Namjoon X Oc - Tumblr Posts

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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.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist

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.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist

— WIP 𐙚 lady beetle | knj

pairing: situationship!namjoon x oc

about: namjoon is a patient man, and he wants you to be the same.

word count: 0.404

note: so i decided to make my babies happy and post a TEASERRRR of my upcoming one shot with kim namjoon himself. since i can't reveal the surprise about what this fic is about, i thought i'd post a little something to get you all even more excited about it. <3 SEE YOU ON SUNDAY MWAH.

warnings: nipple play, praise kink, namjoon is a dangerous man, patience game.

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 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.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

WIP masterlist

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 .

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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Idol! Namjoon x Non-Idol! Reader: Dating Rumour

A/n: This one has an established relationship. You can just read this independently or read the First Part. It wont matter if you don't but it'll make more sence. Also for anyone who's read the Other Part, this happens like 1 year down the line, even Bang PD knew about you and Namjoon and said it was fine with the labels as long as its not public, the staff and the artists knew.

Summary: Its common to have a dating rumour when one is an idol. But what if you have a dating rumour being a non-idol and someone leaks your personal info. What happens? Find out.

----------------------------------------------------

You were driving back from work, it was really crowded in your area. Songs were playing from the speakers, but you were getting impatient so you opened you phone to check as you waited for the road to get clear and that is when you noticed

11 missed calls from Nika 🌻

21 missed calls from My Love 🐨

9 missed calls from Tata 🎙️

3 missed calls from Land Lady

And over 100 texts

"Damn! Whats wrong?!" You shouted .

You contemplated whom to call first and you hit the call button for Nika your roommate, she picked it up as soon as the call connected. And before you could say anything you heard.

"WHERE ARE YOU BITCH! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED WE ARE?"

"Woah! Calm down. My phone was on silent mode, I was in a meeting and forgot to turn the sound back on. But why so many missed calls? And what's with the crowd in our neighborhood?" You asked.

"You're in the neighborhood? Turn around and drive to some alley and send me the location. Quick" you heard a background voice that said "tell her to send it to Namjoonie too" you smiled at Hoseok's voice.

"Nika? Where are you and what's going on?" You asked getting worried of her tone, she rarely sounded that worried.

"I'll tell you when you get to safety, but untill you reach the dorms, do not and I mean DO NOT leave the car and wear a mask and the cap you keep in the dashboard locker" she said hurriedly.

"But-"

"No buts do it quick and at any cost do not leave the car or check your socials" she said "DO NOT" you were ichting to ask why or to check your social account but you knew she asked you not to do so for a reason so you'll agree. You wore the cap and mask and shared your live location to Nika and Namjoon.

Within minutes, you recieved a call from Namjoon.

"Are you safe?" Was the first thing he said, you could hear the worry laced in his words.

"Yes, Joon but whats going on?" You asked "And I am parked by a Lamp post in XXXX Lane"

"I'll tell you everything when you come back, just do what Nika has told you. Sihyuk Hyung has already sent someone to reach you" he said.

"Hitman Bang?! Why is he involved? DID I DO SOMETHING?!" You asked freaking out.

"No no, calm down jagi. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine okay" he said "I've gotta leave to reach the dorm in time, be careful. Okay babe?" He said

You hummed and hung up.

You waited listening songs and waited. Your patience was running out and you picked up your phone and were about to unlock it and check your notifs when a knock came from the window. You screamed at the sudden sound and got even more scared when you saw two figures in black hoodie and black cap and black mask outside your window. You were so scared and thanked lord that all your windows were up and the two kept knocking. You were about to dial the police when one of them lowered their mask, to reveal Beomgyu, as he shouted, "Noona open the door". You hit the unlock button for the car and he got in on the back seat while another voice came to your side and asked you to scoot to the passengers's seat. You ruffled across to the other seat, and Beomgyu said, "Thats Samuel, our guy, don't worry" in english, you literally felt that he was in a spy movie feel and you couldn't deny that you felt the same, with all this going on.

Samuel got into the driving seat and you peered back Beomgyu and asked "Whats going on Gyu-ya?" You asked as you put on your seat belt.

"Ah, Kookie hyung told me to not talk about it untill you reach there" he said.

"There where?" You asked

"To the dorms" He said "We couldn't send Samuel alone cause you don't know him and wouldn't trust him"

"Like hell I wouldn't" you said and looked at Samuel and said "no offence" and he nodded.

"So I came along. Don't worry Bang PDnim will take care of the rumours" he said.

And your eyes went wide and a 1000 thoughts rushed to your head "Rumours? Oh MY GOD!" you freaked out

"Sir you were not supposed to say that" Samuel said

"Oh!" He said and covered his mouth "please don't freak out Noona! Please! Or Your friend will kill me!"

"Who Nika? Where is she?" You asked.

"She's in your apartment, with Hoseok hyung in it, he can't leave" he said and added "please don't ask me anything more"

You sighed and said "okay"

"Are you hungry? I have snacks" he said and you were about to pick up your phone but Beomgyu snatched it away quickly. "No! Don't check your phone. Here eat this" he said and gave you a packet of Cheetos that you ate begrudgingly.

