—beyond the series: matters of the heart in the mafia
—author's note • the don and madam had quite the love story and honestly, if i was good at writing villains—inherently cruel characters falling in love, trust me i would write their love story as a separate fic starring namjoon and nari again (who knows maybe one fine day i will). but for now, let me tell you what happens with them!
—what is the story of don kim and madam kim?
Everyone knew the story of Don Kim Joonhyung and Madam Lee Seoyun.
It was told at countless weddings, whispered to reluctant brides and stubborn grooms, and cited by Bangtan elders whenever the younger generation dared to complain about political arrangements—If Don Kim and Madam Kim could fall in love, then there is hope for the rest of you.
What the elders conveniently omitted was just how ugly the story began.
Long before he became the legendary Don revered across the peninsula, Kim Joonhyung was known by a single word: monster. Cold, violent, and utterly decisive, he was a man who solved problems with bloodshed and commanded loyalty solely through terror. Even his own father believed there was no soul left behind his eldest son's dark eyes.
Hundreds of kilometres from Seoul, at the southern edge of the coast, lived a young woman, Lee Seoyun who despised everything the Bangtan name represented. She was the educated daughter of a humble fishing family—a woman the local village trusted implicitly. Intelligence, unwavering influence, and most dangerously, a complete absence of fear made her a force of nature.
When Bangtan’s collectors falsely accused her family of an astronomical debt, she refused to bow. When they vandalized homes and beat her neighbours, she documented every crime. When they pushed too far, she laid a brilliant trap, turning the local authorities against them and landing several Bangtan lieutenants and Joonhyung himself in prison before they knew what had hit them.
News of the fearless coastal woman travelled north like wildfire, eventually reaching Don Kim Seungho. Intrigued, the aging Don travelled south himself, expecting a terrified peasant pleading for her life. Instead, he found a young woman standing amid the rubble of her ruined home, her shoulders squared and eyes blazing.
“You call yourselves men?” she spat, her voice ringing out in the coastal chill. “You're nothing but cowards hiding behind expensive suits. They say Bangtan protects Korea, but from where I'm standing, you're the disease.”
Guards drew their weapons instantly. She didn't so much as blink. Don Seungho stared at her in stunned silence. Not merely because of her fierce beauty, but because she possessed the very qualities his heir lacked: conviction, compassion, and a heart brave enough to look a monster in the eye and name it for what it was.
That very day, the Don offered a bargain. Her family’s debt would be erased (he erased the whole village’s debts to appease her), the village compensated, and the corrupt collectors were punished. In return, she would marry his only son. She refused and refused repeatedly. She fought until refusal meant the destruction of everyone she loved. Left with no choice, she walked down the aisle despising the man waiting at the altar. The union began precisely as expected: disastrously.
Their wedding night quickly passed into Bangtan lore. As the story goes, the new Madam looked her formidable husband dead in the eye and delivered a calm, sharp ultimatum—If you step anywhere near me, I will pickle your manhood and hang it outside for the crows.
Senior capos later swore they had never seen Joonhyung retreat from a threat so fast. In truth, he was simply uninterested. He had never sought the marriage, women were never difficult to find, and he saw no reason to force himself upon a wife who looked at him like filth.
So, they lived as strangers under one roof—sharing a surname, a home, and meals, but nothing more.
Every interaction was a battlefield. She condemned the syndicate's brutality; he mocked her stubborn idealism, neither yielded. Yet, over months of relentless friction, an unwritten code emerged. Rules turned into routines, and routines eventually hardened into mutual respect. She was the only person in the world who dared to tell the feared heir he was wrong. Everyone else trembled; she simply glared. Joonhyung found it infuriating. Then, inexplicably, refreshing and extremely attractive.
Everything shifted well past midnight when Joonhyung returned to the estate with a tiny, shivering bundle concealed within his heavy overcoat. He looked terrified—an expression his wife had never seen on his face. Without a word, he placed the feverish infant into her arms.
“She needs help,” was all he managed to say.
The baby girl was the daughter of a woman who had begged Capo Shim to acknowledge his child. The capo had his men sexually assault and then beaten the woman to death for her persistence and promised the infant would share her mother's grim fate. Joonhyung had arrived too late to save the mother, but he refused to leave the child behind.
Madam Kim spent the night fighting the fever with cool cloths, medicine, and quiet lullabies. For the first time, she looked up to see her ruthless husband sitting silently beside her, awkwardly trying to rock the cradle whenever her hands grew tired.
He wasn't afraid of the child crying. He was terrified because he had no idea how to hold something so fragile without breaking it. A genuine laugh escaped her—the first he had ever heard from her lips. She reached out, gently adjusting his rigid arms.
“Like this,” she murmured softly.
That singular moment broke the ice between them.
The baby, named Saera, brought warmth into a house built on silence. They became partners before they became lovers, parents before they became husband and wife. Joonhyung found himself returning to the estate early; she began waiting for him at dinner. He listened when she spoke of justice, and she learned the heavy burdens only a leader carried. The monster didn't vanish—he softened. Not because she forced him to change, but because she reminded him of the man, he was capable of being.
Years later, they welcomed their biological children, Namjoon and Jangmi. Yet everyone knew the truth: Saera was their firstborn, bound to them not by blood, but by fate. She was the bridge that transformed a loveless political arrangement into a genuine bond.
Yet, Don Kim Joonhyung never became a gentle man. To the outside world, he remained a nightmare. Traitors vanished, enemies were crushed without hesitation, and his name was uttered in hushed, fearful tones across the underworld. But a hidden flaw had taken root within him.
After Saera, whenever word reached him of a child caught in the crossfire of the underworld—an orphan left behind by a feud, a boy beaten by ruthless handlers, a girl discarded by the syndicate—he found himself unable to walk away. He never admitted it. Instead, he would simply walk through the estate doors with another timid child trailing in his wake.
“You've done it again.” Madam Kim would pinch the bridge of her nose and sigh.
“They had nowhere else to go,” he would reply, deliberately avoiding her gaze. “They needed some place to stay,”
“And that place is always our house?”
“...Yes.” She always feigned annoyance, but she never turned a single child away. She cleaned their wounds, cooked warm meals, taught them to read, and held them through their nightmares. One child became three. Three became five. Eventually, the heavily guarded Kim estate ceased to look like a mafia fortress and began to resemble a sanctuary. The underworld assumed these children were being trained as Bangtan's future Elite. The family simply knew them as their children.
While every child taken in by the Kim family found safety and a home behind the estate gates, their paths forward were entirely their own. When they came of age, two doors stood open to them: step into the ordinary world as civilians—becoming doctors, teachers, artists, or shopkeepers—or remain within the shadows of the syndicate. Both paths were honoured without prejudice, though it was an open secret that Madam Kim’s heart lightened whenever a child chose a quiet, ordinary life far away from the blood and politics of Bangtan.
Yet, among those who chose to stay, seven orphans stood apart: Youngho, Jin, Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin, V, and Jungkook. Bound together by shared hardship and raised under Madam Kim’s fierce, maternal care, they formed an unyielding brotherhood. They gravitated toward her warmth, yet carried the discipline and sheer force of will be needed to navigate the underworld's deadliest ranks. Working relentlessly to prove their worth, they clawed their way into the highest circles of the syndicate to become the Elite.
To the outside world, they were Bangtan's most lethal commanders. But within the estate, they were sons and brothers—unwavering in their loyalty to Don Joonhyung and Namjoon, bound to the family not by blood, but by a debt of heart that could never be broken.
It became an unspoken tradition. Whenever the Don returned unexpectedly, the guards would check behind him and groan, “Another one?” The housekeepers would prepare another room, and Saera would be the first to run to the frightened newcomer with a welcoming smile, knowing better than anyone what it meant to be chosen.
By the time Joonhyung and his Madam grew old, the lines of blood had blurred entirely.
The man who built one of the peninsula's most formidable criminal empires had inadvertently become a refuge for every child the world had abandoned. Namjoon inherited his father’s absolute authority alongside his mother’s fierce compassion, carrying forward a dynasty built not on fear, but on an unbreakable foundation of chosen family. The Don had conquered territories and broken armies. Yet the only person who ever truly defeated him was a stubborn woman from a fishing village who had looked him in the eye, refused to be afraid, and taught a monster how to build a home and become the father of every child the world had abandoned.
—chapter six • entwined: in the quiet of the night, love finds its voice
—genre • mafia au × arranged marriage au × strangers to lovers au × best friend’s brother au ( angst × romance × smut )
—series masterlist • matters of the heart in the mafia
—story masterlist • the lily of bangtan
—previous chapter • chapter five
—rating • mature-rated
—wordcount • 15.5 k
—warnings • mature and explicit sexual content. consummation of an arranged marriage. wedding night themes. first-time inexperience. sexual anxiety and nervousness. societal pressure to consummate marriage. dubious consent and coercive circumstances due to cultural traditions and family expectations. virginity testing and sheet ceremony. mention of blood. arranged marriage. forced and controlled dynamics. forced proximity. mafia dynamics. power imbalance. toxic and unhealthy relationships. emotional neglect. emotional distress and discomfort. slow burn. misogyny. objectification of women. sexist and degrading language. alcohol consumption. strong language and cursing. dark romance elements
—author's forenote • i came to a rather disheartening realization while writing this chapter. i'm apparently very good at reading smut. writing it? not so much. i rewrote this tiny scene more times than i care to admit, stared at my screen for hours, questioned every sentence, deleted half of them, rewrote them again, held back from posting them on a decided time in hopes i will become an erotica expert overnight and eventually accepted that i was driving myself slightly insane. so, dear readers, i surrender. this is the version you're getting. if it's good, i'll happily take the compliment. if it's awkward, let's collectively pretend it's because these two are bad at sex. either way, i'm done fighting this chapter. i'm setting it free so i can finally move on to the rest of the story—which, if you've seen the outline, gets infinitely more chaotic from here. thank you for sticking with me through my attempts at writing bedroom scenes. now, let's continue the story.
—chapter summary • the wedding is over, but the hardest part is just beginning. left alone under the weight of tradition and expectation, you and namjoon must face a night neither of you can avoid—where duty, tension, and unspoken emotions blur into something far more complicated. by morning, everything has changed.
The drive to the estate is stifling.
Namjoon’s hand remains wrapped around yours, warm and firm, though his attention is elsewhere; fixed on the dark blur of the city slipping past the tinted window. He hasn’t looked at you in several minutes.
Your fingers tremble slightly in his grasp. You can’t tell if it’s from the cool air circulating through the limousine or from the quiet dread curling in your stomach. The thought of the next few hours sits heavy on your chest. You turn toward the window, trying to focus on the passing lights, but the anticipation makes everything outside look distant and unfocused.
“Are you cold?” Namjoon finally turns his head. His gaze drops to your joined hands, thumb pressing lightly against your knuckles as he notices the tremor.
“You’re shaking,” he says, voice thoughtful, almost clinical.
“I’m okay,” you reply quickly, letting out a slow breath. “Just nerves.” He studies you for another moment before tilting his head slightly.
“I didn’t realize the idea of sex with me was terrifying enough to make Baek Nari tremble.”
You roll your eyes immediately. “It’s not sex with you,” you correct, turning to face him properly. “It’s sex in general.” Your words come out faster now, nerves loosening your tongue. “This is my first time, you know. And I’m just expected to be fine with someone suddenly shoving a dick into my vagina one random night—”
“If it’s any consolation,” Namjoon cuts in smoothly, a slow smirk spreading across his face, “it’s my dick.” When you glare at him, he continues with irritating calm. “And you’ve had your entire life to prepare for this marriage and, at the very least a few years to prepare for my dick specifically.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“Yeah, of course, Namjoon,” you say sweetly, offering him an obviously fake smile. “I should’ve spent the last few years of my independence and freedom preparing myself—lubing up in anticipation for your dick.” You curse out, “Dick.”
“Lube might not be necessary.” He says, but before you can react, Namjoon gently tugs your wrist, pulling you closer so you’re forced to face him fully. “I think I can get you wet enough,” he murmurs and the cocky attitude and plain audacity infuriates you. You scoff, both at him for his cockiness and at yourself for the heat creeping between your legs.
His eyes drop briefly to your lips, and he even licks his own like he’s considering closing the distance. But you yank your hand out of his grasp before he can move any closer, turning sharply toward the window with an irritated huff.
The rest of the ride passes in silence. Namjoon returns his gaze to the city outside, while you stubbornly keep yours fixed on the glass, refusing to look at him again.
When the limo finally turns through the estate gates, the familiar iron arches sliding past the windows, you straighten slightly in your seat. You smooth down your dress and shift your feet beneath you, positioning yourself so you can step out gracefully once the door opens. The last thing you want is to stumble in front of the guests and staff waiting at the mansion.
“It’s just us tonight,” Namjoon says suddenly. You glance at him despite yourself. His gaze is already on you, steady and observant. “Omma and the rest of the women in my family will arrive tomorrow for the sheet ceremony.”
You blink. “So… it’s just you and me tonight at the estate?”
“Would you like for it to be?” he asks calmly. You shrug one shoulder, unsure what answer he expects. “The boys are already there,” he continues. “To welcome us and to make sure I can carry you to my bed. Because if I can’t—”, he pauses deliberately, “then I can’t have you.”
Your brows lift and smirk. “Well, I’m heavy,” you say dryly. “So, there’s a chance we can avoid sex tonight after all.”
“I’m strong,” Namjoon replies without missing a beat. “I can carry you.” He leans back slightly, completely unbothered. “And it’s not really an avoid-sex-tonight situation,” he adds. “It’s more of a marriage-annulled-next-day situation.”
“That’s even better,” you chirp. The words come out lightly, teasingly but a small knot of guilt twists in your stomach the moment you say it. Namjoon, however, graciously ignores the tone.
“We all have our own wings in the house,” he continues, almost conversationally. “Most of the bedrooms are soundproofed, so no one will hear anything.” Your face heats instantly. “But,” he adds, glancing at you again, “if you’d prefer it to be just the two of us tonight, I can send the boys away —they are probably going to drive back to the party, or open a few bottles in the estate itself. Jin will probably head home to Yeojin.”
You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s okay,” you say, exhaling. “We’re all adults.” You look back toward the window, watching the grand front of the mansion slowly come into view. “And besides,” you mutter, “I have far worse humiliation waiting for me tomorrow.”
You glance at him briefly, and he gives you what you think might be a look of pity. Both of you know exactly what you’re referring to —the sheet ceremony. A humiliating tradition where the sheets from your wedding night are inspected the next morning, searched for blood as proof of purity, proof that the marriage was properly consummated. The thought alone makes your stomach twist.
Namjoon looks like he’s about to say something, his lips parting slightly but the car comes to a smooth halt. The door opens before either of you can speak further, and you’re greeted by Hoseok’s bright grin.
“Welcome home,” he says warmly.
You return the smile automatically. “Thank you.”
Carefully, you step out of the limo, making sure your heels land steadily on the gravel path. The cool evening air brushes your skin as you straighten, quickly adjusting your dress so the fabric falls neatly around your legs.
Namjoon steps out after you. You glance around at the people gathered at the entrance of the estate. For someone returning as the next Don, the crowd is surprisingly small. Just the Elites. Saera and Jangmi stand near the steps, while the others linger nearby.
You must look slightly confused because Namjoon leans closer to you and says, “This is a private affair. Besides, we don’t like having everyone visit the estate.”
You nod wordlessly.
“How are you two getting home?” Namjoon asks, turning his attention to the women. “And where’s Hwan?”
“Jungkook is taking me back to the Kim residence,” Saera says with a cheerful smile. “Hwan is already there.” Namjoon nods and turns to Jangmi.
“The Don asked me to drive her home,” Taehyung answers before she can speak. He gestures casually toward Jangmi. “I’ll drop her off once you two retire to your room.” Even with the knot of nerves tightening in your chest, you still manage to shoot Jangmi an excited look. Your eyes flick toward Jin.
“Why isn’t Yeojin here?” you ask, realizing you hadn’t seen her much during the wedding either.
“She isn’t keeping well,” Jin explains gently. You nod in understanding, though before you can ask anything more—
“So,” Hoseok suddenly claps his hands together loudly. “Are we doing this or what?”
Namjoon sighs. You don’t even have time to question what that means before someone whistles.
“Come on, hyung,” Jungkook calls out teasingly. “Don’t tell me you can’t carry your own bride.”
Taehyung laughs. “Now, that would be embarrassing.”
“Should we call the annulment lawyer now?” Hoseok adds dramatically. Your eyes widen. Before you can protest, Namjoon turns toward you with a calm expression.
“Hey—” You gasp, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders as the world tilts for a moment. The boys immediately erupt into loud cheers.
“There we go!”
“Look at that!”
“Hyung’s strong!” Someone fires a gun into the air in celebration, the sharp crack echoing across the estate as the group begins hooting and clapping. “Congratulations!”
Namjoon barely reacts to the chaos. He simply adjusts his hold on you, steady and secure, and begins walking toward the grand staircase. Your face burns as the cheering continues behind you.
“You could have warned me,” you hiss quietly. Namjoon glances down at you, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“And ruin the moment?” he murmurs.
