer, then juts his chin to a bench at the other side of the clearing. “Sit with me for a sec?”

With a nod, you follow him over, and he wipes the metal surface free of snow with his sleeve before gesturing for you to have a seat. For a moment, the two of you sit silently and watch Sol, who is already busying themself with building a snowperson while Moni slow-blinks encouragingly from a distance.

Namjoon’s words chase a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna be real with you, despite the fact that my child just stole my thunder. I like you a lot.”

Your heart swells in your chest, threatening to burst. “I-I like you too,” you stammer back immediately. “Have definitely been harboring my own crush… basically since I started working at Indigo.”

When you turn to look at him, it surprises you a little that he isn’t smiling. You can see a muscle working in his jaw, like he’s nervous.

“That’s the thing,” he finally relents. “Work. I don’t— I hadn’t really planned to tell you how I was feeling, or act on it. Because I’m your boss, and that means, you know. There’s a power dynamic there. And it would be… unethical of me to blur the lines like that, by getting involved with my employee. I wanted you to come out with us today because it was a chance for you and I to be equals, outside of work, but it’s not like that dynamic just goes away, you know? And I feel a little guilty about it now. Because I really like being around you so much, but I just. We can’t. It wouldn’t be right. Not while you’re working for me.”

You stare down at the snow under your boots as you take in his words, and you can’t help it. Try as you might to sit there and take his worries seriously, laughter flutters out of you before you can hold it in.

“What?” Namjoon asks, and you shake your head, trying to compose yourself.

“I really, really appreciate that you gave it so much thought,” you say, willing your voice to stay even. “I mean it.”

“It’s weighed really heavy on me, if I’m honest,” he says solemnly, and you glance over to see him staring into the middle distance, like he’s deep in contemplation.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching out to where his hand rests on the bench between you and covering it with your own.

“Namjoon?” you ask softly, and it seems to snap him out of his trance enough to look back at you.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” you preface. “But if I have to choose between you and my stupid seasonal coffee shop job?” The smile starts to flicker over your face again. “Then I quit. I quit right now.”

“Oh thank god,” Namjoon breathes, and you can only make a soft noise of surprise when all at once, he takes your face in his hands and kisses you. You need a split second for the shock to wear off, and then you’re moving your mouth against his, one hand fisting tight in the fabric of his jacket. His lips are full and warm, and it feels like far too soon that he’s pulling back again, his cheeks flushed with color.

“Will you, uh—” he pauses, like he’s remembering how to form a sentence. “Will you still work tomorrow though? Jimin’s back after Christmas, but I really don’t think I can survive a shift on my own.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, still a little breathless from his kiss. “Yeah, I think you’d burn the place down.”

Unable to deny the claim, he laughs brightly as you untangle from each other, then gets to his feet before offering a hand to help you up. “We should head out, it’s gonna get dark soon.”

It’s true: across the wide clearing you can already see the sun threatening to sink back down between the trees, casting a golden-pink light that gleams off the snow and paints the world in warmth.

Sol leads the way back through the woods to the car, tugging Moni along by their leash, while you and Namjoon bring up the rear. You glance over at him a few times to catch him staring, and you scrape your teeth across your bottom lip, unable to keep the smile off your face, unable to stop yourself from mentally replaying the moment when he kissed you, over and over.

Just as you step under the shadow of a large tree, snow-covered branches stretching up toward the clear sky above you, Namjoon stops in the path. It’s so abrupt that you continue a few more paces before you even realize, and then you stop, too, glancing back towards him.

“Hey Sol,” Namjoon calls. “Think you and Moni can make it all the way back to the car in ten seconds?”

“I know what you’re doing,” comes Sol’s cheeky reply, but when Namjoon starts counting backwards from ten, you can hear the crunch of their boots taking off down the path.

“Eight, seven, six…” You watch as Namjoon cranes his neck until he deems Sol far enough out of sight, taking a step toward you as his counting trails off, and you find yourself pulled into him like a magnet. “Come here,” he murmurs, and then his hands are slipping up your waist and guiding you backwards until your back hits the trunk of the tree.

