Rkivian - Tumblr Posts

Happy Valentine’s Day, lovely Catie ❤️❤️❤️

happy valentines day to you too, kiri 💗 i hope this day treated you right & you’re enjoying it! i wish you as well a wonderful week ahead 💗

scent of eager suds ⏤ knj (m)

pairing: husband namjoon x fem!reader

genre/au/rating: 18+, smut, angst, pwp, some fluff

summary: you missed each other, too fucking much. but your head had stayed down in futile hopes of remaining stubborn, forgetting that there is a wedding ring on that tricksy little finger of his for a reason.

warnings: swearing, angst, couples fighting, mixed feelings, explicit sexual content, oral (f. receiving), hair pulling, angry sex, shower sex, unprotected sex (can't go wrong if you shield your dong!), breath play, nipple play, yeah it's basically just porn with feelings

word count: 3.7k

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: she's back y'all!!! just with a few tweaks, alterations and additions ⏤ like this new banner!!!! i kinda wanted to give it a whole new vibe hehe. another thank you to my beta @magicshopaholic, and my brainstormers @taetaesbaebaepsae and @hobateas! hope y'all enjoy!

❥ masterlist.

...

If anyone else was to describe it, lifelessness was the prime impression. There’s nothing else that one could possibly gather from your fairly cryptic manner; no words had fallen from your lips to aid the hypothesis.

You’re always so annoyingly adept at your motives. But somehow, there was still one - and only one - living soul that held the mindly means to figure this shit out. To figure you out. He would spend a considerably scant amount of time on such a task, yet fulfil it so thoroughly that the constant aching between your legs seemed more equitable than you would like it to be.     

He’d recognized it through the minute rising of your chest as if it were obvious. He’d recognized it in the concerningly restive footsteps to your shared bedroom. He’d recognized it in the amusingly shrewd vibrations of your voice box that he’d supposed were to display your deadly level of vexation. Even the fresh, new callousness of your hands had been sensed, the ground being much more than the wrathful nails pressed against your palms in a fist - a skillful maintenance of your bitterness. 

You’d hoped to be a mystery. You’d hoped to seem as composed as you believe yourself to be. But truth be told, you were utterly feeble in your means to conceal it; almost in a way that should have you cowering in humiliation. From careless hands inertly twisting your braids into a bun to your unrelaxed journey to the bathroom; cards were laid out. You fucking knew it. 

What lies beyond sustaining his oh so honorable hand as your lover - your spouse, or partner in crime as some might call it - is absolutely no reason he should know you this well. The wonders, the mysteries… the frailties of your being weren’t just on the back of his skillful hand, but were studied, revised and crammed tirelessly by means of writing on every wall he turned to. 

Fuck him, a cunning conscience with devil horns would whisper every two seconds to your delicate soul. Fuck his criminal wit. Fuck his willingness. Fuck those audacious, plump lips against your neck and his wispy “I missed you.” Fuck his free hand for its knowlege of the riddling workings of your body; sliding up your soft inner-thigh in dissonance with the tiny warm droplets. 

But most of all, fuck you. 

Fuck you for your sweet sighs of compliance. Fuck you for leaning back against his chest and serving absolute fuck-all to simmer his smauldering pride. Fuck you for carelessly rivaling your better judgment. 

Fuck you. The one message that he’d received throughout the noise of your mindly cursing… because Lord, was he just too damn good at fucking you. 

“Still don’t wanna talk to me?” His hand makes a bold move towards your aching cunt, leisurely and patient. Perversity had won the part as your middle name, commiserating you with honeyed whispers, convincing you that maybe, just maybe, the steamy torrent before you was well in outwitting the gears of your autonomy. The heat, the profuse clan of droplets crashing boorishly on your skin and on the shower floor, the wispy tendrils of steam, the cruel rashes of pleasure. Your instincts were hampered from the prospect of pushing him away. It wasn’t you. 

Your breathy shudders were back at failing you, alas, and giving a fuck was thoroughly out of the question. His finger proceeds, light rubs against your clit abettering the drift of his persistence, “Tell me, baby. Are you ready to push me away like you always do?  Like you say I always do?”

“Joon…” You drag, lulled by the whispery milieu of the water, whilst afire by the skill of his fingers. You were beyond certain you’d heard a chuckle, a song of timeliness as per what you’d call it; a fair response to what was supposed to be a lesson learned. 

“Baby,” he murmurs against your neck once more, whilst long, beautiful fingers in a pair begin their jaunt to fuck you before his cock does. “I missed you. I missed you so fucking much and all you need is for me to prove it to you.” 

Your gasp might’ve said something, but you’d basked in it for only an appropriate instant. His fingers, slyly slipping between your folds hadn’t done much for your lively ire. They had, however, certainly succeeded in peeving you further. 

You wanted more. You needed more. 