Behind you, the celebration continues —cheers, whistles, and another celebratory gunshot echoing into the night as he carries you up the stairs and into the house.
You barely take in your surroundings.
Your thoughts are far too tangled in the fact that your husband is carrying you effortlessly, through the mansion. The distance from the main entrance to his bedroom feels endless, though you hardly register the hallways or the décor as he walks.
Your arms remain looped around his neck, partly for balance and partly because you’re afraid to move. Your face is close to the side of his neck, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne —clean, warm, something woodsy beneath it. It was distracting, though not in a way you would welcome. He finally stops outside a large set of double doors, pushes them open with his shoulder, and carries you inside.
Namjoon crosses the room before lowering you onto the bed, very gently —far more gently than you expected.
“You aren’t as heavy as you think,” he tells you casually. You nod automatically, though your tongue feels frozen in place. He walks away from you then, turning to close the bedroom door behind him. The soft click echoes louder than it should. When he turns back around, he has the gall to grin at you.
“Jangmi spent a lot of time decorating this room for us,” he says. Your gaze slowly drifts around the room. “Candles, flowers… and your favourite wine.” He gestures toward the coffee table beside the sitting area. Sure enough, there’s a bottle waiting there, two glasses placed neatly beside it.
The room is elaborate. Rose petals are scattered carefully across the floor and the bedspread. Someone has even arranged roses in two intertwined red hearts in the centre of the bed. The sheets are silk or satin, something far too smooth and expensive and the pillows look impossibly soft.
You nod again, still silent. The air suddenly feels thick in your lungs and the wine looks increasingly appealing.
Maybe it would help. Maybe a drink would loosen the tight knot of nerves sitting in your chest.
“Would wine loosen up your tongue?” Namjoon asks. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out again. “Come on, sweetheart,” he sighs, stepping closer. Before you can react, he lifts a finger to your chin and tilts your face upward so you’re forced to look at him. Your throat bobs as you swallow.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” Your eyes widen in disbelief.
“I—I am making this hard?” you repeat, incredulous. “This is hard, Namjoon. What I’m feeling is, if anything, a result of the hard circumstances.”
Namjoon exhales, rolling his eyes slightly despite trying to keep his tone even.
“Nari,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. He kneels down at your side, on your wedding dress, if it had been any other day, you would have pushed him off, but today, you had no strength to do anything. “Trust me—I know this is hard for you.” He pauses for a moment before adding quietly, “I don’t want to force myself on you, and I can make it worth your while.” He takes a step closer. “But you know we don’t really have a choice.”
“But you do,” you cut in immediately. “You’re the son of the Don. The rules don’t apply to you.”
Namjoon gives a quiet scoff, shaking his head.
“Not even close,” he says. “If anything, the rules bind me tighter than anyone else.”
You look at him sceptically, and he continues, voice calm but firm.
“I’m about to take my father’s place,” he says. “Every man in that house is watching how I carry myself. If I start ignoring traditions the very first night of my marriage, what does that tell them?” His gaze holds yours steadily. “I’m supposed to lead them,” he adds. “That means I don’t get to pick and choose which customs matter.” He gestures vaguely toward the bed. “There’s also the sheet ceremony.” You wince slightly. “You won’t be accepted as my wife, the Don’s wife, the Madam —unless the sheets are stained.”
“Yes,” you scoff bitterly. “There’s also that.”
For a moment, Namjoon’s expression softens with something almost sympathetic but it doesn’t last long.
“Like I said,” he murmurs, stepping closer again, his thumb moving to rub gently against your lips, “I can make it worth your while.”
You stare at him. The handsome man you now call your husband is kneeling in front of you, his broad frame lowered between your knees as though it is the most natural position in the world. The sight sends a strange ripple through your stomach, warmth creeping through your body despite the tension twisting in your chest.
You can’t deny the effect it has on you—this powerful man, the future Don kneeling at your feet, calmly telling you he could give you a wonderful night in his bed, has your heart and body swelling with joy and heat.
Namjoon has always carried himself with a certain quiet dominance. Even now, on his knees, he somehow still feels in control of the room. His shoulders are broad beneath the fabric of his shirt, his arms strong and steady as his hands rest lightly against your legs. His veins stand faintly along the backs of his hands, his fingers large and deliberate in every movement.
But more than anything, it’s the way he looks at you. His gaze is always dark, focused, like he’s studying you, like he’s already decided he wants you and is simply waiting for the moment he can take you.
And he hasn’t exactly been subtle about his attraction. He’s shown it more than once now; through lingering touches, heated glances, teasing words that carried more truth than he probably realized.
There’s a confidence about him too. The kind of confidence that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing when it comes to a woman. The way he says he could make it worth your while —the way he speaks as though he’s certain he could make you feel good, and annoyingly, that confidence affects you.
Your mind betrays you with images you weren’t trying to imagine —his hands on you, warm and steady, the heat of his mouth brushing against your skin, the weight of his body close to yours. Even the simple fact that he’s kneeling like this, right between your legs, sends an embarrassing flicker of heat through you. But desire isn’t the problem.
You do want him. You could see yourself consummating the marriage properly someday, maybe even having children with him, maybe even loving him. Just not like this, not tonight. Not when everything still feels so new and unfamiliar, when the distance between you both feels wider than the bed behind you. But the reality presses in around you all the same. You don’t really have a choice.
And he made it clear—neither does he.
“Can I—” you clear your throat, voice a little steadier now. “Can I take all this off, take a shower, and maybe get a little drunk before we start this consummation?” You glance down at him, your tone sharp despite trying, “Or is it tradition for you to rip my dress off and take me against a wall?”
Namjoon huffs out a quiet laugh. “You can change,” he says. He reaches for your hand, pressing a brief kiss against your wedding ring before letting his fingers move to the hem of your dress. “Let me help you,” he adds softly. His hands slide down toward your feet. “Let’s start with these shoes.”
His hands are gentle yet steady as they settle around your calves. The contrast makes you tense for a second, the firmness of his grip, the careful way he holds you in place as his fingers move to the straps of your heels. He unbuckles them slowly. The metal clasp clicks open, and he slides the first heel off your foot with surprising care. The moment your foot is free, you instinctively stretch it forward, wiggling your toes with a quiet sigh of relief.
You hadn’t taken the shoes off since putting them on earlier that day. Hours of standing, greeting guests, smiling for photos, walking through ceremonies, your feet had definitely paid the price.
Namjoon glances down at them, still holding the discarded heel loosely in his hand.
“They’re swollen,” he remarks casually. You flex your toes again, rolling your ankle slightly as the blood rushes back.
“Wedding shoes should be illegal,” you mutter. He huffs a quiet laugh and moves to the other foot, his fingers brushing briefly against your ankle as he unfastens the second strap. The heel slips off just as easily. You stretch that foot too, relieved.
“You have pretty feet,” Namjoon says, gathering both heels together in one hand as he rises to his feet. “Though they’re definitely swollen and sore right now.”
You blink up at him. “What?” you say slowly. “Do you have a foot fetish?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and for a brief moment you feel a strange sense of déjà vu—him kneeling in front of you, helping with your heels like this.
Namjoon pauses and then, he smirks.
“No,” he says, straightening to his full height. “I have a ‘you’ fetish.” You cringe instantly, though you can’t quite stop the smile tugging at your lips.
“That was terrible,” you tell him. “Are those the lines you use to make women swoon their way into your bed?” You lean back slightly on your palms, studying him as if you’re trying to solve a puzzle. Truthfully, you already know the answer.
Kim Namjoon does not look like a man who has ever struggled to get a woman into his bed. He picks up your heels and places them neatly beside the bed before straightening, his gaze sliding back to you slowly.
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Do they swoon?” he asks mildly.
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re avoiding the question.”
“Am I?” he says, completely unbothered. He takes a step closer, his height forcing you to tilt your chin up slightly to keep looking at him. “You asked if I use lines.”
“And?”
“No,” he says simply. The confidence in his voice makes you scoff.
“Of course not,” you mutter. “You probably don’t need them.”
Namjoon hums softly, clearly amused by your tone. “You sound a little bothered.”
“I’m not bothered.” You counter sharply.
“Mm.” That single sound is enough to irritate you. Your eyes flick over him before you can stop yourself —broad shoulders still wrapped in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong forearms, the faint outline of veins beneath his skin.
He notices your wandering eyes, and steps closer until he’s standing right in front of you, close enough that your knees nearly brush his thighs.
“You think women just fall into my bed?” he asks quietly.
Your jaw tightens. “You’re tall and rich and handsome—the Don’s son,” you say flatly. “Statistically speaking, I’d say your chances are pretty good.”
Namjoon lets out a low laugh, not a bit offended. If anything, he looks pleased.
“Well,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, “You’re not wrong.” Your stomach twists in a way you absolutely hate. You cross your arms defensively.
“So, you do have experience.”
“Plenty.” He says it without hesitation, without embarrassment. Just a simple fact, but the horrible feeling in your stomach spreads all over. Your lips press together. Namjoon watches your expression shift, something sharp flickering in his eyes as he notices the tension in your shoulders.
“Why?” he asks lightly. “Does that bother you?”
“No.” You blurt out, nose flaring, “Of course not,” His brow lifts. “I am only worried I might contract an STD,”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” You refuse to look away from him. But there’s a tightness in your chest you can’t quite explain. Namjoon studies you for another moment before his mouth curves again, slower this time.
“You’re territorial,” he observes.
“I am not.”
“You are.” You roll your eyes hard enough that it almost hurts.
“You’re delusional.” Namjoon doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans forward slightly, bracing one hand on the bed beside your hip.
“You asked if that was a line,” he murmurs. Your breath catches slightly at the sudden closeness. “It wasn’t.” His gaze drops briefly —to your lips, your throat, the soft curve of your collarbone, and at your chest where your dress dips and then back to your eyes.
“I do have experience,” he admits calmly. “—enough to know what I’m doing, enough to know that I can pleasure you, satisfy you and,” Heat creeps up your neck. “—enough to know,” he continues, voice lower now, “—that you’re not nearly as indifferent as you’re pretending to be.”
Your pulse jumps. Before you can fire back, he straightens again like the moment never happened.
“Now,” he says casually, nodding toward the closet across the room. “Let’s get the dress off you, you wanted a shower.”
You glance at the door and sigh, “I need to take the dress off, take the makeup off, take the 101 bobby pins in my hair out, wash my hair at least twice to get the hairspray out of my hair, condition it if I want them on my head for tomorrow, take a long shower to get the day off my skin, then dry myself and my hair, and get ready again in makeup and lingerie and present myself to you,” You sniffle in agony, “It is going to take hours!”
“It won’t,” Namjoon offers you a hand, “I’ll help you,” he adds, pulling you to your feet, and leading you to the closet. “I think most of your stuff is already in there,”
You follow him quietly, realizing that the fastest way through this entire ordeal is simply to let him help you. Namjoon pushes open another set of doors just past the bedroom, revealing the closet.
Calling it a closet almost feels insulting.
The space is enormous —easily the size of a small apartment room. Soft recessed lighting glows from the ceiling, illuminating polished marble floors and walls lined with custom shelving. One entire wall is dedicated to shoes, rows upon rows of immaculate shelves that could hold dozens of pairs. Another wall displays handbags —structured leather, clutches, evening purses, arranged like pieces in a gallery.
In the centre of the room sits a wide island topped with glossy stone. Sunglasses, watches, cufflinks, and jewellery trays are arranged neatly across its surface, each item placed with careful precision.
Opposite the island is a vanity setup —something straight out of a luxury dressing suite. A large mirror framed with warm lighting sits above a marble tabletop, surrounded by velvet-lined drawers likely filled with cosmetics and accessories. A plush upholstered chair rests in front of it, inviting someone to sit and prepare for the day.
Near the far wall sits a long chaise lounge in soft cream fabric, with a low coffee table beside it holding neatly stacked magazines and a crystal tray. The closet itself is only half filled, you notice. Several wardrobe sections remain empty —clearly waiting for someone else to claim them.
You walk toward the large mirror mounted between two wardrobe sections and stop in front of it, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress as you watch Namjoon move behind you. He places your heels carefully onto one of the footwear shelves before turning back toward you.
“Let’s take the jewellery, then the pins in your hair,” he says calmly, his eyes catching yours in the mirror. “Then we’ll deal with your dress.” You nod.
Your hands move to your ears, fingers working quietly to undo the delicate backings of your earrings. Meanwhile, Namjoon steps behind you, his focus shifting to the necklace resting against your collarbone. You try very hard not to react.
But the moment his fingers brush lightly against the back of your neck, a wave of goosebumps spreads across your skin. It’s because he’s being gentle, you tell yourself, careful and feather-light. That’s all.
It definitely has nothing to do with anticipation, and absolutely nothing to do with the warmth of his touch.
Namjoon’s fingers work easily at the clasp. After a moment, the necklace loosens, the cool metal sliding away from your skin as he lifts it from around your neck. He holds out his palm without a word.
You place your earrings into his hand, followed by the rings you begin slipping off your fingers —everyone except the wedding band now resting firmly at the base of your finger.
Namjoon glances down at it briefly before setting the rest of your jewellery neatly onto the island tray behind you. Then his eyes return to the mirror, to you. He holds your gaze for a few long seconds, before he quite skilfully starts taking your hair from its pinned-up curls. You are understandably surprised at the gentleness, but satisfied that he was not pulling at your hair in some lust-driven urgency. When the pins were all out, and your hair was a mess of weirdly curled bit of hairspray and a hair, he looks at you again.
“All right,” he says quietly. “Now the dress.”
You think you’re ready to undress in front of him. You told yourself you were prepared for this moment—the intimacy, the closeness, the fact that this man is now your husband. But nothing truly prepares you for the moment Namjoon steps closer behind you and presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck.
Your breath hitches instantly.
“You looked beautiful today,” he murmurs, his lips still grazing the sensitive skin just below your hairline. The warmth of his mouth lingers there for a moment before drifting lower, brushing your shoulder. “—and you smell amazing too,” he adds quietly.
His nose grazes along the curve of your shoulder as if testing that claim for himself. Your heart stutters. His hands settle on your waist, large and warm even through the fabric of your dress. When you look up, his eyes are already watching you through the mirror, watching your reaction.
“I can’t wait to actually have you,” he says softly, voice dipping lower. “—to feel your skin under me,”
A shiver runs through you. Seeing it reflected in the mirror only makes it worse —Namjoon standing behind you, towering and composed, his head bent toward your neck while his hands rest possessively at your waist.
The image is dangerously intoxicating.
His hands feel heavy even through the dress, his warmth bleeding into your skin. Everywhere he touches feels suddenly hypersensitive, like sparks are jumping beneath the surface of your body. His lips brush your shoulder again, then your back, then just beneath your ear. Each soft kiss sends another ripple of heat through you.
You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and steady as he inhales faintly like he’s savouring your scent. His dark eyes never leave yours in the mirror, watching every flicker of reaction cross your face.
Slowly, steadily, the calm you had been clinging to begins slipping away. You barely notice his hands moving.
The zipper at your back is already open, the tension of the dress loosening as he works at the laced corset beneath it. His fingers tug gently at the ties, loosening the careful cinch that had pulled your waist tight all evening.
You’re far too distracted by the way he keeps pressing soft, almost teasing kisses along your shoulder blades.
By the way his eyes follow yours in the mirror.
By the way your body seems to melt a little more under his touch with every passing second.
“Are you going to keep holding it like that?” Namjoon’s voice is soft, amused in a way that sends a ripple down your spine.
The question pulls you out of the hazy fog you’ve drifted into. You blink at the mirror in front of you, only now realizing your hands are still clutching the front of your dress tightly against your chest. The back has already been loosened, the structure of the bodice barely holding anymore, yet your fingers refuse to let it fall.
Your grip tightens instinctively. Behind you, Namjoon’s hands settle more firmly around your waist.
It was warm, steady and possessive in a quiet sort of way.
“I can leave right now,” he murmurs after a moment, voice dropping lower. “If you want.” Your throat goes dry. You shake your head slowly. Because you know exactly what that means. There’s nothing much beneath the dress to soften the moment. When the fabric falls away, his hands will meet nothing but your bare skin. Your pulse jumps at the thought, and the look in Namjoon’s eyes through the mirror tells you he’s already thinking the same thing. His gaze drags slowly over your reflection, dark and heavy, like he’s memorizing every inch of you even before the dress falls.
You wanted this. You wanted him like this—undone.
A shaky breath leaves you when you feel his hand move slightly on your waist. His thumbs brush over the curve of your back before he leans forward, pressing another slow kiss against the middle of it. Heat blooms through you instantly. You bite your lip, barely swallowing the sound that wants to escape. Your fingers curl even tighter in the fabric. Behind you, Namjoon exhales slowly, like he’s forcing himself to stay patient. Then both of his hands settle firmly at your waist. Your breath hitches again, and you wonder faintly if every touch from him is going to feel this overwhelming.