In true Namjoon fashion, he uses way more strength than is necessary for the task, and though your winter jacket cushions you from the impact, you’re smacked against the bark so hard that it knocks a dusting of snow off the branches above you, covering you both in flakes that stick to your hair and eyelashes. The sudden rush of cold makes you gasp into Namjoon’s mouth, but then he’s rolling his tongue over yours and you can’t think about anything else. A heavy pulse has started to thud between your legs at the heat of his breath in your mouth, the way his hips have you pinned to the tree, his body big enough to cover yours entirely.

“Joon,” you find the air to breathe as his lips trail hungrily down the slope of your neck. You rake a hand through his hair, white-blonde strands studded with snow, to try and pull his attention back, despite very much not wanting him to stop. “Joon, we should go. Before someone steals your kid.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs against your skin, and then his mouth is on yours again for one more kiss, like he can’t get enough. “Okay,” he finally grunts as he pulls away, sounding as begrudgingly responsible as you feel. Your head is still spinning; you want nothing more than to stay here and let him kiss you dizzy.

“Let’s go.”

He takes a step back so you can right yourself, reaching out to dust some snow off your jacket, and then the two of you resume walking up the path, sharing a breathless laugh like confidantes. You assume it’s just his standard clumsiness when Namjoon’s hand knocks into yours, but then his fingers are twining through yours purposefully, until you’re pressed palm to palm.

The rush of heat that blooms in your chest at his touch keeps you warm the rest of the way to the car.

Your last shift at Indigo somehow manages to feel exactly like every shift that’s come before it and completely new at the same time.

The work is the same, the steady stream of customers unchanged, the Christmas music still an aggravating soundtrack. But you no longer feel like you have to ignore the butterflies that flutter in your stomach when Namjoon asks you a question, or meets your gaze across the shop.

The only urges you have to suppress are indecent ones, made worse by Namjoon seemingly taking advantage of every opportunity to touch you: hip-checking you when you’re both standing at the front counter, pressing a hand to the small of your back whenever he has to squeeze behind you, leaning in a little closer than necessary to be heard over the noise of the milk steamer. It’s enough to make your breath hitch each time, and you can’t help but wonder if he feels the same relief at not having to hold back anymore.

Towards the end of the night, it surprises you when the typically consistent flow of customers starts to slow down, until it seems to have ceased entirely. You still have two hours to go, but you find yourself staring at the walls, every table empty, having done all the side work you can think of to distract yourself from boredom.

The sound of the front door’s lock clicking shut makes you glance up, only to see Namjoon flipping the open sign over.

“What are you doing?” you ask, blinking dumbfounded, and he looks over his shoulder at you with a shrug.

“It’s Christmas Eve Eve, and I’m the owner, so. We’re closing early. Effective immediately.” The decree makes you laugh a little, and his dimples wink back. “Let’s finish cleaning, I wanna show you something.”

In record time, you find yourself standing outside the front door of Indigo as Namjoon locks up, only tonight your hands are kept warm by the hot chocolates he’d made for the two of you as you closed. He takes his cup back once his hands are free, and you try a tentative sip from yours, now cool enough to drink without burning your mouth. Given what you witnessed of his barista abilities on your first day, you brace yourself for the worst, but your eyes widen in pleasant surprise when the liquid hits your tongue.

“Being a dad means getting really good at a few specific things,” he says by way of explanation as he unlocks his car doors, and you smile as you slip into the passenger seat.

It occurs to you as Namjoon starts to drive that you don’t actually know where he’s taking you, but when you open your mouth to ask at the next red light, he leans over you to fumble open the glovebox and you lose your train of thought. He fishes inside for a few seconds before retrieving a CD case, then makes quick work of prying it open and sliding the disc into the slot on the dash. You attempt to hide your giggle behind the rim of your cup.

“No wonder you like ‘90s music so much. You’re still living there,” you say, nodding to his antiquated stereo, and he smirks as he turns up the volume. 

“This is A Tribe Called Quest,” he remarks, quirking an eyebrow when he looks back at you. “You better show some respect.”