----------------------------------------------------

You entered the dorm building, to find Namjoon and Taehyung in the loby, as soon as they saw you they rushed to you and Namjoon hugged you tightly. You suddenly felt another weight on the back and understood that it was Tae on the back.

"Can I now know what happened? What rumour?! Was it the reason why our neighborhood is mobbed?" You asked as they left the embrace, you took your phone and bag from Beomgyu who gave you a hug and Samuel parked your car and gave you the keys. You went into the lift and what the two started to explain to you was.

You had a dating rumour with Kim Taehyung

"WHAT!" You had shouted.

"Someone got a clip of the two of you talking and then concocted wierd stuff about similar rings and hoodies" Taehyung said.

"Also that one time you left your phone in our practice room, and it was visible in some Video and you have mirror selfies with it the backcover being same" Namjoon said.

"But how did they know my name and address?!" You asked.

"Now that's the mystery we all are on" Taehyung said.

"Now you know why Si-hyuk hyung was involved? And we are all so worried cause someone leaked something. The background, staff or any person's faces are always blurred. There's someone on the inside" Namjoon said, as you entered the dorm apartment with them.

"I have a dating rumour?!" You mumbled "I HAVE A DATING RUMOUR! OH MY GOD ! WHAT AM I GONNA DO?! I'LL HAVE TO LEAVE THE CITY?!!! CITY HELL I'LL HAVE TO LEAVE THE COUNTRY! WHERE WILL I GO! OH MY-" You were rambling and Namjoon just held your shoulders and crashed his lips with yours. Yes, Namjoon's personal way of shutting you up when you're rambling or freaking out. Once, when you were freaking out about a project infront of Jungkook while you were waiting for your boyfriend, he actually ran and called Namjoon from his studio to calm you down.

You just instantly melted into the kiss and tangled your hands on the back of his neck. A shiver ran down your back as you felt his tongue rub against your lower lip gently asking for entrance, and you would have gladly given if you hadn't heard a sound of throat clearing.

"Please get a room before you decide to suck faces" Taehyung said as he made way to the couch. Giving one last kiss on your cheek he took your hand in his and you both walked in. You found all the 5 boys sitting on the couch. There were two spots left as Hobi was still stuck in your apartment with Nika, you and Joon took seats.

"How's our famous girl?" Jimin chirped and everybody looked at him "Too early?" He asked.

"So who was it?" You asked

"Well it was the SKGossip channel but we are sure that there is someone on the inside" Suga said as he lit up a tablet and showed you the screenshots of the pictures that they used as 'proof', you just kept staring at the pictures spellbound and didn't know what to say. "Don't worry, were filling a law suit and will get to the bottom of this, but you need to stay here for a while" Suga added

"Here? Why?" You asked

"Because nobody knows about this location and you will have to work from here or take leave" Namjoon said.

"But, what about my clothes and things" you asked.

"Hobi will get them on his way back, talk to Nika about that" he said, taking your hand in his to rub soothing circles.

"Where would I stay?" You asked. Of course you've been to the dorm before but you have never stayed over night as your over night "plans" generally took place at your place.

"Well, Jimin could shift to Hobi's room and you could stay there" Jin said shrugging.

"Or she can just stay with me" Namjoon suggested. And everybody looked at him and Jungkook said "We don't want to hear you guys doing it"

"We wont-" you were saying but were cut off by Namjoon saying "We'll be quiet"

"Namjoon!" You hit him on the arm.

"Ouch! What" he said rubbing the spot and the boys laughed.

And thats how you ended up living with the idols of your dreams, with your Roommate/only friend visiting from time to time. The law suit was going on and they said they had received an anonymous email with all the files and videos. So the company and the authorities were looking into the matter. While you often found yourself at extreme situations of nose bleed staying surrounded by 7 hot as hell men.

----------------------------------------------------

"JUNGKOOOK!" You shouted

"HOW MANY TIMES DID I TELL YOU GUYS NOT TO LEAVE YOUR BOXERS IN THE BATHROOM!?" you said scrunching your nose in disgust and the bunny boy appreaded and asked.

"How did you know they are mine?" He said.

"They have Iron mans face on it! Whose else could they belong to?" You said.

"Hey! Namjoon hyung had a Winnie the Pooh boxers!" He said.

"Yeah, I know" you said and went inside the bathroom to do your business.

It was one of your off days so you went over to their home theater to watch a movie. When you are stuck here, might as well enjoy your time.

You took a comfortable seat and schemed through netflix, amoung your search your eyes landed upon a movie of your native country. Yeah, not being able to go to your place, made you feel homesick, so you put it on. And right then you heard the door open and in came Suga, and took a seat and got comfortable.

"You wanna watch something?" You asked him, pausing it.

"I did, but I didn't know what to watch, so this is fine, please put on the subtitles" he said and leaned into the seat.

With in 5 minutes of the movie you heard a walking music coming to your way and a chirpy "Hiii. I wanna watch too!" Hobi said "Can you please start from the first, please Yn-ah!" He said "Also I brought pop-corn" he said.

"okay" you re-started the movie.

"Wait wait, so they are best friends but she loves him and he loves the other girl?" Hobi said mid-way.