“Let go of the dress, baby,” he whispers near your ear. His eyes never leave yours in the mirror. “I want to see what you’ve been hiding under this beautiful thing.” The way he says it makes warmth rush straight to your face. You hold his gaze in the reflection, taking in the hunger sitting plainly in his eyes, and something inside you, shifts. A small surge of confidence. Slowly, deliberately, you release the fabric. The bodice slips instantly, sliding down your body before bunching around your hips.
For a second, neither of you, moves. Namjoon’s eyes widen just slightly. Then his gaze begins to travel —slow, unapologetic and almost hungry. You actually see him swallow. He leans forward again, his nose brushing lightly against your shoulder as he breathes in.
“Is this all for me, darling?” he murmurs. Your lips curve before you can stop them. The way he’s looking at you, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing sends a rush of confidence through your chest.
You hum softly, mouth dry in anticipation to say anything. Namjoon lets out a quiet sound under his breath. One hand tightens subtly at your waist.
“I fucking love it,” he says. His voice is rougher now. Then, after a beat, he adds softly near your ear, “I might actually die from how much I love it,” You huff out a small laugh, biting your lips to help yourself to keep calm and stumbling slightly to tun and face him. His hands are once again on your bare waist to steady you in the pool of fabric you are standing in.
“Easy there,” He says, pulling you closer to him, almost guiding your arms around his shoulders, to let you hold on to him, “I might be the luckiest man on the planet tonight,” He murmurs, his thumb drawing soft sensual circles on your sensitive belly, where you were beginning to feel the desire grow, “—universe even.”
You hum again in response, though you aren't entirely sure it's coherent. Your heartbeat has become a thing with a mind of its own, loud enough that you're convinced he can hear it. But like most of the time you spend around Namjoon, you found yourself relaxing and unconsciously your fingers found his hair, twiddling with them, now quite relishing the sensualism of his fingertips on you.
His smile softens. “Can I kiss you?” he murmurs, as though he'd been waiting for you to relax all evening. His thumb stills against your waist. The gentleness of his request catches in your throat, a sharp contrast to the bold, cocky assertions he’d thrown at you in the limousine. There is something unexpectedly vulnerable about the way he waits, his dark eyes searching yours for permission, even while his hands hold you captive in the fallen silk of your dress.
You look at him, really look at him, noting the faint tension in his jaw and the way his breath hitches just a fraction as he waits for your answer. The future Don, a man bred for iron-fisted control and ruthless choices, is standing perfectly still in the middle of his sprawling closet, letting you dictate the pace.
“Yes,” you whisper, the word barely leaving your lips before you lift yourself to your tips and close the distance yourself. When your mouth meets his, it isn't the aggressive, demanding claim you had braced yourself for. It is slow and deliberate. His lips are warm and incredibly soft, pressing against yours with a gentle, testing pressure that makes your knees turn to water. You whimper softly into the kiss, the sound swallowed instantly by him as his grip on your waist tightens, pulling you flush against the solid wall of his chest.
The scent of him—that rich, intoxicating blend of woodsy cologne and clean skin—wraps around you completely. Your fingers tangle deeper into the short, soft strands of his hair, pulling him closer as the last remnants of your hesitation dissolve into the heat blooming between you.
Namjoon hums approvingly against your mouth, the sound vibrating low in his chest. His tongue coaxes your lips open, deepening the kiss with a smooth, intoxicating rhythm that leaves you breathless. It feels less like a tradition being forced upon you and more like an anchor pulling you out of the storm of your own anxiety.
As the strain of staying on your tippy-toes forces you to drop back onto your heels, you pull away just enough to catch your breath. Namjoon notices immediately. His eyes are dark, fixed on your parted lips as you both pant for air in the tight space between you. Without a word, his fingers catch your chin, tilting your face back up to his. Before you can even let out a soft whimper of protest, he bends down to capture your lips again, cutting the sound off entirely.
When his mouth meets yours this second time, the last remnants of his testing restraint vanish completely. Namjoon catches his breath with a low growl that vibrates deep in his chest, his hands instantly locking onto your waist with a sudden, bruising intensity. He doesn't just kiss you; he claims you, his mouth pressing down with a fierce, demanding hunger that leaves your head spinning. Before your feet can even try to stretch down and touch the floor again, his strong arms hook beneath your thighs, effortlessly lifting you completely off your feet.
The world tilted as he carried you across the marble floor, your hands gripping his broad shoulders for dear life. Before you could even think to adjust your position, he set you down onto the plush cream fabric of the chaise lounge, immediately crowding over you. Instead of stepping back, he sank slowly onto one knee, boxing you in completely with his hands braced firmly on either side of your hips. Your breath caught as his dark gaze dropped to your thigh, fixing intently on the intricate lace garter still hugging your skin.
Slowly, deliberately, Namjoon leaned forward. A tremor ran through you at the warm rush of his breath against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His mouth brushed feather-light against you for one excruciating moment before he nipped gently at the bottom edge of the lace. You whimper, one hand clenching into the cream fabric of the chaise and the other tangled in his hair as he skilfully latched onto the elastic with his teeth.
His dark eyes flicked up to yours, locking onto your flushed expression as he began to pull. The tension of the elastic snapped softly against your skin with every slow, deliberate inch he slid it down. He refused to rush, savouring the friction and the sound of your ragged breathing as he worked the lace past your knee, down your calf, until it finally dangled from his mouth. With a subtle toss of his head, he let the garter drop onto the low table beside the chaise.
The room felt instantly hotter, filled only by the uneven sound of your breathing. The primal hunger in his eyes was more potent than before as his hands slid up the bare skin of your leg, deliberate and heavy. His knuckles brushed your inner thigh, leaving a trail of fire in their wake as his mouth found the sensitive dip of your shoulder, biting down just firmly enough to make you arch into his touch and moan loudly.
“Namjoo-ah—” The name cut off into a sharp gasp as his teeth grazed the sensitive line of your neck. Just as the tension reached a breaking point, he forced a shaky exhale, his jaw clenching tight as he pulled back slightly. He was fighting hard for control, though the intense, possessive focus in his dark eyes never wavered.
“You needed a shower,” he muttered, his voice suddenly husky, almost strained. He stood up rather unceremoniously, breaking the heat of the embrace so abruptly it left you shivering against the cushions. He adjusted his shirt, the ruthless, composed future Don snapping back into place, though his uneven breathing betrayed him.
“I’m going to use the other room,” he said, pausing at the threshold of the closet. He looked back at you over his shoulder—flushed, bare-skinned, and utterly stunned on the cream chaise. A dark, lingering look passed over his features before he gave a tight nod. “Take your time. I’ll be back.”
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room suddenly vast, quiet, and torturously hot.
You stood there for a moment after the door closed, the sudden silence of the room settling over you like a physical weight. The suffocating gravity of the day—the vows, the prying eyes, the heavy mantle of expectations but mostly the delirious need of feeling namjoon in you—still clung to your skin like a second layer. You took a few deep breaths to calm yourself down, and decided you need to get the night moving. Standing before the mirror, you tackled the makeup first, wiping it away meticulously until the heavy bridal cosmetics were gone and the face reflecting in the glass belonged entirely to you again.
Next, you stepped into the shower to wash your hair, massaging your scalp until the stiffness of the hairspray and the stress of the ceremony rinsed down the drain. Only then did you focus on your body, scrubbing your skin under the pounding deluge and lingering beneath the heat until your aching muscles finally surrendered their tension. Your chest finally loosened, allowing you to draw a proper breath for the first time all day.
By the time you finally stepped out, the tracks of time had blurred. You wrapped yourself in a plush bathrobe, drying and brushing out your hair until it fell in soft, clean waves over your shoulders.
Returning to the bedroom, the fragile sense of peace evaporated. Now came the real hurdle.
You walked into the sprawling closet and opened the wardrobe dedicated to you, only for your stomach to tighten. The shelves were practically an exhibition—nothing but lace, sheer silk, satin, and intricate garters. Every single piece had been chosen with an unmistakable, single-minded purpose. You hesitated, your fingers shifting through the hangers in search of a simple silk robe, a modest nightdress, or a negligee that didn’t leave you entirely exposed. The closet offered nothing of the sort. Every option was designed for display.
Closing the door with an irritated huff, your gaze drifted across the room to the adjacent wardrobe: Namjoon’s.
After a brief, defiant pause, you crossed the marble floor and pulled it open. His scent hit you immediately—that warm, clean, woodsy aroma that was distinctly his. Your fingers brushed past structured suits before settling on an oversized shirt made of white silk.
It swallowed you, of course. When you slipped it on, the hem draped loosely down to your mid-thigh, the cuffs completely burying your hands until you pushed them up, and the collar resting low and relaxed against your collarbone. It wasn't standard bridal attire, but it was comfortable, and it covered what mattered.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, you finally walked out of the closet and back into the main bedroom and then you froze.
Namjoon was already there.
He sat on the bed, reclining against the headboard. His hair was still slightly damp from his own shower, pushed back from his forehead. He was shirtless —his bare chest, broad shoulders out in the open for your hungry eyes. A pair of dark slacks hung low on his hips, the top button undone slightly as he leaned back in the thought. His hand held a glass of wine, and his gaze moved to you, stopping at you.
“That’s mine,” His eyes lingered, eyes gazing hotly over your body as he lifted the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip. You gulp, feeling the intensity of his stare on your bare legs, on the oversized shirt, on your slightly hardened buds poking through the silk.
“Suits me better, I think,” you smirked, stepping closer. You climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping softly beneath your weight as you crawled toward him. The silk shirt slid lower as you moved, the loose collar falling open just enough to reveal the soft curve of your chest.
Namjoon noticed, gulping down the lust crawling up his body. His eyes flickered downward for the briefest second before returning to your face.
“It does,” he agreed quietly. He shifted slightly against the headboard as you settled beside him on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking just enough to bring you closer to his level.
You flashed him a small, mischievous grin and reached out, slipping the wine glass neatly from his hand. Namjoon didn’t stop you. He simply watched. His gaze stayed fixed on your face as you lifted the glass and took a sip. The wine rolled over your tongue—tart at first, then sweet, the warmth of it spreading faintly through your chest. The alcohol barely registered. Your lips puckered a little in disappointment. Without another thought, you tipped the glass back and finished the rest in one long swallow.
Namjoon’s eyebrow lifted slightly. You lowered the empty glass and glanced at him. “Can I have more?”
His mouth twitched faintly. He picks up the bottle, pouring another drink for you, “Do you really need to empty the bottle before you can gather the courage to sleep with me?” You scoffed softly, leaning back on one hand against the bed. You take a long sip till you emptied the entire glass.
“If you think emptying the bottle would give the courage to sleep with someone,” you said, eyeing him slowly, feeling unnaturally confident—maybe the time spent showering and relaxing was truly pushing you out of the shell into your husband, you add, “then I think you’re the one who should be drinking it, Namjoon.” Your gaze dropped deliberately—over his broad chest, the lines of muscle across his stomach, the way the waistband of his slacks sat low on his hips. Then you looked back up at him with a small, teasing tilt of your head.
“Because so far,” you continued, voice light but pointed, “you, my dearest husband, have only been looking.”
Namjoon went still as if taken aback at the sudden surge of self-assurance and honesty you were showing. For a moment the room seemed to hold its breath. Then the corner of his mouth lifted slowly. Something darker, sharper settled into his expression. The next second the wine glass was gone from your hand; set aside somewhere on the bedside table you didn’t even see him reach for.
You barely had time to inhale before he moved. Namjoon caught your wrist, guiding you backward until your back met the mattress. The bed dipped beneath the sudden shift of weight as he leaned over you; one hand braced beside your head and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was rough. Not careless —but decisive, firm in a way that stole the teasing breath right out of you. His lips pressed hard against yours, silencing the smirk that had been forming there. Your fingers instinctively reached for his hair, the other hand resting on his shoulder as you gasped softly against his mouth. For a moment he didn’t move beyond that —just held the kiss there, steady, controlled, as though reminding you exactly how close he was. When he finally pulled back slightly, his face hovered only inches from yours.
His voice was low now. “Be careful what you challenge me about,” he murmured. His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw. “I might take it seriously.”
“You should take it seriously just about now,” You murmur back, breathing heavy, “—because I am as ready as I can be,” It did not take a second for Namjoon to understand your drift, because his lips were on yours again. His hands rough against your waist, tracing your curves. One of his hands are on your boob now, his thumb rubbing over your slowly hardening bud. His other hand running over your knees, up your thighs, till they settled on your garter. He had let go of your lips, moving to biting and licking at your neck, trailing down to your clavicle.
You moan, hands naturally moving to touch his body. Your breath is heavy as Namjoon moves from your neck to the valley between your breasts, leaving marks, making little moans come out of you. He leans back slightly, “You have tortured me all day, baby,” He is breathless as he mutters it, licking his lips, “Damn near killed me with need,” he says, hands moving to rip the shirt open roughly. You gasp in shock, as the buttons fly away, your breast now spilling out of the shirt, teasing Namjoon. “Fuck,” He curses, going to capture your boob in his warm mouth.
“Ah—” You moan, pleasure running through your body from the way his tongue draws circles on your hardened nipple. His other hand is playing with your other boob, as your slightly arch your back to let him touch more. “Namjoon—” You gasp, when you feel his hands move lower, to your hips, “—wait.”
Namjoon is panting when he pulls back, meeting your eyes. His hair is ruffled, and you can see his lust-filled gaze bore into yours, looking like he was seconds away from losing control.
“Pl-Please be gentle,” You whisper, “I am scared it will hurt,”
Namjoon sucked in a long breath, exhaling as his hand finds yours, and he brings it up to his lips. “I will be gentle, darling,” He presses a kiss on your wedding ring, “You are my wife, I have sworn to protect you, I will be as gentle as I can be,”
You give him a small smile, your heart warming at the smile he gives you back. “Now, can I, have you?”
You nod, your smile turning into a giggle, his impatience at this being dragged, and his lips are back on you. Your breath hitches and his body hovers over you.
“Fucking pretty,” he coos, his words dripping with affection, as he kisses his way down to your belly, you arch in pleasure, anticipating his actions. “—so fucking perfect,” he says, his hands rubbing circles on your thighs, he bites his lips, gazing at hungrily at your naked pussy.
“Why didn’t you wear a panty, baby?” He presses a kiss right above your pelvic bone, “Did you want to make it easy for me?” His breath tickles you as you shiver and you let out a little exhale, trying to calm yourself. He catches your eyes from between your legs, you had propped yourself on your elbows to see him, “Did my darling wife think wearing lingerie was a waste of time?” He runs his warm hands, over your thighs, keeping your legs apart so he could continue to look at your glistening cunt.
“It is,” You say, mouth drying at the anticipation on your husband, broad shouldered and divine from between your thighs, “Did you like it?” You ask, the fire in your belly stroking at his words.
“Like?” he scoffs, quickly smiling, his dimples making an inappropriate warm appearance, “I love it,” he pecks your pussy, before gazing intently at your wet core, “I am right at the doors of heaven,” he says, making your heart swell a bit. “But, why are you so wet, hm?” He gives you a look, more mocking than curiosity, “I barely touched you. Did you touch yourself in the shower, darling?”
“I did not touch myself at the thought of you in the shower,” you huff out, scandalised, tugging slightly at his hair between your thighs. He catches your eyes from where he is marking your inner thighs, his eyes holding childish mischief, despite the heat between you two. You scoff indignantly, letting yourself fall back in bed, in a weak attempt to hide your face away from his view.
“But I did,” He smirks at you and before you even register his words, he dives right into your sopping core, making your toes curl in sudden shockwaves of pleasure. His tongue pressed flat against your sopping slit, and your body fully sagged as you gasped, clutching almost pathetically at the sheets when his lips closed over you viciously.
“Nam-ah, fuck—” You writhe under him, his tongue brutally working on you, and as Namjoon cruel as he is, places your thighs over his shoulders, humming in you in absolute pleasure. Him humming on your throbbing clit, if anything added more to your pleasure, leaving you breathless. You moan, waves of pleasure course through your body, as you involuntarily arch. Your hands find his hair almost instinctually, as you find yourself nearing your release.
“Joo-Joon-I’m gonna—” You whimper out in pleasure and the coil inside your belly erupts, making you see stars as your body relaxes, “—cum.” You finish, catching your breath, as you feel your lower body go numb.
You are catching your breath, slowly recovering from the throes of pleasure you just felt, when you find yourself facing Namjoon, who was now hovering over you, using his arms to prop himself. His face is shimmering with your juices all over him, and he has a smug smirk on his face, and you just know he is going to brag.
“So far, so good?” He asks, despite yourself you answer breathlessly, “So far, so good.” He grins hearing you, moves away from you, taking off his pants and his underwear and you find yourself tongue-tied at him. He smirks at your eyes on him, “Like what you see?”
Your eyes widen at him, and he continues much to your shock, “Trust me, it’ll fit.” He says casually, as he gets back in position between your legs. His hands are back on your thighs, he peppers a few more kisses on the, moves up to your belly and up to your ribs, and he has one of your buds in his warm mouth. He runs his tongue is circles and you find the fire in your belly light up again, despite the dull throb in your folds. You let out a breath, when namjoon moves to the next bud, his hand taking over the neglected one now. Your nipples begin to harden and Namjoon lets them go to focus on your neck now. He bites, licks and soothes the blooming hickeys on your skin, his hand in your hair.