“Yes, sir,” you tease in response, and you don’t miss the color that flushes his cheeks.

The light turns green and he accelerates through the intersection, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the center console to grip playfully at your leg, a few inches above your knee. You can see his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, like he’s considering saying something, but when he finally opens his mouth, it’s just to rap along to the music.

It’s only a few songs later that he’s turning off the main road and following a barely-lit gravel path up to a large grassy parking lot, where he pulls into a space and kills the engine. You squint through the windshield, tucking your now-empty drink into the cupholder, but you can’t make out much except dusk and some vague lights over a hill in the distance.

“Was this crush thing just a ploy to murder me?” you quip, and Namjoon looks a little nervous when you glance over, like he took the question to heart. “I’m kidding,” you clarify quickly.

His voice comes out surprisingly soft. “This is one of my favorite things to do during the holidays. Thought it might help with, you know. The magic.”

Something cracks open inside you as you look back at him. “That’s… really sweet.”

“Ah,” he says, as if to dismiss the compliment. “You haven’t seen it yet. Maybe you’ll hate it. Come on.”

The two of you climb out of his car to start your trek to whatever he has in store, heading in the direction of the lights, and Namjoon’s hand slips into yours, like it’s already second nature. Easy and sweet. You grip tight to him, the night air colder now than it was when you left work, but then you finally crest over the hill, and the temperature is suddenly the furthest thing from your mind.

It takes you a moment to even understand what you’re looking at. The place is clearly some kind of arboretum, as the path ahead of you snakes through a perfectly manicured garden of various plants, but the only thing you can focus on are the lights. Every tree, bush, shrub, and other kind of greenery that lines the walkway has been intricately strung up with lights, each one boasting a different hue. The end result is nothing short of dazzling— a veritable rainbow of light and life and color, glittering diamond-bright against the deep-set night around you.

“Namjoon,” you breathe. “This is beautiful.”

There’s a dimple flickering at the corner of his mouth when you look up at him. “Thought you might like it.”

“I can’t believe I never knew this was here,” you remark, your eyes wide and blinking as you try to take it all in.

“Hey,” he answers with a shrug. “Maybe your hometown still has a few good surprises left in it.” You exhale a laugh as you lean into his side and he squeezes your joined hands; you can’t help feeling like you’ve already found the greatest surprise of them all.

After an hour spent wandering through the displays, each one more breathtaking than the last, Namjoon diverts you toward a small food stand. He comes away from the counter with a paper carton filled to the brim with long ropes of twisted, fried dough, warm enough to release steam into the air when you tear one apart to share, and dusted with cinnamon sugar that sticks to your fingertips.

The two of you take a few steps back down the path until you’re under an archway of glowing golden lights, then eventually come to a standstill, too hungry to do anything except devour your food.

Namjoon speaks first, mid-chew. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What’s up?” you answer as you reach for another piece.

He swallows, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth before he continues. “At your interview, you said your life fell apart. What happened?”

“Oh.” You smirk as you rip the braided dough in two, then in two again, before popping it into your mouth. “It seems a little silly now, but. I got fired from that last job, like I told you. And the same day, my roommate pretty much kicked me out of the apartment, because he wanted his boyfriend to move in. He was also my best friend, so. It stung a little. A lot. Moving back in with your parents at this age is humbling, to say the least. Feels a lot like starting over.”

Namjoon hums, like he understands. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Eh,” you respond noncommittally. “I should probably be happy for him. The timing just… wasn’t amazing.”

“You know,” he murmurs, thoughtful. “I thought my life was over when my ex and I got pregnant. Not even eighteen and about to be a dad. I really felt like… I don’t know, like that was it for me.” You nod slowly, unable to even fathom what that must’ve been like.

“But, here I am. Still alive.” Namjoon flashes you a grin, and you find yourself smiling back. “Still figuring it out. I actually feel like I’ve learned a lot from watching Sol grow up. They’re like—” He shakes his head, as if at a momentary loss for words. “They’re like a different person every month, I swear. What they’re into, how they dress. Who they wanna be. It makes me feel, I don’t know. Like it’s okay. Like I can change too.” He shrugs. “That’s the thing about life. It’s long. And even when you feel like it’s ended… it keeps going anyway.”