"Yeah" you said. Suddenly a scene appeared and you laughed, but Hoseok and Yoongi were lost, so you explained them in context to your country as to why the part was funny. You enjoyed it in the starting but slowly it got annoying as you had to pause the movie alot to explain them.

"Wah! The women of your country are so pretty" Yoongi commented, and you felt proud.

You noticed Hoseok cry as the female protagonist got her heart broken and cried. Almost at the middle of the movie, you noticed Jimin enter with bags of snacks you were about to whine as to you couldn't restart the movie but he shocked you as he ran to take a seat and said "Damn I love this movie*

You literally paused the movie and looked at him in utter surprise. "What? (Your country) movies are really enjoyable" he said.

Later that night

"I heard you explained a full movie to the boys" Namjoon said shifting into the bed beside you.

"Yeah. All I wanted was to watch a movie" you said "But it was enjoyable to watch them get so intreagued" you said.

"Thats my (Your country) girl. I bet me and Hobi have the real catches" he said

"You bet. And that is what makes a lot of K-Armys hate me more" you said pouting.

"Aww babe, I told you not to read those" he said.

"I know, sorry" you said hugging is physically large form.

"Its okay babe, things are already getting better, they're close to tracing the person who did it and in no times things will get better" he said kissing your forehead.

You noded and sighed "lets just enjoy our time together untill then" you said.

"That's more like it" He said and the two of you lulled to sleep in each other's arms.

----------------------------------------------------

Other Works

Taglist (Open): @jung-nika-hoseok @bbl32

Comment or send an ask if you wanna be my permanent taglist member for BTS or the others too.

When he writes a song about you (xxx)

BTS X Reader

A/n: I'm sad... :((

Namjoon

He would not even tell you what he's been doing. You might just stumble upon the track while he might be playing it in his studio or working on it. He would be as if you found him before he could surprise you. He of course didn't plan to drop the song in the market as he's shy like that. But he was planning to complete the song and then play it just for you and may be the members.

He would really use pure worlds of passion and rap about what and how you make him feel when you to guys fuck. He goes on to praise you and your "abilities". The members would all tease him for being whipped but he'd be proud of it.

Seokjin

He would plan on writing such a song since you both did the thing for the first time but would keep procrastinating it. Until one day he'd finally take a look ,at you lying beside him and the lyrics start pouring into his mind on his own. He'd probably be very private about the song and only Yoongi would know as he is his trusted companion in this case. He would send it to you and then wait for you to listen to it and gush about how well written it was or how nice his voice sounds.

Jin would definitely use very sophisticated words along with sugar coated imagery of what you did to him the night when the lyrics came pouring to his mind. He'd be pretty proud of his work but would rather not let the maknaes hear it. Even though they already know and have heard it from Yoongi's studio, Jin doesn't need to know that.

Yoongi

Yoongi was making a collab with an artist who wanted the song to be sensual so he'd think and think hard. It's when the other artist sends him some parts of the lyrics they worked. He'd read them and he could almost feel like he could feel you through those words and he knew what to do. And the words came to him. I bet he'd get quite a boner by the time he finishes the song. However, he won't tell you, it wouldn't be until when the song is being made for the final draft that he'd bring you to the studio and plays the song for you. He'd love how his voice and the words would make you blush.

He would use the most simplest words to describe the sensual moments in an alluring way that you feel like you're lost in the words. He would certainly first take Namjoon and Hoseok's review before letting anybody else listen to it.

Hoseok

The two of you were busy and away from each other since he had a tour and you couldn't even visit him. This would of course lead to a magical night when he returns. But, he is actually so touched by it that he ends up writing about it. He missed you so much and the way he wants you, he'd put all that in his song. He would write about how only you would be able to make him feel that way. About the highs and lows of your "love making" about how much he misses you touches when you're not there.

Hobi would use a mixture of sophisticated words with a tinge of rawness. Every line would show what he feels for you, the strength of his emotions. He would be so excited that he'll video call you and make you listen to the song. Nobody would know about this song but the two of you.

Jimin

Park Jimin can't write lyrics, damn, even Yoongi had once flipped on stuff he wrote and said "You call these lyrics?!" So now sitting in his Genius Lab, he was shocked to read the lyrics he was reading that Jimin wrote. Yoongi couldn't help but smirk at the exhibitionist in Jimin that made the imagery quite explicit. Jimin would get really shy when his Yoongi hyung teased him. But he'd be so excited to complete the song. He would surprise you by taking you to an extravagant picnic date where he'd play the song for you.

It's Jimin, so the language was probably really explicit to a level Yoongi had to tone it down to make it a little less personal. He'd flaunt the song with pride to the other members, Hoseok would totally joke "Man, Y/n what do you do to him under the sheets?!" And he'd definitely take your permission before dropping it as a single.

Taehyung

It was a joke, making time for each other after a month of a busy schedule, god knows you missed him. He did too and thus he couldn't stop complementing how pretty you looked naked below him, at the heat of the moment you just said "Yeah, why don't you make a song out of it" never did you imagine that he would. You would not know, of course he wouldn't tell you, he'd just compose it and record some part of it and put it on his Instagram stories. Man the Army's going crazy but so are you.