“We both know that this isn’t enough to prove it. ” You managed to breathe out.

Kisses on your neck cease, and fingers retract from what was the miry wetness of your pussy, certainly ready for more than just a round of listlessly apologetic fingering. 

“Then what is?” He slyly murmurs. 

Damn you for having retained the valor to communicate thoroughly. Spinning around to face him (which was, by apt means, quite difficult), you gift your husband with a bold move of your own, bringing a hand up to grip tightly at the nape of his neck and shorten the distance between your burning faces. A piece of your mind was the treasured cargo. 

“I don’t know how long you’d hoped to play dumb with me, but it ends now. You know what I want.” You hiss through gritted teeth.

The deep and tyrannous buzz of your chest had barely succeeded in vanquishing the serene chaos of the atmosphere. In some obscure way, you felt like it mattered despite his fitting proximity to your lips. Hearing words could only do so much. It isn’t enough until his eardrums are damn near dissipated from your vague desires. 

But there’s no need. Hushed demands are sweet in entertaining his specialty as, afterall, he is your husband.

“Always so bossy.” He tuts. Though, he does all but support the remark. 

You’re moving backwards at his accord, coming in contact with the too-near dead end. You wind up grimacing softly at the rabid coldness of the wall against your shoulder blades and ass, instinctively deterred from the warmth of the recurring downpour. But all is effortlessly shirked once the stirring sensation of his cock against your thigh makes its rise. You feel so hot again, a manic arousal putting zero effort into making your head spin. The strengthening masses of steam would have to try harder. 

Just about sick and fucking tired, you pull him in to kiss you, hard, bringing vengeful tongues and teeth to clash against one another in zeal. With a nip of his teeth and swipe of his tongue on your bottom lip, perhaps a good start in replacing the venomous tidings of each other’s disagreements was put in place  A divine pair of hands is making ravenous journeys across the spacious sweeps of your melanated skin, helped by slippery suds that all but succeeded in concealing the scent of your unending keenness. 

“For what it’s worth,” he mutters, breaking the kiss, “I do know what you want. I always know what you want, and I’m always willing to give you what you want.” 

You’re fucked up. Manic. Aching. And your husband is having too much fun with you.

But one last peck against your lips is where it officially begins. 

He continues down your neck once more, whilst this time, your breasts are caught in the arrest of his hands, squeezing and thumbing across the supple skin of your nipples every now and then. 

It happened too quickly, too far from the likes of your expectations. As if only a nip at your collarbone later, his thumb is benevolently replaced by the eager muscle of his tongue, circling vigorously like his life depends on it… which, in this particular respect, it does. 

“Fuck, Joon.” You heave, almost whimpering, back arching in a deliverance of access. A pair of plump lips wrapping around the erect nub was your response.

He then does the same with your left tit, licking, lapping, sucking, skillfully relishing the flavor of your skin as if it were his last. Your hands had conceded defeat and befriended the burning itch to touch him once again. You bring them up for your fingers to card through the doused tresses of his grey hair, which he’d been making points to trim every so often.

 You sensed an obscure motive behind it. He need not explain a damn thing, he’d probably say if you asked him about it. But the echoes of your casual “you look so much better with short hair” had made its homecoming. His beautiful cheeks would betray him in your honor, alluding with a pink hue at every vibration. You missed it, and you’re sure he missed it too. 

The same could be said about the recurring shifts in his physique. Although you’ve come to appreciate it more than dwell on the intricacy.

“Oh my God,” you moan as he releases your nipple with a final pop to placidly continue with open mouthed kisses down the valley of your chest, your stomach, then down to your pelvis. The feat had become less farfetched than thought to be. But still, it was about fucking time. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs once more, for what seemed like the umpteenth time to you. But it’s impossible to say that you didn’t appreciate it. 

As you basked in the sight of him knelt down before you in diligence, what you did say was, “You said you were gonna prove it to me. So prove it to me.” 

An index finger making its way back to your throbbing pussy, stroking in between your folds and up your slit to gather the flavourful mess of your arousal, serves the power of his cheeky rejoinder. “As you wish.” He murmurs before wontonly sucking on that fucking finger. 

A bullet was wisely dodged. Dissipating the chance of a thorough scolding for him to just fucking get on with it, he wastes absolutely no time. 

Senses fleeting, mouth forming an ‘o’ and hips arduously urged to buck against the art of his mouth and tongue, you free a series of curses as if it were a play for the casual streetwalker outside your house. One thing for sure is that the neighbors were pissed. Loafing folk sat in what was supposed to be the comfort of their homes in fumes, having attained the gall to complain if it weren’t for knowing of the obvious circumstance. 

If it weren’t for the sound of your husband’s name bouncing off your tongue in a notably pornograhpic lilt, the neighbors would’ve said something. And you’re aware of 

The strong, wet muscle zealously wiggles on your bundle of nerves before it is engulfed within the warmth of his mouth for him to suck softly. Your husband was finally fucking home. 