His words wash over you, and you’re so in awe that you can’t help but laugh.

“Ah, sorry.” He grimaces, suddenly self-conscious. “I know that was corny.”

“No, no,” you interject, trying to keep your composure. “I just think you are like, literally the wisest person I’ve ever met.”

The lights glimmering overhead aren’t enough to hide the way Namjoon blushes at the compliment, and then he pauses, as if recalling something. “Didn’t I nearly run the blender with the lid off on your first day?”

You double-over at the memory, and he’s laughing now, too. “Okay, okay. Fair point.” 

The thought keeps circling around in your brain as you dust cinnamon sugar from each other’s jackets and continue your way around the rest of the gardens, occasionally pausing to trade sticky-sweet kisses in the twinkling glow: you don’t want the night to end. You keep glancing over at Namjoon, wondering if he’s feeling the same way as he drives you back into town, the heat in his car on full blast, the CD player still underscoring your conversation.

“So, what do your Christmas plans look like?” he asks, eyes flitting briefly from the road to meet your gaze.

You fiddle with a button on your coat, wishing you had a less depressing answer. “I was just gonna spend it by myself. My parents already had a vacation in Hawaii planned, so I’m gonna do what I always do: hole up with booze and snacks and wait for it all to be over.”

He chuckles, tapping his fingertips absentmindedly against the steering wheel. “Well, I have about a hundred presents to wrap tomorrow night while Sol’s at their mom’s. Why don’t you come over and help? I can even provide the booze.” There’s a pause, and his voice comes back softer before you can respond. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

The corner of your mouth tugs up at his sincerity, the way he gently cares for you, has since day one. “Yeah, okay. I mean, you had me at free alcohol.”

Just like that, Namjoon is already turning back into the Indigo parking lot, where your car sits waiting for you. The two of you shrug off your seatbelts once he’s pulled into a space and parked, and he reaches to turn down the music before shifting in his seat to get a better look at you.

“So,” he starts, clearing his throat a little. “You are officially no longer my employee.”

“And you are no longer my boss,” you answer back, and a thrill buzzes in your chest at the statement.

“Which means,” he continues, doing his best to lean over the center console, “I can do this.” He barely finishes getting the words out before his mouth is on yours, your eyes fluttering closed, his kisses far less chaste than the ones you shared earlier. They’re open-mouthed and urgent this time, with Namjoon slipping his tongue into the heat of your mouth like he’s been waiting all night for it.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur between kisses, and then he dips his head lower, until his lips find the join of your neck and shoulder.

“And this,” he purrs before kissing you just as hungrily there, tongue-first. You can’t hold back the soft noise his mouth pulls out of you.

“Fuck,” you breathe as he sucks gently over the same spot, with just enough pressure to make you writhe in your seat. A shiver rolls up your spine when he hums against your skin, clearly pleased at your reaction.

“And, uh…” You slowly blink your eyes open when you feel the warmth of his breath dissipate, and he’s looking at you with his brow furrowed, as if attempting some difficult mental math. “Actually—” He reaches down for the lever to adjust his seat, and it drops all the way back with a graceless thud that makes a laugh flutter out of you. “Maybe you could take your jacket off and come over here?”

You don’t need him to ask you twice, and you’re moving quickly as you peel out of the thick material and scramble across the console to straddle him. You both groan a little when you duck down to press your mouth to his again, all of this suddenly feeling much more real now that you’re basically horizontal. His hands alight on your hips, tentative, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them, and you smile against his lips.

“Touch me, Joon,” you instruct, and he does as he’s told.

His hands are warm as he slips them beneath the hem of your shirt, trailing over your skin until he reaches the band of your bra. When you hum encouragingly into his mouth, he keeps going, pushing the fabric up your chest so your tits spill free from their confinement. He cups one in each hand, and though you might’ve expected him to be clumsy or rough, given everything you’ve seen of him thus far, you’re surprised to instead find that he’s gentle, thumbs circling your nipples with just the right amount of pressure to tighten them into stiff peaks.