The words would be explicit, to a level where dispatch loses its shit to uncover who he spoke about in the song. And the company would plead the two of you to lay low and not step outside together at all for some time.

Jungkook

He would single handedly compose the song and upload it on SoundCloud. Yes, you would have no clue, until your Twitter would be blown by fans gushing over Jungkook's new single, fun part, he'd be in front of you somehow when it all happens and HE WILL record your reaction. He'd love to show the members how red your face got when you heard his song about what he loves about you and your body and how he loves what you do to him. He would be shy and contemplating at first, but then, he'd just do it. He would be a little worried if you would be angry but, could you really stay angry at that lovesick bunny of yours? No you couldn't, a hug and a kiss and you'd melt right away.

He could go into heavy details but no he wouldn't he'd just say enough to tease. But, only you and he would know what he meant. This would lead on the two of you getting a lecture from Jin about safe sex and Yoongi would certainly marvel at how their maknae has grown up.

----------------------------------------------------

Other works

When he writes a song about you (xxx)

BTS X Reader

A/n: I'm sad... :((

Namjoon

He would not even tell you what he's been doing. You might just stumble upon the track while he might be playing it in his studio or working on it. He would be as to you found him before he could surprise you. He of course didn't plan to drop the song in the market as he's shy like that. But he was planning to complete the song and then play it just for you and may be the members.

He would really use pure worlds of passion and rap about what and how you make him feel you to guys do fuck. He goes on to praise you and your "abilities". The members would all tease him for being whipped but he'd be proud of it.

Seokjin

He would plan on writing such a song since you both did the thing for the first time but would keep procrastinating it. Until one day he'd finally take at you lying beside him and the lyrics start pouring into his mind on his own. He'd probably be very private about the song and only Yoongi would know as he is his trusted companion in this case. He would send it to you and then wait for you to listen to it and gush about how well written it was or how nice his voice sounds.

Jin would definitely use very sophisticated words along with sugar coated imagery of what you did to him the night when the lyrics came pouring to his mind. He'd be pretty proud of his work but would rather not let the maknaes hear it. Even though they already know and have heard it from Yoongi's studio, Jin doesn't need to know that.

Yoongi

Yoongi was making a collab with an artist who wanted the song to be sensual so he'd think and think hard. It's when the other artist sends him some parts of the lyrics they worked. He'd read them and he could almost feel like he could feel you through those words and he knew what to do. And the words came to him. I bet he'd get quite a boner by the time he finishes the song. However, he won't tell you, it wouldn't be until when the song is being made for the final draft that he'd bring you to the studio and plays the song for you. He'd love how his voice and the words would make you blush.

He would use the most simplest words to describe the sensual moments in an alluring way that you feel like you're lost in the words. He would certainly first take Namjoon and Hoseok's review before letting anybody else listen to it.

Hoseok

The two of you were busy and away from each other since he had a tour and you couldn't even visit him. This would of course lead to a magical night when he returns. But, he is actually so touched by it that he ends up writing by it. He missed you so much and the way he wants you, he'd put all that in his song. He would write about how only you would be able to make him feel that way. About the highs and lows of your "love making" about how much he misses you touches when you're not there.

Hobi would use a mixture of sophisticated words with a tinge of rawness. Every line would show what he feels for you, the strength of his emotions. He would be so excited that he'll video call you and make you listen to the song. Nobody would know about this song but the two of you.

Jimin

Park Jimin can't write lyrics, damn once even Yoongi had flipped on stuff he wrote and said "You call these lyrics?!" So now sitting in his Genius Lab, he was shocked to read the lyrics he was reading that Jimin wrote. Yoongi couldn't help but smirk at the exhibitionist in Jimin that made the imagery quite explicit. Jimin would get really shy when his Yoongi hyung teased him. But he'd be so excited to complete the song. He would surprise you by taking you to an extravagant picnic date where he'd play the song for you.

It's Jimin so the language was probably really explicit to a level Yoongi had to tone it down to make it a little less personal. He'd flaunt the song with pride to the other members, Hoseok would totally joke "Man, Y/n what do you do to him under the sheets?!" And he'd definitely take your permission before dropping it as a single.

Taehyung

It was a joke, making time for each other after a month of a busy schedule, god knows you missed him. He did too and thus he couldn't stop complementing how pretty you looked naked below him, at the heat of the moment you just said "Yeah, why don't you make a song out of it" never did you imagine that he would. You would not know, of course he wouldn't tell you, he'd just compose it and record some part of it and put it on his Instagram stories. Man the Army's going crazy but so are you.

The words would be explicit, to a level where dispatch loses its shit to uncover who he spoke about in the song. And the company would plead the two of you to lay low and not step outside together at all for some time.

Jungkook

He would single handedly compose the song and upload it on SoundCloud. Yes, you would have no clue, until your Twitter would be blown by fans gushing over Jungkook's new single, fun part, he'd be in front of you somehow when it all happens and HE WILL record your reaction. He'd love to show the members how red your face got when you heard his song about what he loves about you and your body and how he loves what you do to him. He would be shy and contemplating at first, but then just do it. He would be a little worried if you would be angry but, could you really stay angry at that lovesick bunny of yours? No you couldn't, a hug and a kiss and you'd melt right away.