“This will be a little painful, darling,” He gives you a soft kiss on your lips. “I want you to trust me and relax, hm? I want you to tell me if it’s too much. Bite my shoulder, scratch me or anything once you feel the pain and till it goes away, okay?” His thumb strokes across your cheek.
“It hurts that much?” You ask, meekly for someone who was runs her mouth so confidently on a day-to-day basis.
“Not really,” Namjoon smiles, using his finger to push the stray hair away from your face, “It’s scarier in the head than in reality,”
“I don’t know if that’s comforting,” you mutter.
Namjoon smiles a little guiltily, and quietly asks you, “You do want this right?”
“Of course, I want your dick in me, Namjoon,” you roll your eyes, “I wanna be the next Madam!”
“That’s not what I meant,” Namjoon clicks his tongue at you, bucking his hips against you lightly. You hiss, your lower body still feeling a little sensitive after all his ministrations.
“Namjoon, I know why we're here tonight.” You bring your hands to cradle his face, and look him straight in the eye, “I know what our families expect. Despite all my drama regarding this, I trust you to not hurt me and I want to do this with you.”
Namjoon rests his forehead against yours for a moment as he lets out a slow breath. The guilt gnawing inside him loosened a bit. “Now, just relax, okay?” He said and he dove back to your neck to suck on it, “Just relax, darling —I'll make it good for you, I'll make you feel so good.”
You next words are caught in your throat when you feel his manhood rub deliciously against your nub. You let out a small gasp, the warmth in the touch, lighting up your pussy. He is lazy as he rubs his penis against your sensitive nub, the luscious wetness making you squirm in anticipation of what is coming.
You keep your head back, letting out soft moans, enjoying the tiny waves of pleasure rippling through you as Namjoon rubs himself against you while he plays with your boobs and lays kisses on your neck. Namjoon lets you lay back, eyes half closed but on him as he teases your clit with his thumb.
“I am gonna go in, alright?” He says, catching your eye and you nod almost lazily. He positions himself right at your entrance, and guides himself in and you hold your breath as he enters you. It burned as he pushed himself inside and you despite how careful and soothing, he was being, it was painful, not as much as you expected it to, but after all the high you were feeling, the pain felt like a lot.
“You can bite me,” Namjoon mutter, “You can scratch, you can do whatever you want to me,”
“You’ll get hurt,” You manage to pant out, feeling yourself stretch in pain to accommodate the large man inside you.
“Don’t fucking care, baby,” He scoffs, “I am almost entirely in you, bite me!” And you would not have if the last and final push did not feel like you were about to be ripped in half.
“Ah—” You cry out and bite Namjoon on the shoulder to hold yourself down. You were quick to let go, breathing hard, to calm down and hone the pain you were feeling and you were almost sure you were feeling the blood drip out of you.
“Let me know when I can move, yeah?” Namjoon says in a soothing tone, resting his forehead against yours, “I promise the pain won’t last long,”
“Yeah,” you whisper, eyes tearing up despite your efforts not to. Namjoon is extremely gentle as he wipes away your tears, that you give him a shy smile and say, “You can move, Joon, just be—”
“I’ll be gentle, sweetheart, I’ll be as gentle as I can,” He promises and begins to move, one of his hands is intertwined with yours, almost holding you against the bed, as he guides himself in and out of you.
At first, it just burns for you, then you feel the slight pleasure course through. You feel Namjoon inside you and the way you feel stuffed full of him. His thrusts are very slow, calculated, his eyes never leaving your face as if he is scanning you for discomfort.
“Joon,” You call, making him hum, “You know you can enjoy this, right? Enjoy me?”
“Y-Yeah,” He pants, of course he was but he was also holding himself back because you felt too good and he did not want to hurt you if he lost himself in the pleasure. You open your legs a little wider, wrapping them around his moving hips, and you hear him let out a grunt of pleasure.
Maybe it was because you were getting comfortable with Namjoon inside you that the delicious tingling of sex was beginning to light your core, and your mind was beginning to go hazy and you were beginning to enjoy the feeling of being filled by your husband. But it was all too quiet from Namjoon, like he was too in his head and not with you.
“I wanna hear you, tell me how you feel,” you purr at him, seductively, adding with a teasing, impatient tone, “—and go a little faster,”
“You feel amazing, baby,” He groans out, “So warm, so tight, so wet, so good,” He moans in your ear and you feel the familiar coil of pressure begin to build within you, “I might not last long if I go any faster,”
Namjoon picks up his pace regardless though and you find yourself squirming and moaning in pleasure as well. He begins thrusting a little faster, but a little sloppier almost as if the pleasure was working against his precision. His moans and groans also were beginning to get louder and his praises of your cunt was becoming more and more gibberish.
As his hips continued to buck against you, his moans of your name and his pleasured groans in your ear you were also nearing your release.
“I’m gonna—” Namjoon groaned, and you agree, “—me too.”
You hook your arms around his neck and pull you to him, lips capturing his and he moans into you, and relentlessly thrusts into you till you both reach your peak and he crumbled on top of you, still gasping.
You felt the warmth of his cum spread inside you and no matter how much you knew or heard about it, the feeling of someone’s essence so deep in you was very intimate and strange.
“Fuck,” he gasped, panting heavily against the column of your neck. “That was incredible.”
You could only hum in response; your hands still loosely looped around his shoulders. Sensing your exhaustion, Namjoon shifted his weight with practiced care, positioning himself, so he was still draped over you, but no longer crushing your frame into the bed. For a few long, quiet minutes, the two of you simply stayed there, soaking in the fading afterglow while your breathing slowly syncopated in the quiet of the night.
When Namjoon finally moved away, breaking the warmth of the embrace, you looked up at him with a questioning glance. He offered a slow, thoroughly satisfied grin, his thumb softly tracing the line of your jaw.
“Did I stay true to my word about making this worth your while, baby?”
You gave a faint, breathless nod, your face warming as fragments of the evening replayed in your mind. The way he'd spoken to you, the patience he'd shown, the tenderness you'd never expected from a man who insisted he could never love you.
“I'm glad.” A smile ghosted across his lips. The warmth in his expression lingered for only a moment before practicality settled back over him and you can swear you see the elite made-man, Kim Namjoon enter your husband’s body.
“We should get cleaned up and get some sleep,” he said gently. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day, and we have to be up early.” You groan. “I've already given the maids instructions for the food, the guests, and everything they'll need for the sheet ceremony.” His thumb brushed absently across the back of your hand. “You don't have to worry about any of that tonight.”
You nod, a little comforted at your workload being reduced from ten to one. When you tried to climb out of bed, however, a sharp ache made you stop halfway. Your face immediately scrunched.
“—ow.” You wince, feeling your legs jiggle, and your thighs ache as your pussy tingled in a sore way. Namjoon looked at you and you are sure he was gonna make fun of you, and to your absolute horror, he smiles. “Oh, don't you dare.” You threaten him, making him grin wider.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were thinking it.” You point a finger in accusation.
“I absolutely was.” He admits, and you swatted weakly at his arm.
“I hate you.”
“I know.” Before you could attempt another dramatic escape, he slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.
“What are you doing?”
“You'll only complain the whole walk.”
“I can walk.”
“I'm sure you can.” He lifted you effortlessly anyway.
“You know,” you muttered as he carried you toward the bathroom, “you're incredibly annoying.”
“So, I've been told.”
The warmth and steam greeted you the moment he pushed open the bathroom door. He set you down carefully, never once rushing you. The quiet that followed felt strangely intimate, more intimate and vulnerable than the sex you had minutes ago. There was no teasing, no poking, no insults, just the two of you helping each other wash away the longest day of your lives. Namjoon’s movements remained gentle, almost reverent, as though he feared even now that he might accidentally hurt you. As he reached for a towel, your eyes caught the distinct darkening mark on his shoulder. Heat rushed straight to your cheeks.
“I bit you too hard, didn't I?” Your fingertips hovered over the bruise before lightly tracing its edge. Namjoon glanced down before letting out a quiet chuckle.
“I've had worse.”
“I'm serious.” You admonish him, hands still tracing the mark.
“So am I.” He looked back at you, smiling softly. “Don't worry about it, darling.” His hand briefly covered yours. “It's a very small price to pay.” Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. Once you were both clean, you slipped into one of his oversized silk shirts, the sleeves swallowing your hands.
Together, you returned to the bedroom. The rose petals still decorated on the floors and the satin sheets, bunched around the edges. Only the centre told the story the family would expect to see.
Neither of your spoke. Namjoon quietly crossed to the linen chest at the foot of the bed and pulled out a fresh cream flat sheet. With practiced care, he spread it over the mattress, smoothing every crease until the stained bedding disappeared beneath pristine fabric.
You watched him in silence. It didn’t feel like he was ashamed of what you did or that he was embarrassed, more like protective, as though he couldn't spare you tomorrow morning, but he could spare you from staring at the reminder all night. When everything was finished, he pulled back the duvet.
“Let’s sleep.” You climbed beneath the covers with a grateful sigh. The mattress dipped a moment later as he joined you. You waited. Surely now, he'd wrap an arm around your waist, pull you against his chest, brush your hair back, whisper goodnight.
Instead, he lay down on his own side of the bed, not far but not touching you either. A careful gap remained between your bodies.
You frowned. You'd just married him, shared the most vulnerable night of your life with him and now he was treating the mattress like it had a border neither of you was supposed to cross. You began mentally composing an argument about the emotional incompetence of mafia men when his voice broke the silence.
“This—” He stared quietly at the ceiling. “—is the only pleasure of matrimony I can promise you.” You turned your head. His expression was unreadable. After a long pause, he spoke again.
“Thank you—” His voice was barely above a whisper. “—for marrying me.”
Silence settled over the room once more. The words echoed in your mind long after he'd said them. A dull ache spread quietly through your chest. You closed your eyes before they could betray you.
How foolish of you.
For a few beautiful hours, you'd almost allowed yourself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps he had begun to love you. But this, all of it, i was only gratitude. Somehow, that hurt far more than his honesty ever had.
From the moment your engagement was announced, you had understood what this marriage was to him. A duty. An obligation. A strategic alliance between families. You had accepted that early on, forcing yourself to be practical about it. There were never supposed to be feelings.
You knew that and yet, the past few months had been confusing. Namjoon had been kind and patient. Surprisingly attentive in ways you hadn’t expected. He had defended you more than once when others questioned you. He had made an effort to speak to you privately at gatherings, to make sure you were comfortable. The day of your engagement, he had kissed you with a confidence that had left your heart racing for hours. He had looked at you like he actually wanted you.
You were never foolish enough to believe he loved you, but you certainly didn’t think he hated you either.
A man doesn’t willingly kiss a woman like that, doesn’t hold her close, doesn’t let his hands linger, if he feels nothing at all or so you thought.
So, what were you to him? Was all of that kindness just strategy? A way to soften you up, to make you agreeable, so that when the night finally came you wouldn’t resist when he touched you? Was all that warmth just a careful performance? A way to ensure you quietly allowed him to take what he needed from you? Was that all you were in his life?
A duty. A body. A quick fulfilment of tradition. The thoughts spiral before you can stop them, cruel and relentless, until your chest tightens painfully. You bury your face into the pillow, shoulders trembling as quiet tears slip free. You try to cry silently. You really do.
“Good night,” Namjoon says after a long moment.
You don’t reply. You can feel him waiting beside you, the silence stretching between you like something fragile. When no response comes, he lets out a quiet sigh. Then the room falls still. Now, hours later, as dawn slowly creeps through the room, Namjoon stares down at the sheets with hollow eyes.
He notices everything, the stains, the dishevelled bedding, the marks on your skin where his hands had held you too tightly, each detail makes something sour twist in his stomach. He feels disgust, not at you, but himself. He feels dirty, feels pathetic, like something inside him has rotted away. Because the truth presses harder the longer, he thinks about it.
He forced himself on you, didn’t he? You had held onto that part of yourself for years—something precious, something private, and he took it without truly stopping to ask if you were ready, without asking if you wanted him, just hours after standing in front of the entire Bangtan family, promising to keep you happy, promising to protect you.
The memory burns like acid in his chest. He wants to say something now. He wants to turn to you, to ask you directly. Did you want it? Did you agree because you truly wanted him in the moment or because you felt you had no choice?
You’re his wife. He cares about you. He would never hurt you intentionally, but then another quiet sob escapes from your side of the bed and the sound shatters whatever fragile defence he had built in his mind.
Namjoon closes his eyes. Because in that moment, one thought feels impossible to escape.
Maybe the men who call him a monster weren’t wrong.
Namjoon had not slept, not even for a second.
The entire night had passed with him lying awake, staring at the ceiling while guilt settled heavily in his chest. It clung to him like something physical, thick and suffocating, the kind that seeped into bone and made him feel unclean in a way he had never experienced before.
He had done something he once swore he never would, lowered himself to a place he had always believed he was better than and the worst part of it all and you had cried yourself to sleep.
The memory makes his jaw tighten.
He had heard it. Every quiet sniffle you tried to muffle into the pillow, every shaky breath that trembled through your body as you lay beside him. Silent tears had slipped from your eyes, darkening the pillowcase beneath your cheek while you tried so hard not to make a sound.
Each one had felt like a blade pressed slowly into his chest.
He hadn’t touched you, not after everything. He hadn’t dared.
So, he had simply laid there, rigid beside you, staring into the darkness while the weight of what he had done settled deeper and deeper into his chest. Now, as the faint light of dawn begins creeping through the curtains, reality crashes down on him again—the sheet ceremony.
His stomach twists violently at the thought. The very idea of it makes disgust rise bitter in his throat. An ancient, humiliating ritual—one that reduces a woman’s worth to a stain on a white sheet. Proof of purity. Proof of innocence. As though a life, a marriage, a woman herself could be measured by something so crude and so painfully unscientific.
If the sheets remain clean, the marriage is declared invalid. You would be cast aside. Stripped of the vows spoken just hours ago. Declared unworthy of the role you had stepped into as his wife.
Namjoon exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He hates it, every part of it. But he cannot stop it. Not yet. Not while his father still sits at the head of the table as Don. Not while Namjoon himself is bound by traditions older than him—rules he never wrote but is expected to uphold. Still, one day that will change. When he is the one sitting in that chair, when the power finally rests in his hands, this will be the first tradition he buries.
His jaw tightens again as another thought creeps in. What if Taehyung hurts Jangmi like he did you? There wasn’t much difference between your story and theirs after all. Taehyung was as much an Elite made-man as Namjoon, and Jangmi was innocent and a victim of this circus just like you. What if he has a daughter one day? What if she is forced to stand where you stood? What if some man, some husband chosen by politics or power puts her through the same humiliation he has just put you through?
His fists clench at his sides. The thought makes something dark stir in his chest. Maybe people would say he deserves this guilt. Maybe they would say this is the price of power. Maybe they would even be right.
But none of those changes one simple truth.
You didn’t deserve it.
“Join me for breakfast?” His voice is tentative, cautious, as if he is scared you will scream or throw the vase at him. You look up from where you sit at the vanity, brushing your hair with slow, distracted strokes. There’s a dull ache in your chest, a heaviness in your limbs, but you force yourself to meet his gaze in the mirror.
“Can I?” Your voice is quiet, uncertain. “Shouldn’t I be out welcoming the guests?”
“They won’t mind,” Namjoon says. “Not if I say I want to keep you to myself.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You can say that, and they’ll listen?”
“Do they have a choice?” He exhales a soft chuckle, though it lacks humour. He isn't wrong. The world bows at his feet, even when he doesn't want it to. When you don’t reply, and simply hold his gaze, as you comb, he shifts, licks his lips unsure and says, “Have you seen the estate?”
You hesitate, then shake your head. “I mean,” you murmur, setting the brush down, “we were very busy last night. I barely got to see anything. Will you give me a tour?”
His lips part slightly, caught off guard by the question. A glimmer of something passes through his eyes.
“Come on,” he says, offering his hand. “We’ll start with my favourite place.”
The morning air is crisp, the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine lingering as Namjoon leads you through the sprawling grounds of the estate. The sky is a soft blue, golden sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the cobblestone paths.
He keeps a careful distance from you as you walk, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, as if afraid to overstep. When you reach the terrace overlooking the gardens, a staff member is already waiting with a table set with food. Namjoon pulls out a chair for you before taking his seat across from you. You are still looking around, wondering when Namjoon had the time to set up a breakfast with you, when he ours you a cup of coffee.
“Here’s your coffee,” he says, setting a cup in front of you. “Just how you like it.”
Your fingers curl around the porcelain, the warmth seeping into your skin. You take a slow sip, letting the familiar bitterness ground you.
“Black and bitter,” Namjoon muses, watching you. “How does someone with a face as sweet as yours enjoy something so acrid?”
You hum, setting the cup down. “Jangmi likes black coffee too.”
He scoffs. “She’s a raging lunatic.”