Unable to bite back your whimper at the heat that blossoms through you at his touch, at how much more of him you need, you pull away just enough to break your kiss, glancing up through the back window of his car to confirm the parking lot is still empty.

Namjoon groans low in his throat when you reach down to tug up the hem of your shirt, shifting a little on top of him to give him better access. He doesn’t hesitate, thumb still working at one nipple while he takes the other into his mouth, and your sigh of relief comes edged with a soft moan when he swirls his tongue over the bud of your breast.

“Shit,” you gasp. “Feels so fucking good.”

He pulls off with a wet pop to switch sides, and the slick heat of his mouth sends bolt after bolt of arousal through you until there’s a dull ache of need thudding between your legs. As you roll your hips in desperate search of friction, you can feel him beneath you, straining hard against the fabric of his jeans.

Namjoon pulls his mouth off your breast, letting out a hoarse laugh when you shift to drop your forehead against his collarbone with a groan, horny enough to practically be delirious. “I hate that I’m even saying this,” he rasps, “but I really can’t have sex in a car. I’m too—”

“Big?” you offer, and there’s a smile on his lips as he presses a kiss to your temple.

“I was going to say old.”

You can’t help giggling as you lean up to find his mouth with yours again. Namjoon kisses you a little while longer, lazily, his hands still kneading gently at your tits, until he finally tips his head back, heaving a sigh up to the roof of his car. “Okay, okay. You should go.” His tone is reluctant, like it’s the last thing he wants. “It’s late. And my jeans fucking hurt.”

There’s a self-satisfied smirk toying at your mouth as you sit up, tugging your bra and shirt back into place and not missing the bulge in Namjoon’s pants where your hips meet his. “I will take the blame for that one.”

He folds his hands behind his head, biceps and dimples on full display. “Damn straight.”

You lean down for one more kiss, letting it linger before you make your way back over the center console to retrieve your jacket. “Have a good night, Joon,” you murmur as you reach for the door handle, and when you glance back, his eyes are fixed on you, still heavy-lidded with lust.

“Get home safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I have booze, as promised.” Namjoon’s voice echoes in from the kitchen as you kick off your boots and hang your coat up at his front door come Christmas Eve. The aroma hits your nose as your socked feet pad down the hall to follow him: the spice of cinnamon and clove, paired with a hint of citrus. It smells like the holidays, like home.

“Mulled wine?” you wager a guess, and he nods, turning away from the stove to retrieve two mugs from a cabinet.

“I halved the recipe, since it’s just us,” he explains, mouth pulling down at the corners as he starts to ladle out servings from the pot full of deep red liquid. “Still made a lot, though.”

Your eyes drift across the kitchen until they land on the two empty bottles of red sitting next to the sink, and that makes you pause for a moment to consider. “So the original recipe called for four bottles?”

Namjoon’s brow is furrowed when he glances up, and then he follows your gaze, and a look of delayed understanding washes over him. “Oh, fuck.”

Your elbows dig into the kitchen island as you press your hands to your mouth, as if to physically hold in your laughter. “Did you… halve everything in the recipe except the wine?”

His eyes drop closed as he nods, his answer a resigned sigh. “Yeah. Yes, I did.”

You can’t help yourself: all at once, you’re circling around to join Namjoon behind the stove, so you can take his face in your hands and pull his mouth down to yours. He makes a soft noise of surprise, but then his lips fall into rhythm, kissing you hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs. Even through the fabric of your shirt, his large hands are warm when they slide over the small of your back, and then they keep going, until you finally break the kiss with another laugh when he reaches his final target and outright grabs your ass.

“Not the reaction I anticipated,” Namjoon admits, paired with a teasing squeeze. “But I’ll take it.”

You look up at him through your lashes, pressing your palms flat to the firm plane of his chest. “A very wise friend of mine once told me that the holidays aren’t about every little thing going perfect. I thought maybe you needed a reminder.”