He could go into heavy details but no he wouldn't he'd just say enough to tease. But, only you and he would know what he meant. This would lead on the two of you getting a lecture from Jin about safe sex and Yoongi would certainly marvel at how their maknae has grown up.

----------------------------------------------------

Other works

When he writes a song about you (xxx)

BTS X Reader

A/n: I'm sad... :((

Namjoon

He would not even tell you what he's been doing. You might just stumble upon the track while he might be playing it in his studio or working on it. He would be as to you found him before he could surprise you. He of course didn't plan to drop the song in the market as he's shy like that. But he was planning to complete the song and then play it just for you and may be the members.

He would really use pure worlds of passion and rap about what and how you make him feel you to guys do fuck. He goes on to praise you and your "abilities". The members would all tease him for being whipped but he'd be proud of it.

Seokjin

He would plan on writing such a song since you both did the thing for the first time but would keep procrastinating it. Until one day he'd finally take at you lying beside him and the lyrics start pouring into his mind on his own. He'd probably be very private about the song and only Yoongi would know as he is his trusted companion in this case. He would send it to you and then wait for you to listen to it and gush about how well written it was or how nice his voice sounds.

Jin would definitely use very sophisticated words along with sugar coated imagery of what you did to him the night when the lyrics came pouring to his mind. He'd be pretty proud of his work but would rather not let the maknaes hear it. Even though they already know and have heard it from Yoongi's studio, Jin doesn't need to know that.

Yoongi

Yoongi was making a collab with an artist who wanted the song to be sensual so he'd think and think hard. It's when the other artist sends him some parts of the lyrics they worked. He'd read them and he could almost feel like he could feel you through those words and he knew what to do. And the words came to him. I bet he'd get quite a boner by the time he finishes the song. However, he won't tell you, it wouldn't be until when the song is being made for the final draft that he'd bring you to the studio and plays the song for you. He'd love how his voice and the words would make you blush.

He would use the most simplest words to describe the sensual moments in an alluring way that you feel like you're lost in the words. He would certainly first take Namjoon and Hoseok's review before letting anybody else listen to it.

Hoseok

The two of you were busy and away from each other since he had a tour and you couldn't even visit him. This would of course lead to a magical night when he returns. But, he is actually so touched by it that he ends up writing by it. He missed you so much and the way he wants you, he'd put all that in his song. He would write about how only you would be able to make him feel that way. About the highs and lows of your "love making" about how much he misses you touches when you're not there.

Hobi would use a mixture of sophisticated words with a tinge of rawness. Every line would show what he feels for you, the strength of his emotions. He would be so excited that he'll video call you and make you listen to the song. Nobody would know about this song but the two of you.

Jimin

Park Jimin can't write lyrics, damn once even Yoongi had flipped on stuff he wrote and said "You call these lyrics?!" So now sitting in his Genius Lab, he was shocked to read the lyrics he was reading that Jimin wrote. Yoongi couldn't help but smirk at the exhibitionist in Jimin that made the imagery quite explicit. Jimin would get really shy when his Yoongi hyung teased him. But he'd be so excited to complete the song. He would surprise you by taking you to an extravagant picnic date where he'd play the song for you.

It's Jimin so the language was probably really explicit to a level Yoongi had to tone it down to make it a little less personal. He'd flaunt the song with pride to the other members, Hoseok would totally joke "Man, Y/n what do you do to him under the sheets?!" And he'd definitely take your permission before dropping it as a single.

Taehyung

It was a joke, making time for each other after a month of a busy schedule, god knows you missed him. He did too and thus he couldn't stop complementing how pretty you looked naked below him, at the heat of the moment you just said "Yeah, why don't you make a song out of it" never did you imagine that he would. You would not know, of course he wouldn't tell you, he'd just compose it and record some part of it and put it on his Instagram stories. Man the Army's going crazy but so are you.

The words would be explicit, to a level where dispatch loses its shit to uncover who he spoke about in the song. And the company would plead the two of you to lay low and not step outside together at all for some time.

Jungkook

He would single handedly compose the song and upload it on SoundCloud. Yes, you would have no clue, until your Twitter would be blown by fans gushing over Jungkook's new single, fun part, he'd be in front of you somehow when it all happens and HE WILL record your reaction. He'd love to show the members how red your face got when you heard his song about what he loves about you and your body and how he loves what you do to him. He would be shy and contemplating at first, but then just do it. He would be a little worried if you would be angry but, could you really stay angry at that lovesick bunny of yours? No you couldn't, a hug and a kiss and you'd melt right away.

He could go into heavy details but no he wouldn't he'd just say enough to tease. But, only you and he would know what he meant. This would lead on the two of you getting a lecture from Jin about safe sex and Yoongi would certainly marvel at how their maknae has grown up.

----------------------------------------------------

Other works

elites: masterpost

Perfection is what people thought of when it comes to the seven elites of Bangtan Royal Academy, but underneath the perfect facade, there is chaos.