You arch a brow. “She’s your sister.”
“Exactly why I know her better than you do,” he says dryly, shaking his head.
Despite everything, a small laugh escapes you. It’s quiet, barely there, but Namjoon catches it. His shoulders loosen just the slightest bit.
“Try the stuffed French toast,” he says, nudging a plate toward you. “You’ll like it.”
You cut off a small piece, bringing it to your lips. It’s rich, soft, filled with cream and fresh berries—exactly the kind of thing you would have indulged in once, back when your life was simpler.
“Good?” he asks.
You nod, swallowing. “It’s perfect.”
He watches you for a long moment, then clears his throat. “What do you want for your gift?”
You blink. “Gift?”
“For the sheet ceremony.” His voice is steady, but there’s a flicker of something behind it. Something you can’t quite place. “It’s tradition. The husband gifts his wife something after her… success.”
A bitter taste lingers on your tongue, one that has nothing to do with the coffee. You glance away, staring at the garden below. “Shouldn’t we be waiting for the Bangtan women’s verdict first?”
Namjoon shakes his head. “No.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “You are my wife, regardless of what they think. I know I was your first. I know I will be your only. So, ask for whatever you want, and I’ll get it for you.”
Your hands tighten around your cup, the weight of his words pressing into your chest.
“I don’t want anything, Joon,” you whisper. His heart softens a bit at the nickname. He was expecting curses and tears out of you after last night, so a nickname truly warms his heart.
Silence stretches between you. Then, slowly, Namjoon reaches across the table, his fingers hesitating for only a second before brushing over yours. It’s the first time he’s touched you since last night.
“Then let me give you this,” he murmurs, voice low, earnest. “—a promise.” You glance up, searching his eyes. “One day,” he says, his grip tightening ever so slightly, “I will burn every trace of this tradition to the ground. So that no woman will ever have to suffer it again.”
Your breath catches. He was making a promise, a vow —and for the first time since last night, something inside you begins to thaw.
The sheet ceremony was archaic and disturbing, but even Madam Kim did not know how to undo it. She herself had never completed one. When she first married the Don, the circumstances had been complicated. There had been whispers, doubt, quiet judgment from the elders of Bangtan. It had taken years for her to truly be accepted—years of loyalty, sacrifice, patience.
She had birthed the next Don. She had helped raise the Elites like they were her own sons, feeding them at her table, patching them up after reckless fights, scolding them when their arrogance grew too large for their young shoulders. She had stood beside the Don through the darkest years of Bangtan.
Through the deaths of his parents, when the weight of leadership had fallen onto him far too young. Through the endless nights of whispered meetings and shifting alliances. Through multiple coups that threatened to tear the organization apart from the inside. She had watched men she once trusted turn traitor. She had seen blood spilled in the very halls of the manor. She had learned, slowly and painfully, how fragile power truly was.
While the Don fought wars outside these walls, she fought quieter ones inside them —holding the household together, managing the wives and families of made-men, calming fears when the streets ran violent.
She had buried friends, welcomed new brides who arrived trembling and uncertain, just like you. She had carried the weight of Bangtan in ways no one ever acknowledged, the silent labour expected of the woman who would one day be called Madam Kim.
And still, for years, some had whispered that she did not truly deserve the title.
Not until she proved herself, not until she endured enough —which was exactly why she refused to let another young woman be broken by traditions that had nearly broken her.
Maybe that was why she approached every sheet ceremony the same way now.
No matter how little blood there was no matter how questionable the proof might seem, Madam Kim always declared the marriage consummated.
Always.
Life was already difficult enough as the wife of a made-man in Bangtan. Women in this world carried burdens men would never fully understand —loneliness, danger, endless scrutiny. Being shamed and cast aside over something as meaningless as a stain on cloth was cruelty she refused to add to that list.
So, when Madam Kim left the Kim Manor that morning, she had already made up her mind. No matter what she saw you would not be disqualified —not today, not in this house, never during her reign.
Even so, the thought still made her uncomfortable in ways she could not quite explain. The idea of wondering whether her son and his wife had consummated their marriage felt intrusive, deeply personal in a way that made her uneasy.
Still, she hoped.
She hoped nothing depraved had happened in that room. If the marriage had been consummated, she hoped it had been because you wanted it and not because Namjoon had followed tradition in the cruellest way possible.
When neither you nor Namjoon came down to receive the ladies that morning, Madam Kim noticed it immediately. In this house, appearances mattered. Formalities mattered even more. A newly married couple was expected to greet the elders together the morning after the wedding —modest, respectful, composed. It was not simply etiquette; it was tradition.
Your absence was noticeable. Your mother noticed it too. Her polite smile remained in place as she accepted the tea offered by the staff, but Madam Kim saw the way her eyes flicked briefly toward the grand staircase.
“Perhaps they are still resting,” one of the older aunties said, a knowing smile spreading across her face. Another woman laughed softly into her kerchief.
“Well, it was their wedding night.” A few of the younger women giggled quietly among themselves.
Madam Kim did not laugh. She lifted her hand slightly, summoning one of the maids standing by the doorway. The girl hurried forward and bowed.
“Where is my son?” Madam Kim asked.
The maid lowered her eyes respectfully. “Young Master escorted Young Madam Nari upstairs shortly after the reception ended, Madam.”
“Escorted?” one woman repeated with raised brows.
“Oh, please,” another auntie said with amusement. “He whisked her away.” The room filled with soft laughter and whispers.
But Madam Kim felt her stomach tighten. Her son was not considered a good gentleman by most people. Neither was the Don. Men like them ruled through strength, fear, and blood. Their reputations carried weight for a reason.
Still, she had raised the Elites herself. She had watched those boys grow up in her halls —fed them, scolded them, guided them and she had made one thing very clear to them from the beginning.
Some acts were not mistakes or crimes, they were sins —betrayal, cowardice, violence against women. Those were stains that never washed away. So, while the women around her continued chatting and sipping their tea, Madam Kim sat very still and prayed quietly that Namjoon had not committed any of those sins against you.
The staff soon brought refreshments to the sitting hall.
Porcelain cups of steaming bori-cha and yuju-cha were placed carefully on the low tables. Plates of songpyeon, yakgwa, and delicate rice cakes followed.
But Madam Kim barely touched her tea. She did not want food. She did not want gossip. She wanted this finished. Setting her cup down quietly, she spoke.
“Let us go upstairs.” The room fell silent almost immediately.
A maid stepped forward to guide them, and the women rose together —ten in total. Madam Kim and your mother walked in front, followed by several senior women from both families. Their footsteps echoed softly through the long corridor as they approached the bridal suite.
The maid opened the door. Madam Kim stepped inside first. The room told its story immediately.
Rose petals that had once been scattered beautifully across the bed now lay crushed and scattered across the floor. Some clung to the tangled sheets, others had drifted under chairs and along the carpet. Candles had burned nearly to their ends, wax hardened into uneven trails down the holders.
The air still held a faint scent of roses and warm skin.
The bed itself was in complete disarray —sheets twisted, pillows pushed aside. The blanket half hanging from the mattress. There was no doubt the room had been used.
But Madam Kim’s eyes went straight to the bed, to the white sheets and there was a dark stain, red against the pale fabric—blood. She did not step closer. She did not examine it. She did not allow anyone else the chance to do so either.
Straightening her posture, Madam Kim turned toward the women behind her.
“The marriage has been consummated.” Her voice was calm and final. A few of the aunties exchanged satisfied glances. Someone murmured a soft congratulations. Before curiosity could turn into something uglier —before any of them could begin whispering or inspecting, Madam Kim gestured toward the door.
“That will be enough.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Let us return downstairs.” And just like that, she ushered the entire group back out of the room.
Brunch was served shortly after in the main dining hall.
The long wooden table had been laid out beautifully, the kitchen staff clearly preparing for a full house of guests. Steam curled gently from ceramic bowls and brass serving dishes, filling the room with the warm scent of sesame oil, broth, and freshly cooked rice.
Large platters of haemul pajeon and kimchi jeon were arranged beside bowls of soft gyeran-jjim, their fluffy egg custard trembling slightly as they were set down. There were small bowls of janchi guksu and tteokguk, light but comforting, along with bulgogi, grilled fish, and delicate plates of kimbap neatly sliced into perfect rounds. Fresh fruit —sliced pears, persimmons, and grapes sat beside trays of songpyeon and yakgwa for something sweet. Porcelain teapots filled with yuju-cha and bori-cha made their way around the table.
Soon the women settled into their seats, the earlier tension dissolving into comfortable chatter as plates were passed around and cups were refilled.
Your mother leaned slightly toward Madam Kim as she placed a small portion of bulgogi onto her plate.
“I will tell Nari she should provide Bangtan with an heir soon,” she said thoughtfully, as if discussing something perfectly reasonable. “An heir would secure her position very quickly. And I am sure the Don would be pleased to finally have a grandchild that carries his blood.”
Madam Kim paused mid-movement. Her spoon hovered over her bowl before she slowly set it down.
“No, Sook-ah,” Madam Kim said calmly. Your mother blinked, clearly surprised by the firmness in her tone. “Hwan is already our grandchild,” Madam Kim continued evenly. “The first.”
Your mother frowned slightly, confused by the direction the conversation was taking. “But—”
“If Saera and Youngho had not refused the position so fiercely,” Madam Kim said, setting her chopsticks down with quiet deliberation, “Hwan would have been the heir.”
The light chatter around the table faltered. A few of the women looked up from their plates, sensing the shift in tone.
“Huh?” your mother asked, caught completely off guard. Madam Kim’s expression remained composed, but there was a quiet authority in her voice when she spoke again.
“If Hwan walked into the Kim manor tomorrow and demanded the seat of the Don,” she said slowly, “I am quite certain the Don would not refuse him.” She lifted her cup, taking a calm sip before continuing. “And I believe Namjoon would step aside just as easily.” A few of the aunties exchanged startled glances. Madam Kim placed the cup back down. “Nari would agree as well,” she added, almost thoughtfully.
Madam Kim folded her hands neatly on the table.
“Namjoon’s child if born next will be the heir now,” she said plainly. “But that does not mean my other grandchildren would mean less.” Her gaze swept across the women seated around the table.
“Hwan is the first. And any child born to the Elites will be my grandchild as well.” There was a quiet authority in the way she said it. Your mother shifted slightly in her seat.
“But still,” she began carefully, “a child soon would—”
“They are newlyweds,” Madam Kim said, cutting her off gently. “They need time —to understand each other, to grow into the marriage.”
“But the family will expect—”
“We are still here,” Madam Kim interrupted softly. She gestured around the manor. “The Don and I are not going anywhere anytime soon.” Her expression softened just a little. “Let the youngsters be youngsters for a while longer.”
Your mother hesitated. Then she nodded slowly.
Madam Kim added one last thing, her tone calm but final. “Namjoon is the next Don, no matter what. Nari is the next Madam no matter what.” She lifted her teacup again. “There is no need to force a child into their lives to prove something that is already secure.” A faint smile touched her lips. “If they choose to give me a grandchild soon, I will be delighted to spoil the child.” She took a sip of tea. “But I will not force them.”
The conversation gradually shifted to lighter topics after that. Eventually, the women finished their meal and began preparing to leave the manor. One by one, cars were called and the guests were escorted out. Madam Kim personally saw them off. But when the final car rolled down the driveway and the gates closed behind it, she did not leave with them. Instead, she remained in the manor.
Now she wanted to see you, properly, not as part of a ceremony, not as a rumour whispered over tea.
“If she is hurt,” Her jaw tightened slightly. She would deal with her son herself. She stopped one of the maids walking down the hallway.
“Where is Nari?” The girl bowed quickly.
“They are at the garden in their wing, Madam.”
“They?” Madam Kim repeated.
“Yes, Madam. Young Master Kim is with her.”
Her brows pulled together slightly. “Are they arguing?” she asked sharply. “Is she hurt?”
The maid looked startled. “Oh—no, Madam. Not at all.”
“Then what are they doing?”
“They had breakfast together earlier,” the girl explained. Madam Kim blinked.
“Breakfast?”
“Yes, Madam. Young Master had breakfast prepared and served on the terrace this morning.”
Now that surprised her. Namjoon was many things. Romantic has never been one of them. Curiosity replacing some of her worry, Madam Kim walked slowly toward the garden, the soft gravel path crunching faintly beneath her shoes. The morning air was warm, sunlight spilling through the pergola vines and casting gentle patterns across the stone floor.
The moment she stepped into the garden, she stopped.
You and Namjoon were asleep on the large daybed beneath the pergola.
Curled instinctively against his side, as though your body had simply found the safest place it could rest. One of Namjoon’s arms was wrapped firmly around you, holding you close even in sleep. His body was slightly angled toward yours, broad shoulders forming a quiet barrier between you and the open garden. Even unconscious, there was something protective in the way he held you.
Your head rested against his chest. Your fingers were lightly clutching the fabric of his shirt, as though at some point in the night you had needed reassurance that he was truly there.
For a long moment, Madam Kim simply stood there, watching.
The tension she had carried since the wedding ceremony —since hearing whispers, since noticing the way you had walked, slowly eased from her shoulders. Her gaze moved briefly over you. You looked peaceful, safe and definitely comfortable. Her lips softened into a small smile. Quietly, she reached into her dress pocket and pulled out her phone. The camera shutter made the faintest click as she captured the moment —the two of you tangled together beneath the morning light.
Within seconds, she sent the photo to Jangmi. Then to the Don. She typed a single message beneath it.
Your son is doing right by his wife. I am proud.
After sending it, she slipped the phone back into her pocket and turned toward the maid waiting respectfully near the entrance of the area.
“Have their bedroom cleaned,” she instructed quietly. “And wake them later so they can rest properly inside.”
“Yes, Madam,” the maid said with a small bow.
“Change the sheets,” Madam Kim added thoughtfully. “Wash them and—”
The maid hesitated. “Madam, I am sorry to interrupt but Young Master Kim has already given instructions regarding the sheets.”
Madam Kim raised an eyebrow slightly. “Oh?”
The girl nodded carefully. “Yes, Madam.” A quiet pause stretched between them before the maid continued. “He ordered for them to be burned.”
Madam Kim’s gaze drifted back toward the pergola. You were still tucked against Namjoon’s chest, sleeping peacefully. His arm tightened slightly around you even in sleep, pulling you closer instinctively.
It was not possession —but protection. Understanding dawned slowly in her eyes. Namjoon had not asked for the sheets to be burned out of arrogance, or tradition. He had asked for it to be burned because he refused to honour the circumstances of that night, because the woman beside him had been pushed into something before she was ready, because if that moment was ever remembered, he wanted it erased.
Madam Kim exhaled quietly. Her son had always been stubborn, always been difficult. But sometimes, he surprised her.
“Yes,” she said softly. “That sounds like my son.”
—next chapter • chapter seven
—author's endnote • well—i finally did it. i honestly don't know how people write scenes like this so often. i rewrote this chapter more times than i can count, and at this point, i think i have parts of it memorized. it's still not perfect, and there are definitely things i'd like to refine, but i'm choosing to let it exist instead of chasing perfection forever. i'd really love to hear what you thought. did the pacing feel right? did the emotional weight come through the way i intended? and i'm especially curious about your thoughts on namjoon after this chapter—he was a very delicate balance to write. as always, your comments, reblogs, theories, random messages, keyboard smashes, or even a simple 'i liked it' mean more to me than you know. my asks and dms are always open if you want to talk about the story—or anything else. also, fun fact: i thought the wedding night would be the hardest chapter to write. then i remembered—there's a honeymoon chapter after this. this may have been a terrible decision. so if the next update takes a little longer than expected out from me, you know exactly which scenes i'm wrestling with. wish me luck. i hope you're all doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
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—chapter five • the union of souls: a day to remember and forever begins
—genre • mafia au × arranged marriage au × strangers to lovers au × best friend’s brother au ( angst × romance × smut )
—series • matters of the heart in the mafia
—story masterlist • the lily of bangtan
—previous chapter • chapter four
—rating • mature-rated
—wordcount • 10.7k
—warnings • trying to be dark and angsty. lots of bangtan traditions. arranged marriage. english not my first language. noob writer, experienced daydreamer.
—author's forenote • smut will be next chapter, i didn't realise a wedding of my fantasy would take over 10k words, so sorry to disappoint but smut is next chapter, but good news is that its written and scheduled to go up soon. this chapter is a bit extensive with how much i have explained stuff, but i like daydreaming about minute details like these. so, please indulge me.
—chapter summary • the day of the wedding, the night and all the bells and whistles of a traditional bangtan wedding.
The morning of your wedding begins before your eyes are even fully open. You're roused from sleep and promptly ushered into the whirlwind of preparations. After freshening up, you settle into a chair, wrapped in a soft robe, as the stylists begin their meticulous work. The quiet hum of their chatter blends with the soft music playing in the background, while the steady clicks of the photographer’s camera document every moment.
Your mind is a tangled mess of thoughts as you sip on a smoothie —anything heavier feels impossible to stomach. The stylists keep reminding you not to drift off, but the weight of anticipation keeps you wide awake. The butterflies in your stomach flutter relentlessly, a mix of nerves and excitement.