His dimples deepen as his eyes search yours, and his voice is lower in his throat when he responds. “I think that fool was just sayin’ words because a pretty girl asked him a question.”

Heat flushes your face as you smile back. “Well, they were very good words.” You drop your gaze to the pot on the stove. “Come on, I bet we can salvage this.”

Determined to save Christmas, you throw in another handful of spices, chased with a few glugs from a bottle of orange juice Namjoon heroically digs out of the back of the fridge. After a few more minutes of simmering, you take a tentative sip of the mixture to find it perfectly adequate.

“I guess we just have to drink twice as much now,” Namjoon quips, filling up two fresh mugs with the remedied wine. You raise an eyebrow back at him, as if to accept the challenge, while you tap your drinks together in a cheers.

By the time you realize that a double-batch of mulled wine and gift-wrapping don’t exactly go together, it’s already too late. The booze makes Namjoon’s big hands go even clumsier, the few presents he attempts an absolute disaster, and you can’t stop laughing long enough to be of any help. At one point he reaches up to cup your jaw for a kiss, but completely misjudges the distance, deftly knocking into his half-drunk mug and spilling the contents all over a tube of wrapping paper and the crotch of your jeans.

You dissolve into giggles until you can scarcely breathe, scooting your chair a few inches back from the table as he jumps up to grab something to soak up the mess. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” you manage to gasp when he returns, immediately focused on cleaning you up first. You wave him away as you get to your feet. “Seriously, it’s not that bad, it’s mostly the table.”

“Jesus,” Namjoon groans as he drops the kitchen towels in his hands onto the wooden surface, doing his best to soak up the puddle, though there’s no saving the ruined gift-wrap.

“It’s not a big deal,” you murmur as he turns back, once again examining the extent of the damage done to your clothes. A shiver rolls through you as his thumb brushes over the waistband of your jeans, and he grimaces a little.

“This is probably gonna stain.”

“I mean…” Your pulse starts to quicken as his fingertips linger where they are, and Namjoon’s gaze flits up to meet yours when you speak, clearly hearing a shift in your tone of voice. “I could just… take them off.”

A smile teases at the corner of your mouth when his eyes widen. “Yeah,” he breathes, then seems to self-correct. “I mean, uh. If-if that’s something you would feel comfortable doing.”

You’re already reaching to undo the button, and then Namjoon takes over to tug open the zipper and push the fabric down your legs, and your nipples tighten beneath your bra at the reminder of how gentle his large hands can be. His lips find yours again and you don’t hesitate to lick into his mouth, jostling slightly as you try to make out with him and kick your pants the rest of the way off at the same time. It’s graceless, but you manage to make it work, and then he pulls away from you to glance back down.

“It looks like a little got on your shirt, too.”

He’s right, you realize: there are faint purple marks splattered just above the hem of your long-sleeve, and you smirk as you look up at him.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you did this on purpose,” you tease, and then in one swift move you pull your shirt over your head, letting it drop to the kitchen floor next to your discarded jeans.

Namjoon’s hands are instantly on your bare skin, trailing heat as they trace the curve from your hip to your waist, and your breath hitches as he ducks down to brush his lips over your collarbone. The low tone of his voice reverberates through you when he speaks against your skin. “I like to think I could’ve gotten you naked tonight even without being an accident-prone idiot.”

You run a hand along the line of his jaw, tipping his head up to seek a kiss, before leaning back to murmur, “I guess we’ll never know.”

He kisses you again, and the two of you stumble across the threshold into the living room, pausing along the way to peel off his sweater and then his jeans, laughing into each other’s mouths, just drunk enough to lack any semblance of coordination you might have otherwise had.

When you drop down to lay back on his sofa, you’re both stripped to your underwear, and you can feel the thick bulge of him, pressing firm-heavy heat into your thigh as he settles his hips between your spread legs.

Namjoon’s eyes roam over your body beneath him, and then he’s tugging the lace of your panties to the side to slip a finger into your drenched center, beckoning it up to rub you just right. Your mouth drops open as he traces slow circles against your front wall, and when he adds a second digit, you can’t help but whimper softly at the stretch. It thrums through you like your lingering red wine buzz, hot and thick and good enough to get lost in, your head dropping back on the couch cushions as your hips rock up into his touch.