The divine, raw chaos not everyone knew of the chaos inside of them, not even between the elites themselves. Granted, they might know each other better than anyone else but only the surfaces and have yet to reach the depth of it. What lies underneath the facade is chaos and you happened to be part of the chaos or worst,

You are the chaos.

Pairing: BTS x OCs (1 story per member; Member x OC)

Genre: Dark romance, high school au (legal ages), enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, friends to enemies, strangers to lovers, strangers to enemies, strangers to friends, angst, fluff, smut

Rating: 18+

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. The description of the BTS members in this story does not reflect nor portray them in real life. Everything in this story only fits in imagination and does not apply outside of imagination.

Masterlist | Navigation

Dedication: To them who my heart desires for this to be dedicated.

Note: The order is subject to change, not in chronological order.

[#1] LOST & FOUND | KTH [M]

COMING SOON.

[#2] DEVIL’S EMPIRE | JJK [M]

COMING SOON.

[#3] HARMONY & MELODY | MYG [M]

COMING SOON.

[#4] DUTY & HONOUR | KSJ [M]

COMING SOON.

[#5] LIES & DECEIT | KNJ [M]

COMING SOON.

[#6] MASK PARADE | JHS [M]

COMING SOON.

[#7] FORGOTTEN MUSE | PJM [M]

COMING SOON.

All rights reserved © 2023 kthyg. Do not copy, translate, modify or repost without permission.

❁ pictures you've taken of your boyfriend, Namjoon

More of the boyfriend pictures series

𐙚 imagine!going on a trip with Namjoon

"If I'm not me..."

KNJ × Female OC

Part 1 & 2

Part 1

"What? Is there something on my face?"

Anrea giggled, her curly hair bouncing with her shoulders as her boyfriend got in her face and wiggled around.

Anrea pushed him away, "Stop it." She smiled.

"But you're staring at me..."

She looked down, "Why do you wear your hats like that? It looks like a chocolate chip." She snorted as she held back her laugh, blushing and covering her mouth.

The couple sat at a train station, waiting for their train, watching the other one roll by.

"Namjoonie?" He looked at her and she couldn't help but smile lovingly. "Where are we going?" She asked.

He smiled back, "Somewhere~" She rolled her eyes playfully. "We've been together for 6 years and you still can't tell me where we are celebrating our anniversary." She shoved him a little. He overreacted and flung his arms, his arms ending up around her.

She giggled some more, his chuckle joining hers as he hugged her.

Would it be wrong to say he fell in love with that sound before he even laid eyes on her?

Part 2

They finally boarded their train and got comfy in their seats that faced each other over a small table. He reached forward and grabbed her hands gently, stroking his thumbs over her knuckles. "I love you so much." She blushed, "I love you too, Namjoonie."

His head turned out the window and she got a flashback to the first time they met in person.

>>

6 years ago Anrea moved to Seoul with her father who was on a business venture.

She was sitting on a park bench, wondering where her life was going at this point.

Her father never cared what she did, she's a few months from graduation and she had enough money saved for an apartment for 4 years…

Her eyes lazily looked over the park.

To the right was a playground, tons of screaming kids running around with their annoyed parents watching.

To the left was an open field where some teenagers and adults played soccer or exercised.

And right in front of her was a-

Soccer ball to the face.

The ball landed in her lap as she held her nose. "Ow ow ow ow ow ow!" She whined, tears leaving her eyes as she kicked her legs in pain, fluttering her uniform skirt.

"OH MY GOD, I'M SO SORRY!"

Her eyes darted around to a boy running in her direction. He had a bruise on his face and tears coming out of his eyes. He tripped and fell face first into her lap, replacing the soccer ball that rolled away.

"NAMJOON AH! STOP BOTHERING THAT GIRL AND GET OUR BALL!"

"YA GET BACK IN PLACE FOR TARGET PRACTICE!"

Some boys snickered and anger bubbled in the woman's chest as she looked down at the frozen boy. "Hey." He jumped and scooted onto his knees. "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry." He bowed between each word. She giggled, still holding her nose and he looked up at her with wide eyes.

"I'm ok, kid. Stop crying."

He sighed, "On the other hand why do you let those boys bully you?" The boy's eyes widened again as he looked down to the left. "I-I'm too scrawny to fight back." She chuckled, "We'll, if they bother you anymore, you can always find me in the library. How old are you, Namjoon?"

She watched him shiver but then looked at her, "F-Fifteen." She chuckled and fluffed his hair. "I'm 17. You go to Seoul High, right?" He nodded, "Ya, then, you can come find me when you need me." She stood up and waved, "Bye Namjoon!" He huffed, "Bye Noona!" He smiled and she smiled back, his dimpled cheeks making her heart squeeze.

>>

"Noona~"

She blinked and looked up at him. "Yes?" He smiled, "You spaced out." She chuckled shyly, "Heh... Oh, I have a question." His attention went back to her from outside. "Back then, were you the one who hit me in the face with the soccer ball?"

Namjoon's neck and ears burned red almost immediately after she spoke. "I- Uh- Yeah..."

She giggled as he looked away bashfully, "I finally got the balls to kick back and I ended up hurting you." She snorted and he huffed, his grip getting loose. "I'm sorry for laughing. I'm not laughing at you, baby." His ears continued to burn red as he turned to her, that nickname being his weakness to get him to cave into anything.