Your mother’s absence isn’t surprising. Your father, on the other hand, has been kept away at the photographers’ request, allowing for a ‘first look’ moment later. Truthfully, you prefer it this way —you know you’ll tear up the second you see him.
“Are you nervous?” the makeup artist asks, noticing the way your fingers fumble with the tie of your robe.
“Yeah,” You admit, but you leave it at that.
There's too much on your mind, too many emotions swirling inside you. Namjoon's words and actions from last night should have eased your nerves, and yet, they haven’t —not entirely. Maybe it’s the weight of the traditions looming over the next 24 hours, each one an expectation you must fulfil. Among them, the consummation of the marriage lingers at the forefront of your thoughts. A shiver runs down your spine —not just from anxiety, but something else. As your mind flickers between apprehension and desire, you exhale, bracing yourself for the day ahead.
“Mo-mo,” You hear Hwan's voice. Your mood is instantly a little better as your hear the boy’s sunshine voice, you turn around startling the makeup artist a little, greeting him as he runs to you in his red suit.
“Boo-boo!” You cheer, picking him up to place him on your lap, “You look so handsome!” You squeeze his cheeks, attacking him with kisses, as the adorable boy giggles loudly.
“Hwanie?” You hear Jangmi’s excited voice and you roll your eyes as you hear her heels click against the floor as she practically runs to you, “You look so handsome!” She pulls the boy away from your lap, perching him on her hips, “Did you miss me?” She asks, and much to her betrayal, Hwan says no, giggling loudly at her betrayed face.
You join in the laughter, “Give him to me,” You pull him into your lap again, “Who bought you this, Hwanie?” You asked, fixing his little coat.
“Googie samchun,” Hwan said, jumping down to the floor and twirling to show off his little suit, “It's nice, right?” You nod, chuckling at him.
“Suits you,” You press yet another kiss on his cheek.
“He couldn't have chosen a much more attention-grabbing suit, right?” Jangmi laughs, bending down to hug and lift the boy up in her arms. “But it suits you, Hwan-ie.” She kisses his chubby cheeks.
“Where's your Omma?” you ask, scanning the room for Saera.
“I'm right here,” Her cheerful voice comes, and you barely have time to turn before she pulls you into a warm hug.
“Did you really think I’d miss the honour of attending the next Don and Madam’s wedding?” She teases, squeezing you lightly.
“You mean you wouldn’t dare miss your Namu’s wedding,” You counter, jutting out your lower lip in a rare pout —something utterly uncharacteristic of you at twenty-five. “I know you have favourites,” You add, shooting her a mock glare. “And it’s not me.”
“Hey, that’s my baby brother!” Saera laughs shamelessly. “Of course, he’s my favourite.”
“Wow,” Jangmi interjects, clutching her chest like she’s just been mortally wounded. “So, I’m just the spare, I guess.”
Saera grins, offering a sliver of hope before swiftly yanking it away. “No,” she muses, pausing just long enough for dramatic effect. “You're my third favourite.”
“Bloody Jungkook is the second, isn’t he?!”
“Are you wearing lingerie under that robe?” Saera asked, her voice laced with playful mischief.
Jangmi giggled, nodding furiously in agreement. Earlier, she had whistled when you'd adjusted your robe, catching a glimpse of the delicate white lace beneath. You had shot her a glare and reminded her that it was forher brother, to which she’d dramatically gagged before promptly shutting up.
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you closed your eyes, hoping to salvage at least some dignity. “It's tradition to wear something pretty for the husband,” You mumbled, willing the conversation to move on.
“I know,” Saera teased, her giggle full of amusement. “And you wear garters for the husband too.”
“Garters?!” you screeched, eyes flying open. “I didn’t know we had a garter tradition! I've never seen—”
“Oh, we definitely do,” Saera interrupted, smugly folding her arms. “It's just a private tradition —one not meant for an audience. The garter is part of your lingerie, and your husband gets to remove it himself later that night.” She even had the audacity to drop you a wink.
“Yet another gift for the husband.” Jangmi scoffed, rolling her eyes, but hummed in agreement a second later. “Adds to the moment, I suppose.” Jangmi and Saera giggled again, and you fought the sudden urge to shove them straight off the balcony.
“You do realize I'll return this torture in full on your wedding day, right?” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at her. “When you marry Taehyung, I will have my revenge.” Jangmi stuck out her tongue before darting behind Saera as you lunged forward, her laughter ringing through the room.
“Yah, settle down,” Saera chided, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “Don't get yourself hurt. Namjoon will want you in one piece.”
You rolled your eyes but relented, sinking back into your seat. Saera smiled approvingly before producing a velvet box and placing it in your hands. “Wear the garter. And your heels. Omma asked the staff to bring the dress —she’ll be here soon.”
Lifting the lid, you found the garter nestled inside, a delicate creation of white lace adorned with shimmering blue sequins and a silky blue bow. It was intricate yet elegant —subtle, but undeniably alluring. You nodded wordlessly, slipping the garter over your thigh, the soft lace feeling cool against your skin.
Jangmi reappeared beside you, holding out your shoes. “And here’s your torture for the day,” she smirked.
The heels had been custom-made for the wedding —designed with comfort in mind, knowing you’d be wearing them from morning until night. The thick, supportive block heels ensured stability, while the elegant straps wrapped securely around your ankles, promising a perfect fit. The craftsmanship was exquisite —baroque-like details etched into the golden embellishments, adding a regal touch. Despite their height, they were surprisingly light, making movement effortless. You slipped them on, fastening the buckles as the pieces of your bridal attire was slowly coming together.
The moment you slipped your feet into the towering heels, you wobbled, the unexpected height throwing you off balance. Your stomach flipped as the ground felt farther away than usual. Jangmi and Saera both rushed forward, hands outstretched to steady you, but you quickly lifted a hand to stop them, catching yourself before they could.
“I'm good,” you muttered, exhaling sharply.
Saera arched a brow. “Barely.”
Jangmi giggled. “We should tie you to oppa before the wedding so you don't trip at the altar.”
You shot her a glare but didn't respond, instead turning towards the large mirror. You had barely looked at yourself since this morning, too distracted by the constant rush of preparations, too focused on following instructions, listening to Saera and Jangmi’s playful banter —just like old times, after they had sent Hwan away with Jungkook and Taehyung.
Now, as you finally took yourself in, your breath caught.
Your makeup was soft, elegant —ethereal. Shimmering eyeshadow caught the light every time you blinked, a gentle glow dusted your cheeks, and your lips had just the right tint of colour to look effortlessly perfect. Your hair had been curled and styled into a bun —it was arranged meticulously, structured yet romantic, designed to accommodate the tiara.
Your fingers trembled as you reached up to lightly touch the heirloom.
The tiara was stunning —massive diamonds and pearls intricately woven together to form a halo-like design. A Kim family treasure, it had first been crafted for the very first Madam, a symbol of power and legacy. Only eight women before you had worn it, including the current Madam and Saera herself. It was over six generations old.
And now, it was yours to wear.
You swallowed.
“You should put on the blindfold now,” Jangmi said suddenly, breaking your trance. She pulled a sleep mask out, holding it up with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Let’s hope this is secure enough, and you don’t catch a peek of the dress before time.”
You frowned. “Is this really necessary?”
“It’s tradition,” Saera and Jangmi chimed in unison, their synchronized answer almost eerie.
You sighed, rolling your eyes, but took the mask and slipped it over your eyes.
You hadn’t seen your wedding dress yet. It was a long-standing Kim family tradition for the mother-in-law to choose the bride’s gown —a custom meant to symbolize acceptance into the family, though to you, it felt more like a test of blind faith.
A part of you had been disappointed at first, longing for the experience of selecting your own dress, of running your fingers over delicate lace and shimmering silks, of deciding for yourself that you would wear on one of the most important days of your life. But you knew better than to dwell on it. Madam Kim was nothing if not extravagant, and despite her simpler nature, she had impeccable taste. You trusted that she would choose something fitting of her son’s bride. Besides, Jangmi had assured you, more than once, that if her mother dared to pick an ugly dress, she’d personally set it on fire.
You had tried it on a few times, of course —blindfolded, another tradition meant to preserve its sanctity until the big day. Each fitting had been a strange, almost surreal experience. Standing still as seamstresses flitted around you, their fingers adjusting fabric and pinning lace, you had felt the weight of the gown, the soft rustle of its skirts, the gentle tug of a corset being tightened just right. It was heavy, luxurious, something undoubtedly designed to make a statement.
But what did it look like? Was it sleek and regal, or romantic and flowing? Were there pearls stitched into the bodice? Embroidered roses trailing down the train? You could only imagine, left to build a vision from the fleeting sensations of silk against your skin and the whispered compliments of the women around you.
Soon, the blindfold would come off. Soon, you would see yourself as a Kim bride.
“The dress is here,” Saera announced.
The sound of wheels rolling in filled the room as staff carefully brought in the dress stand. There was a rustling of fabric, the low murmurs of the assistants working swiftly, and the occasional sharp inhale from Jangmi —undoubtedly reacting to the sight of the gown.
You, however, saw nothing. Instead, you felt.
The next several minutes passed in a flurry of movement. The weight of the fabric as it was draped over your body, the soft whisper of the material against your skin. The careful slide of sleeves over your wrists, the structured bodice fitting snugly against your frame, the gentle tug as they fastened the gown in place. You reached out blindly, fingertips grazing the textured embroidery, the intricate beading —trying to imagine how it looked.
You couldn’t tell much, but knowing the Kims, it would be a statement piece for sure.
Finally, they stepped back, their hands leaving you.
A moment of silence settled. Then, Saera spoke. “Perfect,” she murmured, voice full of something unreadable. There was a pause before she called out, “Go get Omma.”
You shifted slightly, fingers twitching against the fabric of your dress. The anticipation was unbearable. Then, Saera's hands found your shoulders. She turned you gently, repositioning you to face where you thought the mirror should be. Her voice was softer this time, almost reverent, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the moment.
“You can take off the mask now.” You hesitated for half a second before lifting the blindfold.
And when you finally saw yourself —you almost didn’t recognize the woman staring back at you. You exhaled, pressing your hands to your lap to steady yourself. It was really happening.
Your breath hitched.
The dress —your dress was unlike anything you had ever seen before.
The bodice was sheer perfection, sculpted to your figure like it had been crafted just for you. Delicate illusion sleeves clung to your arms, barely there yet impossibly stunning, an extension of your own skin. Pearls and crystals cascaded across your collarbones like stars scattered across the midnight sky, shimmering with every breath, every movement. They trailed down your shoulders, tracing elegant patterns along your arms, wrapping around your wrists like fine jewellery.
The sweetheart neckline was graceful yet bold, accentuating your neckline with a regal softness. The sheer fabric at the back was adorned with the same delicate embellishments, creating the illusion that the pearls and crystals were floating over your skin. Then, there was the skirt.
The moment your gaze dropped; your breath left you entirely.
It was magnificent. Layers upon layers of the softest, most ethereal fabric pooled around you, forming an A-line silhouette that was both grand and weightless. The skirt was full, poofy—but not overwhelming. It moved like liquid moonlight, each fold catching the light, each gentle sway exuding effortless grace.
And the train –long and regal. It billowed behind you in a cloud of opulence, embroidered with subtle floral patterns that glimmered under the lights. Tiny, hand-sewn pearls dusted the hem like morning dew, a final, exquisite touch to an already breathtaking masterpiece.
You didn’t even realize you had been holding your breath until you exhaled shakily.
“Holy shit.” Jangmi let out a dramatic gasp. “You look beautiful!”
You swallowed thickly, your fingers brushing against the sleeves, the beading, the skirt —feeling every inch of the craftsmanship, the details, the weight of history and tradition stitched into its seams.
This wasn’t just a dress.
It was a crown —a crown fit for the Bangtan’s Madam and you were wearing it.
“I look… beautiful.” You say, utterly mesmerized with yourself. You twirl around, loving the way the train followed you.
“Beautiful is a small word for you, right now,” Saera smiles, looking proudly at you, “Namjoon is gonna be on his knees when he sees you, I swear.”
You giggle excitedly because, yeah —today, you could have any man on his knees praying for you, worshipping you.
“Omo!” You hear your mother-in-law, the Madam’s voice ring through the room. You grin and give her a bright smile, “Oh my god! You look absolutely divine, my darling! Namu is a lucky boy!”
“Thank you, ommo-nim!” You let her give you a hug, flushing when she holds both of your hands and tears up.
“I can’t believe this day has finally come,” She sniffles, “You have grown up so fast and so beautiful,” She lets go of your hand, wipes her tears, “I can’t wait to watch you have a family and grow to be an amazing woman I know you can be!”
“She is already an amazing woman, Omma,” Jangmi rolled her eyes at her mum, “Oppa—”
“I know that, you brat.” Madam Kim shot a dirty look, though cracking a smile as Jangmi giggled at being called a brat. “I am just so excited to see what life holds for them in the future,”
"Are you about to give another lecture?" Saera asked, eyeing him with suspicion. "You did the same thing while putting on my veil."
"Do I seem like someone who lectures all the time?"
"Yes." Saera and Jangmi nodded in perfect unison; their expressions solemn. You giggle, and the Madam shot them a glare, and turned to you.
“Did you not wear your earrings yet, sweetie?” Madam Kim asked, suddenly noticing that your ears were bare. Your eyes widen slightly, as you make an apologetic face.
“Almost forgot,” You smile abashedly, “Let me wear them right away.”
“Let me, honey.” Your mother-in-law said, thanking Saera as she brought forward your box of accessories.
You bent down a little to help her reach your ears, feeling oddly emotional at the care she was showing as she meticulously helped your put on your simple pearl and diamond earrings.
“All that is left is a veil,” Madam spoke again, “Bring the veil,” She instructed and Seara brought in a long veil.
The veil is soft between Madam Kim’s fingers, a delicate piece of lace, tulle and embroidery, its weight light in her hands but heavy with history. Generations of Bangtan brides have worn it before, each one stepping into a marriage bound not only by love but by duty, by power, by a world that does not forgive the weak.
As she lifts it, her movements are slow, reverent —like she’s not just placing fabric over your head, but bestowing something far greater; something weighty with meaning.
She adjusts the veil, stepping back to admire her work, before reaching for your hands. Her palms are warm, her grip firm but comforting. When she speaks, her voice is gentle, but there is steel beneath it.
“Nari,” she begins, eyes searching your face, as if memorizing this moment, “Marriage is… a lot of things. It’s love, yes, but love is not always enough. Love is easy in the beginning —when everything is new, when the world feels like it belongs to just the two of you. But love alone won’t carry you through the years.”
Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, her expression turning solemn.
“You will have to be forgiving. Not just once, not just when it’s easy, but over and over again. Some days, you will wake up and feel like Namjoon doesn’t understand you. Some days, you will feel like he is pulling away, or that the weight of his responsibilities is greater than the space he has left for you. And you… you will have to choose patience. You will have to remind yourself why you chose him in the first place.”
She squeezes your hands gently, but there is an unspoken warning in her words.
“You are marrying into a world that demands everything from its men. You are marrying a man who carries the world on his shoulders. There will be days when he comes home with blood on his hands —sometimes his own, sometimes others’. There will be nights when he cannot tell you where he has been or what he has done. And there will be moments when you will wonder if the man standing beside you is the same one you vowed yourself to.”
You swallow hard, your heart beating fast.
“But listen to me, my love,” Madam Kim continues, her voice unwavering. “You must never let this life make you bitter. Do not let silence build walls between you. Do not let anger turn to resentment. Be his peace, not his war.”
Her words settle deep, pressing into the spaces of your heart that are already bracing for what is to come.
“There will be fights,” She says, her mouth curling into a small, knowing smile. “Oh, there will be fights. He will frustrate you. He will shut you out. He will think that by keeping you in the dark, he is protecting you. And you… you will want to break him for it.” She exhales, shaking her head slightly. “But you must learn to forgive. To love him even when he makes it hard. To remind him, every single day, that he is not alone in this life. That he is not just a leader, or a soldier, or a man carrying the weight of an empire —he is your husband.”
Your throat tightens, vision blurring for just a moment. Madam Kim reaches up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the same way a mother would.
“Most of all, Nari… never stop choosing each other. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Because at the end of the day, love is not just a feeling —it is a decision. And every day, you must wake up and decide that no matter what, you will not give up on each other.”
She blinks rapidly, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a quiet laugh. “Aigoo, look at me, getting sentimental.”
You shake your head, blinking back your tears as you grip Madam Kim’s hands tighter. “No… this means everything to me, ommo-nim.”
In that moment, she became everything your own mother never was, and for the first time, you truly felt that having her as your mother-in-law was a blessing.
Madam Kim smiles, pride and affection shining in her gaze. “Then hold on to it, my sweet girl.”
She steps back, smoothing out the veil one last time, before whispering, “Now, let’s go —there is a husband waiting for you at the altar.”
And with that, she presses a final kiss to your forehead before stepping away, letting the moment settle between you like a promise —one sealed with love, with duty, and with the quiet strength that comes with choosing forever.