“Goddamn,” Namjoon groans, and your eyes flutter open again to take him in, his gaze heavy-lidded as he watches his fingers disappear up into you, coaxing slick sounds out with each pump of his hand. “I had a whole plan,” he rasps. “To take my time. But, fuck, I really want to fuck you.”

“It’s okay, Joon,” you breathe, not sure how much longer you could stand the torturous feeling of his clothed cock grinding into your thigh, so close to where you want him. An ache throbs in your cunt, needy, plugged up with two fingers but still begging for more. “Just fuck me.”

Realization flashes over his face, and then he suddenly heaves a sigh, looking defeated. You have to bite back a noise at the loss as he withdraws his fingers. “I— there’s an obvious joke here, but. I don’t have any condoms. Or if I do, they’re definitely expired.”

It takes you a second to process the revelation, and then you reach up to pull him down to you, smiling when he hums surprise into your mouth at the unexpected response. Your lips linger on his, and then you tip your head to press a kiss to the slope of his neck, not quite able to maintain eye contact as you murmur, “I mean. I’m on the pill, and I’m clean. So.”

“Yeah?” he replies, and your nose bumps against his shoulder as you nod. “Me too. Well, I-I’m clean, I mean. I’m not on the pill.”

You can’t help the giggle that slips out as you look up at him. “Right, no, I get it.”

“Sorry,” Namjoon huffs a laugh in return, his face flushing a little. “I talk a lot, when I’m nervous.”

“I just thought it was an all-the-time thing,” you admit, and the color in his cheeks deepens.

“I’m just always nervous around you.”

Your mouth seeks his out for a kiss sweeter than the last, slower for his shy honesty and the hummingbird thrum of your heartbeat behind your ribs. The heat of his breath ghosts over your lips when you tip back to answer, “You don’t have to be.”

“So, you’re okay?” he asks, almost reverent with his question. “If we—if I don’t—”

“Please,” you insist, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.

With remarkably little fumbling, he drags the lace of your panties down your legs, letting you kick them the rest of the way off while he moves up to unclasp your bra. You slip the straps off your shoulders and drop it over the edge of the couch, then watch as he shifts to strip out of his boxers, freeing his cock with enough force that it smacks against his abdomen with a hefty thud.

You swallow hard as you take him in: long and thick, flushed dark. Big, and fuck, you want all of him; you can feel how drenched you already are between your legs at the thought of all that cock filling you up.

When you tear your gaze away to meet his, Namjoon is staring at you just as hungrily, and he brings a hand to pump himself a few times, to coat his shaft in the wetness that’s started to drool from the head of his dick.

“Come here,” he grunts, his voice rough-edged, and you waste no time straddling yourself over his hips.

Given his considerable size, you figured it might take you a second to adjust, but you want him so bad, the feeling of his cock stretching you open is all white-hot pleasure. Your fingertips dig into his shoulders as you slowly lower yourself down on him, inch by overwhelming inch, until your ass is flush with thighs.

Namjoon’s head drops back against the couch as you slowly grind your hips into him, his hands gripping at your waist to guide the movement. You can’t help the soft sound that flutters out of you: he just looks so good like this, white-blonde hair swept off his forehead, beads of sweat trailing down his temples and glistening at his collarbones, his parted lips full and kiss-bitten.

“Baby,” he groans as you start to move a little more intentionally. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last long. Tell me what to do.”

“Touch me,” you breathe, and you close a hand over one of his, guiding him down to your clit. 

Just like the night before in his car, his touch is so gentle when he begins to trace circles into the sensitive nub with his thumb. You can feel the slow-hum build of an orgasm in your core, drawn up by the steady rub of his hand, and you lean back to allow him better access, bracing yourself on his thighs as you rock along his length.

A moan rips through you as the new angle drags the head of his dick just right against your front wall, and it’s good enough to make your eyes roll back. Chasing the feeling, you shove your hips down harder, driving his cock into that spot over and over until your thighs have started to tremble.