"Noona?"

"Hmm?"

"I was wondering if that when we get to where we're going if we could..." She raised an eyebrow, "We could, what?" Namjoon's blush moved to his cheeks. "Y-You know.." It clicked and she smiled, "Oh! Uh, yeah. I'd like to." Namjoon's blush deepened a shade and she smiled, rubbing his fingers.

This big beefy baby.

The rest of the ride was quiet, the couple admiring the outside as they held hands over the table, Anrea's legs intertwined with his under the table.

For a couple who hasn't done anything sexual over the 6 years they've been together, besides kissing, they love PDA.

But they don't know that they're both hiding secrets.

"If I'm not me..."

KNJ × Female OC

Part 7 & 8

Part 7

*BamBam is the bad guy but I love him so don't come for me*

"Ah~"

She bit her lip again as she began stroking him, the water making him slippery.

"Can we do it here, Noona? Since you can't lay on your back?" She nodded and got on her tippy toes to kiss him. He kissed back feverishly, groaning at the taste of her on his tongue.

When they pulled away, Namjoon slipped his hand between her thighs. She shuddered and bit her lip. "Fuck. I don't know if it's the water or if you're this wet for me." She blushed and whimpered as Namjoon slipped a finger over her clit, making her jolt. "Joon!" She moaned.

He twitched in her hand and pulled away, "Can I taste you, Noona?" She blushed as he turned them away from the strea of water and began to squat down. "Hold onto the wall." She braced herself on the wall and Namjoon squatted down completely, putting her legs on his shoulders.

She gasped as she felt his mouth kiss her heat softly. He left his mouth there before slipping his tongue between her lips. She moaned loudly, one hand slipping into his hair and tugging on it.

He growled and it sent vibrations through her heat, "Namjoon!" She screamed. Namjoon smirked before devouring her more, even slipping his tongue inside her and hearing her yell and call out.

He fell in love with her giggle, but her moans do something entirely different to his wolf.

He knew this was his mate.

Part 8

She pressed her cheek to the tile wall, gooseflesh erupting across her skin as Namjoon pressed against her backside, his erection rubbing against her cheeks.

"Namjoon, please put it in."

Namjoon hummed and reached down, angling himself as he pulled her to his chest, wanting to see her face as he pushed inside her.

She gasped loudly, digging her nails into the tile before making fists. Namjoon stretched her out as he pushed in, "H- uh- How much do you have to push in?" Namjoon chuckled. "Just a bit more, we can wait for you to adjust." She shuddered as he was reaching way past her g spot even now.

"Fuck!" She shouted as Namjoon pushed in suddenly. Namjoon apologized but she shook her head and pulled away from him, her hand on the wall as she began to work her spine, sliding on and off of Namjoon's length. "Oh, fuck. Noona~"

He looked down and saw a bit of blood, "Are you okay?" She nodded, "J-Just my first time, it's normal." Namjoon blinked and grabbed her by her stomach, holding her close as he backed up under the stream of water, washing the blood away.

"Thank you." She said, pulling off and walking back toward the wall, putting her back to it. "I wanna see your face." She whispered as she picked up her leg.

Namjoon grabbed her thigh gently and angled himself, sliding in before grabbing her other leg and making her wrap around him. She gasped at the new angle as it really hit her g spot. "Joon~" She moaned in his ear as he sped up his thrusts. "Noona!" He moaned, them staring at each other with hooded lustful eyes and bated breath.

"Fuck! Joonie, you're so deep!" She whined, music to Namjoon's ears. Her whining turned to whimpering and she reached for his shoulders. He leaned closer and she wrapped around him, "I love you so much. This feels so good Joonie. Ah, oh my god." Her calls were like a chorus from heaven.

"I'm gonna cum, Joon. Go faster." Namjoon's thrusts sped up and she clawed up his back, drawing blood and making his wolf howl internally. "Ah! Namjoon!" She tightened her legs around him, her nails taking their final drag up his back as she shivered against his body, his erection still inside.

As her walls tightened he continued to rock slowly, "Noona, Noona I'm close." He whined. She gasped as his thrusts picked up again, sliding faster with more ease from her climax. "Hurry, cum in me, alpha." Namjoon growled and slammed her hips down on him, his knot slipping inside.

She screamed and clawed his back, "Holy fuck!" Namjoon held her close as she felt him release inside her. She looked down and gasped as her stomach stretched at the amount of cum filling her.

"Namjoon! What's all the screaming?"

Namjoon jumped, causing a moan to leave Anrea's mouth.

"Mating!" He quickly yelled back, the person on the other side of the door bit their lips before swiftly leaving with tears in their eyes.

"Why is it still in there?" Anrea whimpered. Namjoon grunted as he finally stopped cumming. "I- I didn't think this could happen. I knotted you. The books say it's impossible to knot humans." He looked into her eyes, tears in his. "Baby," She asked, cupping his cheek.

"Why are you crying?" Namjoon sniffled, "Knotting gives you a 100% chance of carrying, the knot stays like this for a while. You'll have my cum in you for anywhere between 15 minutes to several hours."