The door creaked open, slow and deliberate. The room was quiet except for the rustling of fabric as you adjusted the last details of your dress, smoothing out invisible creases, steadying the breath that had suddenly become shallow in your chest.
Then, you looked up. And there he was.
Your father stood frozen in the doorway, his broad shoulders squared out of habit, but there was something else in his stance —something almost hesitant. As if he were seeing you not just as you were now, but as every version of you he had ever known. The child he carried on his shoulders, the teenager who tested his patience, the woman who now stood before him, ready to step into a new life.
His eyes —those same eyes that had always held quiet strength, softened in a way you had never seen before. His lips parted, as if to say something, but for a moment, words failed him. His gaze drifted over you, taking in every detail. The delicate embroidery of your gown, the way your hair fell in soft waves, the way your hands trembled slightly before you clasped them together.
A slow breath left him, almost unsteady. He blinked once, twice, before finally shaking his head with a quiet chuckle, as if in disbelief.
“You look…” His voice was rough, edged with emotion he wouldn’t fully reveal. He cleared his throat, trying again. “You look beautiful, honey.”
A lump formed in your throat, unexpected but undeniable. Tears pooled in your eyes; your lips lightly trembling as you reached out to him.
He stepped closer, reaching out with careful hands —the same hands that once guided you across the street, that held onto the back of your bicycle, that fixed broken things without ever being asked. He straightened the delicate jewellery at your wrist, smoothed a stray wisp of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering for just a second longer than necessary.
Then, he exhaled, his eyes meeting yours. “I’m so proud of you.”
It was soft, but it landed with the weight of a lifetime.
And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the nerves, not the anticipation, not the photographers clicking pictures, not the ceremony waiting beyond these walls. Just this. Just his first look.
The sleek black limo hummed softly as it cruised through the streets, the golden glow of streetlights flickering across the tinted windows. The weight of your dress pooled around you, heavy against your lap, matching the heaviness in your chest. Your fingers twisted together; knuckles pale with tension.
Beside you, your father shifted, then sighed. As if sensing the unease in your posture, he reached for your hand, covering it with his own. His grip was warm, firm —steadying.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart.” His voice was soft, laced with quiet pride.
You swallowed hard, turning to look at him. His face, lined with age and wisdom, carried something else—something unspoken.
“Are you ready?”
A part of you wanted to shake your head. To tell him no, to beg him to take you back home, back to a time before all of this. But instead, you only exhaled. “I don’t know.”
He gave your hand a squeeze, a small smile playing at his lips. “That’s alright. No one ever really is.”
The words didn’t comfort you.
You hesitated before speaking again. “I know this is what you wanted, but…” Your throat tightened. “What if it doesn’t work? What if I—”
Your father’s grip on your hand tightened, just a fraction. “You’ll make it work.”
Your breath caught.
He turned to face you fully, his expression still gentle, but now edged with something more serious. “Marriage, in our world, is not something you walk away from, honey.” He stroked his thumb over your knuckles, as if bracing you for the weight of his words. “It’s a bond that holds —promise. You don’t get to undo it because it’s hard.”
You blinked, heart hammering.
“But what if—”
He shook his head. “You can visit me whenever you want, my love. My door will always be open to you.” He paused, his voice dropping just slightly. “But it won’t be the same. This is your home now. He is your home. Your place is with him.”
Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. You turned away, staring out the window as the venue came into view, towering and grand, bathed in soft golden lights.
“Will he treat me well?” Your voice was quiet —small.
Your father was silent for a moment, and then, with careful certainty, he said, “He’ll treat you right.”
Not with love. Not with kindness. But right.
It wasn’t what you wanted to hear.
The limo came to a slow, smooth stop.
Your father let out a slow breath, then cupped your face gently, his rough palm warm against your cheek. “You are strong, sweetheart —stronger than you know. And no matter what happens, you will carry this with grace. Like the women before you.”
A lump rose in your throat. “I don’t want to leave you.”
His gaze softened, but there was something final in the way he looked at you. “You’ll never lose me.” A pause. “But you have to step forward now. Not back.”
The door opened.
With a deep breath, he held out his arm. And, with the weight of inevitability pressing down on you, you took it.
It was time.
The air in the private study is thick, with aged leather, old cigars, and unspoken truths. The weight of generations clings to the mahogany bookshelves, the heavy drapes, the very walls of this room that has witnessed countless decisions shaping the bangtan empire.
Namjoon stands in the centre, sharp in his wedding suit, but tense. His fists curl loosely at his sides, not in defiance, but in restraint, in control. Yet his father sees through him, as he always has.
Behind him, the rest of Bangtan stands in silence. Their presence is a quiet force in the room, the unbreakable brotherhood that has always defined them. They are dressed in their finest, but even in their polished shoes and pressed suits, there’s an edge to them, the unspoken understanding that this is more than just a wedding day.
This is a transition —shift in the ground beneath them all.
“Sit,” the Don commands.
Namjoon obeys, moving to sit on leather chair across from grand desk. The weight of this moment settles in his chest —not just as a son, not just as an heir, but as a man on the precipice of something unknown.
The Don studies him carefully before speaking.
“You are about to take a wife.” The words are simple, yet they carry the weight of a decree. “And with her, a new kind of responsibility. Not one of duty, not of obligation —but of choice.”
Namjoon doesn’t respond, but his father sees the slight shift in his jaw. The way he braces, prepared for the lecture on power, on control.
But the Don leans forward instead, his gaze sharp and piercing.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, voice low. “That this is another contract. That this is another alliance to uphold, another role to fulfil.” He tilts his head slightly. “But listen to me, and listen well, son. Marriage is not a transaction. It is a battlefield. And if you are not careful, if you treat it like anything less, you will lose before the war has even begun.”
Namjoon exhales slowly, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He has won wars. He has commanded men. But this feels like a different kind of fight altogether.
The Don studies him, then leans back in his chair, his fingers interlocking atop the desk.
“You think you understand loyalty,” he says. “But you don’t —not yet.” Namjoon’s spine stiffens slightly, but his father continues. “You have been loyal to me. To this family. To this life. But now, you will learn a different kind of loyalty —the kind that binds two people together in ways more unshakable than any blood oath or family name.”
A pause. Then, softer, not weaker, but more deliberate.
“She will need to trust you, even when she fears you. She will need to rely on you, even when she resists. And you—” he exhales slowly, as if speaking from experience, “you will have to let her in, even when everything in you tells you to keep her at a distance.”
Something tightens in Namjoon’s chest. The Don sees it. He lets the silence settle; lets it sit heavy between them before speaking again.
“There will be nights when you are tired. When the weight of this life is too much. When you will want to bear it alone.” His voice dips, a warning, a plea. “Do not shut her out.”
Namjoon clenches his fist, his pulse steady, but his mind restless.
His father’s gaze sharpens. “A man who rules his home with fear is not a man. Power is not about control —it is about how much you are willing to give away, and still be unshaken.”
Namjoon swallows. He has never been afraid of power. Never doubted his ability to wield it. But this is something else entirely.
Then, his father speaks the words that shake him to his core.
“Do you love her?” Namjoon stills. His breath catches, just slightly, just enough for the Don to notice. For the first time in his life, Namjoon has no answer.
The Don exhales through his nose, as if he expected it. Then he nods, slow and measured.
“Then listen to me.” His voice is quieter now, heavier.
“Love is not something you wait to feel. It is something you build —brick by brick, day by day. Love is deciding, every morning, that you will not walk away, that you will not be the kind of man who leaves his wife wondering where she stands.”
The words cut deeper than Namjoon expects.
His father has never spoken to him like this —not as a Don, not as a leader, but as a husband who has fought this war himself. For the first time, Namjoon wonders what kind of man his father was on his own wedding day. If he was just as unsure, just as shaken.
The Don rises from his chair, walking around the desk until he is standing before Namjoon. Then, slowly, he reaches for the tie draped around his son’s collar.
With steady hands, he begins to knot it.
“You are my heir,” he murmurs, tightening the fabric, making it crisp and perfect. “You are my blood. But today, you take on a new title.”
He lifts his gaze, meeting Namjoon’s eyes—the same dark, piercing gaze that mirrors his own.
“Husband.”
Namjoon’s throat feels tight.
The Don fastens the last knot, then pins the Bangtan brooch to his lapel, securing it with a firm press of his fingers.
Then, the final touch—the boutonnière. A delicate bloom, carefully chosen, carefully placed. A symbol of unity.
The Don steps back, surveying his work.
“Be a good one,” he says. “Because when the world tests you and it will, when the weight of this life bears down on you, she will be the one standing beside you.”
He turns then, letting his gaze sweep over the rest of the room. Over the six men standing in silence —watching, listening, learning.
“And this lesson,” he says, voice firm, carrying across the space, “is for all of you.”
The Don turns to look at all the Elites standing around.
“All of you have made me proud,” he says, his voice steady but carrying something deeper than authority. “You have stood beside each other, as brothers, as comrades, as made-men, as my sons. You have built this empire with us. You have proven yourselves again and again.” He takes a breath, “But one day, each of you will stand where he is standing now.” His eyes sharpen.
“And when that day comes, I do not want to repeat this conversation.” He says, “You think you are only here to witness his moment, but you are wrong. This is a lesson each of you will need.”
There’s a faint smirk from Yoongi, the ghost of a smile from Jimin. But none of them dare to break the gravity of the moment.
“As always, you will learn from each other. And I expect you to remember these words when your time comes.” His voice lowers, rough with something that feels almost like affection. “When you stand where Namjoon is standing now, I hope you will not have to ask yourselves the same questions. I hope you will already know the answers.”
He exhales, looking over them one last time.
“When you take a wife, you take on more than a title. You take on a life that is now tied to yours, irrevocably.” His gaze lingers on each of them. “Do not take it lightly.”
His gaze lingers —piercing, searching.
“You will owe her more than your name, more than your protection, Namjoon-ah. You will owe her certainty.” His words settle like a final decree, something absolute, something unshakable.
“Do not take it lightly. Love is not given. It is earned. It is protected. It is built.”
Then, almost like a farewell.
“When I am gone, and you have only each other, remember this.”
The weight of those words lingers.
The Don looks to Namjoon one last time, adjusting the lapel of his suit with deliberate care, as if imprinting this moment into the fabric itself.
The silence is deafening and then, softer but no less powerful:
“Do not be the kind of men who make their wives wonder where they stand.” Then, with finality, the Don gives Namjoon’s shoulder one last squeeze. “Now go,” he murmurs. “Your bride is waiting.”
Namjoon nods, and for the first time all night, he does not hesitate.
You stand beside your father in front of the towering double doors leading into the grand wedding hall, your fingers clutching the bouquet tightly in one hand while the other rests in the steady grip of his arm. A quiet tension hums in the air, your heart pounding against your ribs as the weight of the moment settles over you. Inside, Saera, Jangmi, and the rest of your loved ones are already seated, waiting. But beyond them, beyond the lavish floral arrangements and the golden glow of chandeliers, waits the most important figure of all —Namjoon. The next Don. The man who will soon be your husband.
The moment the doors swing open, a rush of music swells from the live orchestra, and for a fleeting second, anxiety grips you so tightly you nearly forget to breathe. The sea of faces, the hushed murmurs of admiration —it all feels too overwhelming. But then, your father’s reassuring hand squeezes yours, grounding you, and you inhale deeply before stepping forward.
You opted not to wear a veil, allowing everyone to see the quiet determination in your eyes, the soft curve of your lips as you take your first steps down the aisle. And then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, your gaze locks onto Namjoon.
He stands at the edge of the stairs leading to the altar, framed by the soft glow of lights, a vision of strength and elegance. His bespoke navy tuxedo fits him like a second skin, accentuating his broad shoulders, his presence both commanding and impossibly magnetic. His dark hair is styled to perfection, but it’s his expression that steals the breath from your lungs.
He isn’t just watching you —he’s drinking you in. His lips curve into a small, knowing smile, one that holds a thousand unspoken promises. And he never looks away. Not once. Not as you glide down the aisle, not as your father gently places your hand into Namjoon’s extended palm, and certainly not as he grips it with a tenderness that makes your pulse stutter.
“Take care of my daughter, Namjoon.” Your dad places your hand on Namjoon's extended ones, smiling and pats his arm affectionately.
“I will, Abeo-ji.” Namjoon replies, making you father nod, turn to you and place a kiss on your head. Namjoon’s gaze flickers to him only for a moment before returning to you, his thumb brushing over your skin in a silent vow. “With everything I have,” he murmurs, voice low, rich, and meant only for you.
“I love you, sweetie.” He says, eyes slightly teary.
“I love you too, Appa.” You say, your own voice is shaky at the range of emotions you were feeling. Namjoon lets you two have your moment before your father, gives him a smile and leaves the two of you at the end of the altar.
“Shall we?” Namjoon whispers and you give him a nod, looking up to him. He leads you up the stairs to where the officiant stood, waiting for you.
Once you had taken your place beside Namjoon, the two of you exchanged shy smiles. The weight of the ceremony, the hundred eyes watching, should have made you uneasy —but standing next to him, watching his dimpled grin peek through his usual calm exterior, you felt something unexpected —comfort. A quiet part of you was genuinely happy to be here, to be marrying him.
The officiant took a knowing glance at your expressions before subtly signalling for the music to stop. The room hushed as he began to speak.
“Marriage is not merely the joining of two names, nor is it a bond woven by convenience. It is a sacred vow —one that will be tested by time, by fate, and by the trials that only life can bring. Today, in the presence of those who stand as witnesses, Kim Namjoon and Baek Nari vow to stand together —not just in the brightness of prosperity, but in the shadows of uncertainty, in the storms that may try to tear them apart.
A husband and wife are not bound by love alone, but by loyalty, by trust, by the quiet strength of knowing that through all things, they will choose each other. This is not a promise of perfection, nor a pledge that all will be easy. It is the assurance that when the weight of the world grows heavy, these two hands will share the burden. That when darkness falls, this light will not be extinguished. That through betrayal and war, through grief and joy, through power and ruin —this bond will endure.”
The officiant turned his gaze to Namjoon.
“Kim Namjoon, do you take Baek Nari to be your wife —To honour her as your equal, to shield her from harm, to walk beside her through the trials of fate, vowing to be her fortress in times of strife, her solace in moments of doubt, her greatest ally and fiercest protector and to hold no other above her, to cherish her with all that you are, for as long as breath remains in your body?”
Namjoon's fingers tightened slightly around yours, his voice low and steady.
“I do.”
The officiant turned to you.
“Baek Nari, do you take Kim Namjoon to be your husband —To trust in his strength, to stand unwavering by his side, to be the fire that fuels him when the world demands more than he can give, vowing to guard his secrets as your own, to be his refuge when the world turns cold, to love him not just in days of peace, but in the storms that will surely come and to stand as his partner, his equal, his home —until time itself is no more?”
Your chest ached with the weight of the words, but there was no hesitation as you met Namjoon’s gaze and answered, “I do.”
The officiant nodded, solemn and knowing.
“Then, as a sign of this unbreakable vow, you will now exchange rings. These rings are not mere ornaments, but symbols of the promise you have made today. Metal, as strong as the bond you have forged. A circle, without end, as eternal as the commitment you have sworn.”
“Namjoon, please place the ring on the bride’s left hand and repeat after me,” The officiant says, waiting to read the next words.
Namjoon bends down to the ring-bearer Hwan, adorably giddy in his red suit and pulls at the ribbon keeping the ring in place. He takes the ring, pats the young boy on his chubby cheek and murmurs, “Thanks, buddy.”
He stands up, straightening himself and he extends his palm out. You give him your hand, expecting another luxurious multi-diamond ring that will catch everyone's attention. You are almost lazy in the way you try to keep your expression neutral but your eyes widen, at the ring Namjoon is delicately sliding onto your finger.
You gape at your wedding band —a breathtaking eternity-style ring featuring a continuous row of vivid, deep-red rubies, each gemstone meticulously set to catch the light with every movement, delicate layers of brilliant, pave-set diamonds frame the sides, adding a touch of ethereal sparkle that enhances the fiery glow of the rubies. The combination of rich crimson and shimmering white creates a striking contrast, making the ring an exquisite symbol of passion and elegance; a ring worthy of the next Madam of Bangtan.
Your eyes widen and you look up to Namjoon, who only smiles back softly, dimples showing as your cheeks warm. Despite the doom you were facing, your heart soared, bursting with sudden adoration and affection.
Diamonds were the gemstones for Bangtan —no one really bothers to change or take into consideration what the bride wants but the fact that you had mentioned you preferred rubies in a possibly forgettable scenario and Namjoon chose to have your wedding band —something you'll wear for life, made to your liking meant a lot to you.
“With this ring, I bind my soul to yours. It is a promise of devotion, a mark of my love, a claim that no force in this world can sever. From this day forth, you are mine, as I am yours.” Namjoon repeats, placing the ring on your finger. Bringing your ring-clad hand to his lips and pressing a loving kiss on it. Your heart bursts with affection, as you meet his eyes and he smiles.