“Fuck, so good, Namjoon. Always s-so fucking good with your mouth.” Along with your words, the grip on his hair meliorates in palpable praise, earning you the pulsation of a deep hum sauntering amongst the nerves of your throbbing pussy. 

One last nip at your clit foregoes his hushed and mellow response, right before he eyes your zestful form through lidded, dragon-like irises. “So sweet.” he murmurs. “Sweet as always.”

He wastes not an ounce of time before diving in between your thighs again. 

Knees lose a few tinges of functionality at the momentous feel of his tongue parting your folds.  His hands dance up and down the stage of your lower body, caressing the small of your back before landing on the bounteous flesh of your hips to squeeze and detain you taut as he devours the absolute fuck out of you. Loud cries ensue in simple accordance. 

A thunderous call from reality was in your heavy braids having rebelliously twisted out of their bun to fall back onto the expanse of your shoulders and back, carelessly falling victim to the wrath of the downpour. You should be irritated. But his tongue, fucking you ever so sterningly, had garanteed failure to give a fuck about anything opposing the likes of his amazing apology. 

“Mmh- o-oh my… fuck!” More whimpers slip out in reverence as his head shakes vigorously from side to side, his nose rubbing against your clit before it is shortly replaced by his tongue again. He soothes the agonizing emptiness of your entrance with his long fingers; scissoring, curling, prodding sweetly at that spot that had, for too long, begged to be touched. 

He could only keep this up for so long. There’s only so many praising mewls you could set about as he laps at your clit, as he works his digits to what he would know to be your principle. His fingers fucked you so good, but not good enough to make your forget whatever else you had craved throughout the course of this dumb fucking stress-train. 

“Joon.”

The benevolent moil of his fingers ends as he returns to fucking you with his tongue again.

“Namjoon, please.”

Continually, his mouth shifts back and forth from your entrance to your still throbbing clit; licking, sucking and biting ever so softly. At decent levels you were certain that his neck was tired. 

“Namjoon! Namjoon, please,” you heave desperately,  “fuck me. Fuck me now. I need you to fuck me right now.” 

The unremitting sounds of the pouring atmosphere stood not a chance against your grippingly melodious pleas. He heard you, loud and crystal fucking clear. The treasurable element that many would identify to be control had blindly resided within his procurity. 

You weren’t going to let him have it for long. 

“Namjoon!” You mewl with absolute finality. Having devised the mastery from his hair still intertwined between your fingers, you harshly pull his head back for him to look up at you. “Quit playing games and fuck me!”

“Patience, baby. There’s time.” He, once again, proceeds in ways that effortlessly contradict the dulcet tone of his rules. Kisses already take small treads back up to your pelvis, then to your stomach. “I need you to be patient with me. I need you to lay low and let me fix things.”  He is soon up on his feet, his lips traveling towards the now acquaintable stop between your breasts. He lingers to plant a few more kisses on the spot, then slowly moves up to your neck as he murmurs, “I can make you feel so good. But only if you let me. Just trust me for once.” 

“Namjoon,” a sigh escapes your lips as you aid his treatment to your neck, leaning back and giving him access. 

“Just let me…” he stops to suck at the advantageously delicate skin before he’d then made it to your lips. “ …make things right.”

His lips were well guarded within the intention of connecting with yours, steeling you for what is soon to come. His hands were gentle too, having found purchase on the space of your hips and being so dexterous to the touch whilst his intentions were anything but. 

Your hands grip tightly at his broad shoulders, hopes instinctively goaded by his cock conveniently rubbing against your thigh again. You thought of it to be the final tease before he adheres to your lusty inclinations. But it is only after the heat of a “Turn around,” is softly blown against the flesh of your treated lips that he does what he’s raucously told. 

You do so without question, facing the wall in anticipation. 

Though (with arrant difficulty) you’re inwardly vowing to be obedient, your form misplaces all pretense of control. It is especially to the songy squelches behind you directly disclosing the act of your husband stroking his cock; your hands are against the wall as you’re moving your hips backwards to brush up against him. You’re fortunate that he responds with some form of enthusiasm, which is closing the distance between your eager bodies and lining himself up with your dripping entrance. 

The contact induces another knotty spate of desperate whimpers, which he obediently acknowledges, sinking into you with utmost precision. “Oh, f-fuck!” 

“Shh, you’re okay. You’re okay, baby.” 

The soothing response to your sonorous gasp was hushed and ever so demure, a stark polarity to the harsh grip of his winsomely big hands now on both of your breasts, squeezing like stress balls. 

“Namjoon,” you call out once more, “Namjoon! Fuck me. Please… fuck me.” 

The need for those words had successfully reached its coming of age; even posing as an anagram had been deducted as an option. You’ll never have to say them again. 