Anrea smiled and rubbed the tears from his face, "Good. This is all I've ever wanted: Kids. And now they'll be even more special." She said, kissing him deeply.

Namjoon rinsed them before leaving the shower and slipping into the tub, running warm water until his knot constricts.

The Han Family: Kim Namjoon

Trope: s2l.

Oc Information: [The name will be used in the parts where another couple is discussed to avoid confusion.]

Han Sooah.

29 yo.

10/30

1.69 cm

Wife of Mr. Han's younger brother, Han Seunghyun.

Context: You married Seunghyun when you were just 20 years old, and no, it wasn't for love, it was for business. He was many years older than you, but you couldn't say no to him when he had practically bought your family.

He wasn't a bad person, he was very permissive, he let you go out whenever you wanted, let you eat whatever you wanted, let you spend money on whatever you wanted, no matter the price. He was the perfect husband, or so your friends said.

For you he was... difficult. You tried to be a good wife, but you couldn't do it when he was so cold to you. You barely saw him at night when he came home, you tried to have dinner with him, but he always went straight to his bedroom, you even thought about giving him signs that you didn't mind having sex with him, but he always pretended to sleep when you tried to make him understand.

Every day by his side was just another day where you were sinking into a deep depression that you didn't even notice was there. It wasn't until Namjoon came along, with his painful and revealing questions, that you began to question how you felt and what you wanted to do with your life.

And your husband was no longer part of those plans.

Kim Seokjin

Min Yoongi

Jung Hoseok

Kim Namjoon

Park Jimin

Kim Taehyung

Jeon Jungkook

Massiel | She/Her | Chilean 🇨🇱 | INFP | Future architecture | Fan of Rom-coms and Fake Marriage 💕 | Gemini | Swiftie & Army | In Love with Kim Taehyung 💜.

I try to post as often as I can, from time to time I reblog some fanfics that, at least for me, are beautiful. I hope you can feel comfortable here 💕.

Requests are always open unless otherwise stated in my bio. I ask you to read all the conditions and respect them, please 🫂.

You can enter my masterlist here. I will only write about the persons that appear there, mainly because they are the ones I connect with the most, I hope you can understand me ❤️.

you can join my taglist through this link ^^

I didn't put it because I didn't know where to put it, but I accept reactions requests too 👍.

Who I write about:

Jin

Yoongi

Hoseok

Namjoon

Jimin

Taehyung

Jungkook

I will receive request if:

The request is made with respect.

They are angst, fluff, smut, I'm pretty flexible on the subject.

Request comes with detailed/specific description.

I will not receive request if:

The request has Daddy Kink, Non-con, freeuse, BDSM, or any mistreatment of the character to the reader.

Pairings between members.

The request was against a community, there may be slight mentions in the shot, but never any kind of disrespect that could hurt someone.

Links:

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7

Who I write about:

Jin

Yoongi

Hoseok

Namjoon

Jimin

Taehyung

Jungkook

I will receive request if:

The request is made with respect.

They are angst, fluff, smut, I'm pretty flexible on the subject.

Request comes with detailed/specific description.

I will not receive request if:

The request has Daddy Kink, Non-con, freeuse, BDSM, or any mistreatment of the character to the reader.

Pairings between members.

The request was against a community, there may be slight mentions in the shot, but never any kind of disrespect that could hurt someone.

Links:

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7

The Han Family: Kim Namjoon

Trope: s2l.

Oc Information: [The name will be used in the parts where another couple is discussed to avoid confusion.]

Han Sooah.

29 yo.

10/30

1.69 cm

Wife of Mr. Han's younger brother, Han Seunghyun.

Context: You married Seunghyun when you were just 20 years old, and no, it wasn't for love, it was for business. He was many years older than you, but you couldn't say no to him when he had practically bought your family.

He wasn't a bad person, he was very permissive, he let you go out whenever you wanted, let you eat whatever you wanted, let you spend money on whatever you wanted, no matter the price. He was the perfect husband, or so your friends said.

For you he was... difficult. You tried to be a good wife, but you couldn't do it when he was so cold to you. You barely saw him at night when he came home, you tried to have dinner with him, but he always went straight to his bedroom, you even thought about giving him signs that you didn't mind having sex with him, but he always pretended to sleep when you tried to make him understand.

Every day by his side was just another day where you were sinking into a deep depression that you didn't even notice was there. It wasn't until Namjoon came along, with his painful and revealing questions, that you began to question how you felt and what you wanted to do with your life.

And your husband was no longer part of those plans.

Now I have taglist! :)

Massiel | She/Her | Chilean 🇨🇱 | INFP | Future architecture | Fan of Rom-coms and Fake Marriage 💕 | Gemini | Swiftie & Army | In Love with Kim Taehyung 💜.

I try to post as often as I can, from time to time I reblog some fanfics that, at least for me, are beautiful. I hope you can feel comfortable here 💕.

Requests are always open unless otherwise stated in my bio. I ask you to read all the conditions and respect them, please 🫂.

You can enter my masterlist here. I will only write about the persons that appear there, mainly because they are the ones I connect with the most, I hope you can understand me ❤️.

you can join my taglist through this link ^^