“That’s it,” Namjoon grunts encouragingly, his voice husky. “Use me, baby. Look so good when you bounce on my cock like that.”

The words set every last one of your nerve endings alight, and you dig your nails into his skin as your spine arches from the pleasure. His thumb is still working steadily at your clit, and the heavy stretch of his cock has you so wet, you can feel arousal starting to leak down your thighs. Your pussy clings to him like a vice, a throbbing-tight heat, taking him to the hilt every time.

“Oh my god, Joon,” you groan, “I’m gonna come.”

His touch doesn’t let up, and you can feel yourself teetering right on the precipice of it, only able to manage little gasps as you drop yourself down onto his cock again and again and again, with enough force that there’s an audible sound of your skin slapping against his.

Your legs are outright shaking from the effort now, from how close you are, and then Namjoon ducks his head, using his free hand to guide your tit into his mouth. The swirl of his tongue laved across the tight bud of your nipple is just what you need to push you over the edge.

With a moan that’s more like a sob, you drop forward against Namjoon’s chest, sinking all the way down to bury him in your pulsing cunt as you come. He continues to rub you through the waves of your orgasm, breathing ragged in your ear while your pussy gushes around him, until you grab his wrist with a soft whimper of overstimulation, and he relents.

Too gone to get any words out, all you can do is take his face in your hands and kiss him. He rolls his tongue over yours, decadent, as his palms slip down to cup your ass. You groan a little into his mouth when he begins to shift you, your cunt still fluttering-sensitive at every little motion, but he manages to maneuver you onto your back while still keeping himself sheathed in you.

His hands move to your thighs, encouraging your legs to hook over his hips, and his mouth trails kisses down the valley between your breasts before he breathes against your skin, “Can I keep going?”

“Please,” you murmur, and it’s chased with a moan when he starts to rock his hips into you. You feel so full, so swollen from your climax that it’s like your walls were molded to take him, the crown of his cock stroking deep-deep over the place that lights you up inside, shooting sparks of pleasure all the way down to your toes.

Namjoon’s breath stutters on a laugh. “Shit, I’m already close.”

You tilt up to brush your lips against his, humming encouragingly into his mouth, and then he pulls back again, one dimple teasing at the corner of his smile. “God, I— wanna hear you say it.”

Somehow, you know exactly what he means. “Come in me, Joon,” you beg, fucked so good that you’re shameless for it, and you gasp when he bottoms out in you with his next thrust. “Fill me up. Fuck me full of your cum, baby, please.”

It’s like the words send him into overdrive, and he practically growls as he starts to fuck his cock into you forcefully, hard enough to make your tits bounce. Each snap of his hips punches a heady groan from your lungs, and you reach up to drag your nails across the skin of his back as he chases his own end.

“Gonna fucking— give it to you,” he hisses, rolling his hips one, two, three more times, and then you feel his cock twitching, shoved in as deep as you can take him. He heaves a final strangled groan as he comes, rope after rope of his release pumping into you to paint your walls, until you can feel it beginning to spill back down your thighs.

You kiss through the comedown, inhaling shaky breaths into each other’s mouths, your bodies still fitted together like puzzle pieces, sweat starting to cool in the places where skin is pressed to skin. Namjoon finally moves first, giving a grunt of effort as he rolls off the couch, and you throw an arm over your face while the world slowly settles into focus around you.

When he returns, it’s with a towel in hand, and you can’t help smiling as he cleans you up, trailing soft kisses along your collarbone in tandem.

His voice is soft, too, when he finally speaks. “Will you stay here tonight?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms to look at him, and a little glimmer of something lights up in your chest that you can’t ignore. The first spark of an ember, just enough to reignite a flame you’d long since believed to be entirely extinguished. But now he’s shown you: it doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to be alone.

“Of course. We still have presents to wrap,” you say simply, and he huffs a laugh as he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Joon?” you murmur into the crook of his neck, unable to keep your voice entirely steady.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you breathe. “For the magic.”