He begins to move, steady thrusts gradually progressing into a speedier rhythm. His grunts, as well as your whimpers, had joined in with the feat of increasing in a higher measure.

 “Baby,” It was his turn to silently twine a series of praises as you, in return, release a reverberant string of salacious cries for the neighbors to hear and possibly enjoy. “You look so beautiful like this. You always look so beautiful like this, taking me so well.” 

Your hips are once again a landing spot for his hands. You bring your hand down as well, letting it rest upon one of his as he fucks into your pussy with an unsparing velocity. 

The vibrancy was beyond sinful. The warm water continues to strike the lustily responsive flooring as his hips rival the noise with jarring contact against your ass. Each cry made up for a snarl, each word of praise made up for a cold shoulder, each thrust made up for a petty form of dismissal.

 He finds it within himself to slow down, the only unchanging fruit being the brunt in which his skin slams against yours. “I missed you, I missed the way you feel. Baby, tell me how good it feels.” He goads. 

“Oh, baby,” It had been your turn to sing the term of endearment. An urge to finally say “I missed you too” was frighteningly near, but remained still… in your favor, really. It seemed like your tongue’s desire to untangle was only in support of praising his touch; praising the way he felt inside of you, praising the clench of your walls around his length or the nudge of his tip against your dear sweet spot. “So good! So f-fucking good,” you mewl. “Please… please make me come.”

 But you’re empty again, pussy clenching around vain flecks of air. The incompleteness brought waves of confusion. Rhythmic pumps of irritation. A need to spew pleas that was soon held off by the gentle contact of his hand on the front of your neck. Your hand that was once atop his had made its way back against the wall.

It is when his grip gradually strengthens do you meet his return to fucking you senseless. Your sounds travel at staggering heights of volume amongst the echoey air. “Oh- Oh- fuck!” You scream. It encourages him. 

Groans, grunts and a final round of “Oh baby”s against your ear had made its endmost cut. A knot in your stomach signals an approach to orgasm. You were close. “Fuck, Joon… I’m gonna-” 

He doesn’t respond. Not with his familiar breathing of “Come for me” or anything else of the sort. No. He speeds up, in pursuit of something much, much more than a customary finish. A compromise. A refitted amity. Hopes had desperately arised from your moans. Hopes of an “I love you” reattaining its fittedness. It’s exactly what he murmurs against the shell of your ear as you reach your high, cumming with ear-cricking wails that do nothing but praise his laborious efforts. 

The jets and quells of warm liquid inside of you incline a decrease in the speed of his thrusts, which eventually turns into a steady stop once light sobs from overstimulation make their way into the cleft of echoes. 

“You’re okay,” he repeats against your neck. “You’re okay.”

Heavy breaths, weak knees,  and a space freighted with teeming clouds of steam. From the very moment that he’d pulled his cock out, that’s all he could’ve left it to be. You were slightly stunned, for a reason that wasn’t identifiable. 

Your loofah remains lifeless, devoid of its purpose with fluffy white froth sticking languidly out of its miniscule gaps. You were about to pick it up, mind unmoved from the strident feel of cum dripping down your inner thighs, to resume the sorrowful bout of washing away the sense of need that your husband could only do so much to vanquish. 

“Hey, relax.” 

You were still facing the wall. You weren’t making eye-contact. You weren’t going to. And you knew that he knew. But his feet were resolutely taut upon the shower floor. They reeked of intention. It seemed like he wasn’t done. 

It was still foreign to you, the slight suction between your back and his upper body that soon vacates as he bends down to retract the loofah. He’s up straight again.  “Can I?”

Yes please, the words had begged to be the ones to make ties with his mellow request, but all you managed to bring out was a hesitant “Sure.”

He proceeds enthusiastically, nonetheless. 

“I am, however, still waiting for you to…” he begins as he sweetly drags the contraption down the trail of your back, “rank the irrefutability of my proof.” 

Be it your weak knees or your opulent bathroom’s restored comfort, you suddenly feel that there’s no point in arguing the prowess of his sex skills. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll find the time to praise him with more words. 

Within the beat that you remain silent, your eyes instinctively follow his hand trailing towards the swell of your breasts, making it difficult to not stare. Studying the garish shine of soap down the smooth canvas of your melanin, and its corrivalry with the single shimmer of your husband’s wedding ring… was artful. Artistic. Just like him. Just like you always thought he was. 

It gave you time too; time to realize that all this was you. If only your pride allowed it, an immersive rewind to the oh so salacious removal of your dress and heels after what Namjoon had made out to be a stern “don’t talk to me” could teach you something. 

But despite it all, and you being greatly incapable of turning an inquisitive mind away from what was the flavorus scent of eager suds… control was a factor that you would do everything in your power to make yours. And yours only. 

“We’ll see, Joon.” You reply softly.