He was smiling so much today and it wasn't helping your sanity.
“And now, the Bride, please place the ring on the groom’s left hand and repeat after me,” You bend down to Hwan, untying the ribbon to take the ring from the little pillow he was holding, grinning at you.
“You did great, boo-boo.” You whisper, pressing a little kiss to his cheek as the little boy loudly giggled, making the audience laugh at his cuteness. You can't help but let out a giggle of your own, before he runs away to Saera sitting next to the Kims. The Don lifted him up to place him on his lap and the Madam ruffled his hair and kissed his head.
You cast a glance at his matching ring, taking in it’s much simpler details —a striking yet understated piece, crafted from rich, gleaming metal. Its smooth, polished surface catches the light, the deep crimson rubies set within it glowing like embers. Bold yet refined, the ring is a perfect balance of tradition and individuality, a perfect balance of bangtan and you, and a symbol of unwavering commitment towards you two.
You take Namjoon's hands in yours, steady despite the whirlwind of emotions rushing through you. Carefully, you slide the wedding band onto his finger. As your fingers linger over his, you lift your gaze, meeting the steady warmth of your husband's eyes. With a quiet breath, you speak, your voice soft but certain.
“With this ring, I give you my heart, my trust, my vow. It is a symbol of all that I am, and all that I will ever be. From this day forth, you are mine, as I am yours.”
Namjoon extends a hand toward you, and without hesitation, you take it, fingers slipping naturally into his. Then, he offers the other, and you accept it just as easily, your gaze locking onto his. There’s curiosity in your eyes —perhaps even more admiration than one should have in a Bangtan marriage. You give him a soft smile as his thumbs brush gently over your fingers, his expression distant, as if lost in thought.
The officiant’s voice rings through the quiet moment, steady and heartfelt.
“To make your relationship work will take love, love that grows stronger with time, nurtured by the little moments you share. It will take trust, the kind that reassures you that, in your hearts, you always want what is best for each other. It will take dedication, to stay open, to learn, to grow together. It will take loyalty, to walk forward hand in hand, even without knowing what the future holds. And most of all, it will take commitment, to honour the promise you both make today.”
You glance at Namjoon, his deep, thoughtful eyes mirroring yours. With a small but resolute smile, you silently promise to the both of you that you will do just that. You will try your very best to make this marriage a happy one.
“Then, by the power vested in me, it is my honour and privilege to declare you husband and wife. You have entered this union with open hearts, and you will walk from here bound as one. May your love be fierce, your loyalty unshaken, and your journey together unbreakable. You may now seal this union with a kiss.”
The officiant steps aside, allowing the photographers to capture the moment in its perfect intimacy. As if drawn by instinct, you tilt your head slightly, shifting closer. Namjoon follows suit, his large, calloused hands gently cradling your cheeks, his touch both firm and tender.
“Thank you for marrying me,” He murmurs, his voice so soft you almost miss it before he presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is warm, featherlight, yet undeniably real. Your hands find their place on his shoulder and chest, grounding yourself in the moment. His lips feel like heaven against yours, but the moment ends far too quickly, and you hate to admit, even to yourself, that you’re just a little disappointed when he pulls away.
The officiant’s voice carries through the air once more.
“I am so pleased to present the newlyweds —Kim Namjoon and Baek Nari!”
Hand in hand, fingers intertwined, the two of you turned toward Bangtan and the gathered crowd. The piano tune played, and you felt yourself relax and smiled at the audience, watching your loved ones smile back at you.
The weight of the moment settled between you, unspoken but understood. Whatever came next, you would face it together.
Park Youra was a pianist of the otherworld, and with a face like hers, you wondered why she even stuck to performing at shady events.
You had often wondered how she had gotten tangled up with Bangtan. The Madam’s soft spot for her was no secret, but there had to be more. Hoseok had once offhandedly mentioned that she was repaying a loan, though that explanation had never sat right with you. Bangtan didn’t deal in simple debts.
And it seemed almost absurd —was this really their version of repayment? Performing at weddings and elite clubs, her delicate fingers dancing across the keys while dangerous men watched?
You didn’t have time to dwell on it. The speeches began.
The Elites spoke first, their words polished and deliberate —honour, loyalty, prosperity. They spoke of the traditions that bound Bangtan, of the unshakable foundations that had allowed them to thrive. And then they welcomed you, weaving you into their world with carefully chosen words and polite applause.
Then, the Don took the floor. His presence alone commanded attention, his voice smooth but lined with steel.
“Today, we do not just celebrate a union —we fortify an alliance. We do not just witness vows —we reaffirm our loyalty. Family is not merely blood; it is built in trust, in sacrifice, in the oaths we take and keep.” His gaze swept over the room, measured, assessing. A silent warning wrapped in a blessing.
Finally, your father stepped forward. The room hushed. His very presence was a force, and when he spoke, the words were edged with something heavier than sentiment.
“Marriage in our world is not just love —it is duty. It is the thread that weaves empires together. And so, to the newlyweds, may your bond be as strong as the family you now stand for. May your loyalty be unwavering, and your love a fortress.”
The room erupted in applause, but you felt the heaviness in the air.
These weren’t just well-wishes.
They felt more like warnings.
The applause was thunderous, but beneath the sound, you felt it. The weight of expectation. The unspoken conditions laced into every syllable. These weren’t just blessings. They were reminders.
And then, the music changed.
Your father turned to you with an expression that was both soft and knowing. “Come,” he said, offering his hand. “Let me have this dance.”
You hesitated for only a second before slipping your hand into his. The moment you stepped onto the floor, the melody shifted into something sweeter, gentler —a song from your childhood. His grip was steady as he led you into the dance, his movements guiding, careful. A father with his daughter. A moment meant to be tender, a farewell to the past before he placed you into your future.
“You remind me of your mother,” he murmured as he turned you. You would have felt insulted, if not for the very rare look of tenderness in his eyes at your mother’s name. “Fierce. Stubborn.” A pause. “Afraid.” Your breath hitched, but you said nothing. He sighed, squeezing your hand. “You don’t have to love him. He doesn’t have to love you —not yet at least. But you do have to trust him and I hope you never have to fear him.” The song reached its final notes, and your father pulled back slightly, his gaze flickering to the man waiting at the edge of the floor. Namjoon.
“He will be a great Don, my darling and he will do right by you,” Your father twirls you around, “and all I ask is for you to stay by his side and be the Madam he requires.” You nod, eyes teary at the overwhelming emotions you feel. He cups your cheeks, presses a kiss to your forehead, and looks at Namjoon who was walking towards you.
Your stomach twisted.
Your father exhaled slowly, almost reluctantly, before taking your hand and placing it into Namjoon’s waiting palm. His warmth spread instantly, engulfing yours. The moment your fingers touched, something shifted. Your father stepped back, nodding once to Namjoon before walking away.
Namjoon didn’t move at first. He just looked at you. The air between you felt thick, charged —something unspoken lingering between your breaths.
Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low. “May I?”
You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly around his before nodding.
He pulled you in, one hand settling at your waist, the other cradling your hand in his. His touch was gentle but firm, his presence commanding without force. The music played on, slow and melodic, as he guided you across the floor.
“You’re nervous,” He observed quietly.
You exhaled softly, forcing yourself to relax into his hold. “Wouldn’t you be?”
A small smirk ghosted across his lips. “I’d be more nervous if you weren’t already shaking.”
You tried to steady your breathing, lifting your chin slightly. “I have been handed to a man who commands half the underworld tonight,” you murmured. “Forgive me for being a little unsettled.”
Namjoon’s grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
Something about the way he said it made your pulse stutter. The way he held you, the way he moved, it was controlled, patient. As if he knew exactly how to ease you into his rhythm and that is exactly what you did. The world around you faded, the murmurs of the crowd becoming nothing more than background noise. It was just the two of you, moving in sync, the air between you thick with something unnamed.
You looked up at him then, into those dark, steady eyes. And for a moment —just a fleeting moment, you almost believed him.
The music ended. The applause came and loud hoots and cheers, washing over you in a wave.
But you barely heard it.
Dinner was nothing short of opulent, a feast fit for kings and conquerors alike. Platter after platter of rich, decadent food was placed before you, each dish more extravagant than the last.
Bowls of steaming janchi guksu arrived first, the delicate wheat noodles swimming in a golden broth, garnished with thinly sliced eggs, scallions, and strips of seaweed. A dish meant for celebration, for longevity —fitting for a night like this.
Then came the meats. Galbi, beef short ribs, glistening under the dim light, their surface caramelized from hours of marination in sweet soy and garlic, grilled to perfection. Slabs of samgyeopsal, thick pork belly, sizzled as they were seared at the table, wrapped in crisp lettuce with a dollop of ssamjang, the spicy bean paste adding a kick of heat.
Seafood, still tasting of the sea, rested atop beds of crushed ice —fresh hwe, thin slices of raw fish, paired with vinegared chojang dipping sauce. Steamed abalone, soft and briny, arrived in ceramic plates, while buttery grilled eel was basted in a dark, glossy glaze.
Rice, a staple, was anything but simple tonight. Bori-bap, nutty barley rice, was served alongside small dishes of jangajji —pickled vegetables bursting with sharp, fermented flavours. There was also yubuchobap, seasoned rice wrapped in thin pockets of fried tofu, slightly sweet and tangy.
And of course, no banquet was complete without jeon, crispy golden pancakes, stacked high. There were seafood pajeon, brimming with green onions and squid, and kimchi jeon, their edges perfectly crisp, the tangy fermented heat cutting through the richness of the other dishes.
For dessert, an array of tteok —chewy rice cakes, dusted with powdered soybean flour, filled with sweet red bean or crushed nuts —sat alongside elegant hwajeon, honeyed flower pancakes adorned with delicate petals. Small golden cups of sikhye, a sweet rice punch, were served to cleanse the palate, cooling and subtly spiced with ginger.
The wine poured endlessly, but not just the deep reds of European vineyards —tonight, there was also baekseju, a rice wine infused with medicinal herbs, and makgeolli, the milky, slightly effervescent drink served in rustic brass bowls.
Namjoon sat beside you, his presence an unwavering force, his fingers grazing yours when he reached for his glass. The warmth of the room, the richness of the food, the weight of the evening —it all pressed around you, thick with something unspoken. Neither of you spoke much, but the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable.
Just new, maybe even exciting.
The wedding cake was nothing short of a masterpiece —an opulent creation that towered over the banquet table, grand enough to feed all of Bangtan and then some. It stood tall, at least five tiers, each one adorned with handcrafted sugar flowers, intricate lace-like piping, and delicate gold leaf detailing that shimmered under the warm glow of the chandeliers.
Saera had outdone herself. The floral arrangements cascading down the tiers were so realistic they could have been mistaken for fresh blooms —peonies, roses, and magnolias in soft ivory and blush, interwoven with delicate strands of edible pearls. At the very top, a sleek, minimalist topper bore the initials of the newlyweds, cast in fine gold script.
When it was time to cut the cake, the room hushed. The knife, its handle wrapped in a silk ribbon, was placed in your hands first. Namjoon’s hand covered yours a moment later —firm, steady. Together, you sliced through the bottom tier, the blade gliding effortlessly through the velvety layers beneath the pristine fondant. A rich aroma filled the air as the first slice was lifted —a decadent combination of vanilla bean sponge, honey-soaked chestnut filling, and white chocolate ganache.
The first bite was tradition.
Namjoon turned to you, holding a piece between his fingers, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips. “Open,” he murmured, his voice just for you.
You hesitated for a fraction of a second before parting your lips, letting him place the sweet morsel against your tongue. The flavours melted together —soft, airy cake, the warmth of chestnut, the silkiness of ganache. Your turn. You took a piece and held it up to his lips. He didn’t hesitate. His gaze met yours as he bit down, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes before he swallowed.
Polite applause rippled through the room, and then the servers took over, carefully slicing and distributing the cake to the guests. Plates of the masterpiece were carried across the grand hall, each portion accompanied by a drizzle of honey or a scattering of crushed nuts, the perfect final indulgence after the lavish feast.
The wine flowed endlessly, deep red and velvety, tasting like warmth and fire on your tongue. Every sip burned just enough to remind you of the reality settling around you.
That this was your wedding night.
That you belonged to Bangtan now.
That you belonged to him.
Namjoon sat beside you, his presence an unwavering force, a shadow that had merged with yours the moment your father placed your hand in his. He didn't say much, but he didn’t need to. The weight of him beside you, the subtle brush of his fingers against yours when he reached for his glass, the way his gaze flickered toward you every time someone made a toast in your honour —it was enough to keep you aware, too aware.
The night stretched on, thick with laughter, murmured conversations, the low hum of celebration. Around you, the men drank, their voices rich with satisfaction, their hands clinking glasses filled to the brim with aged liquor. Women draped in silk and diamonds moved gracefully between them, offering flirtations and hushed words into waiting ears.
But none of it compared to him.
Namjoon wasn’t like the others. He didn’t revel in the festivities the way some of them did. He sat composed, his expression unreadable, his fingers tapping lazily against the stem of his wine glass. Observing. Calculating. Even now, surrounded by the warmth of victory, he remained untouchable.
And yet —he was yours.
The thought alone sent something shivering through you. Not fear. Something else. Something new.
Even as conversations resumed, the laughter and clinking of glasses filling the space, your mind lingered on that fleeting exchange —the briefest moment of sweetness in a night built on duty. The night stretched on, thick with laughter, murmured conversations, the low hum of celebration. But eventually, it was time.
And Bangtan did not let you leave quietly.
The farewell was grand, dramatic in a way that only Bangtan could make it.
The made-men grouped in two making a pathway for you two to walk, their suits crisp, their expressions joyous, their eyes happy. It was an honour —this parting. A tradition meant to seal the night, to acknowledge the weight of what had been done.
The moment you stepped forward, the sky erupted.
Fireworks exploded above, bursts of gold and crimson shattering the darkness, illuminating the night in violent beauty. The light painted fleeting shadows across the faces of the men who had now become your family, the ones who would kill for you, die for you —if Namjoon willed it.
Then, Namjoon took your hand.
Not forcefully, but deliberately. A silent reassurance. A quiet claim.
His fingers wrapped around yours, firm and unwavering. His grip was warm, steady, grounding. He did not pull, did not drag. He simply held, possessed, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
And you let him.
You walked together, step by step, down the aisle of men who had fought wars in the shadows, who had bled and killed for the empire they now welcomed you into. And then—
The gunfire began.
The deafening crack of bullets shattered the air, a chorus of steel and smoke. Shot after shot rang out, fired not at you, but at the sky, a salute, a tribute, a blessing wrapped in danger. It was tradition —Bangtan’s way of sending you off, their way of ensuring that the world knew this was not just a marriage. This was a union of power.
The vibrations of the gunshots thrummed through your bones, your heart pounding against your ribs as the scent of gunpowder and burning embers filled the night. The sound should have startled you. It should have felt ominous.
Instead, it felt like a beginning.
Somewhere among the noise, someone called out— ‘For good luck.’
Your grip on Namjoon’s hand tightened involuntarily. You didn’t know if it was from uncertainty or something else. Something raw, something electric.
He turned his head slightly, catching the motion. His thumb grazed over the back of your hand in response, a barely-there movement, an offering of comfort. Or perhaps a reminder. That you weren’t walking away from something tonight.
You were walking into it.
The doors of the sleek black car stood open at the end of the procession, waiting. The very last step before you left behind the version of yourself that had existed before.
You hesitated —just for a second.
Namjoon noticed.
He turned toward you, his free hand reaching out to brush the stray strands of hair from your face. It was an oddly tender gesture for a man like him, for a man who carried power like a second skin. But then, his fingers trailed downward, past your jaw, lingering for a second longer than necessary at the pulse of your throat. His touch was light, but deliberate. Testing.
"Ready?" he asked, voice low, just for you.
You weren’t sure if he was asking about the car.
Or about him.
You swallowed, the weight of his hand still ghosting over your skin, the sound of gunfire still ringing in the distance. The air smelled of burnt powder and champagne, of roses crushed beneath hurried footsteps.
Were you ready?
It didn’t matter.
The door closed behind you. The car pulled away. And your new life began.
—next chapter • chapter six
—author's endnote • did you guys like this chapter? as always, like, reblog and comment! let me know your thoughts, do you like namjoon so far? what about nari? feel free to drop an ask, anything you like about this universe and would like to discuss, I am all ears. I hope all of you are doing well, lots of love, aksh 💕
—taglist notes • comment on the post if you want to be tagged. If I have missed your name, please let me know. I'm back after quite a long time, so dropping a text to let me know I've missed your name would be ver helpful. If you are on the taglist but haven’t been notified, please check this post out.
Chapter Three of You Never Walk Alone can be found here 💜
—taglist notes | comment on the post if you want to be tagged. If I have missed your name, please let me know. I'm back after quite a long time, so dropping a text to let me know I've missed your name would be ver helpful. If you are on the taglist but haven’t been notified, please check this post out.
—chapter three • embracing a new dawn: wolves of bangtan and yoo ahmi
—collection • ot7!bts × reader stories
—story masterlist • you never walk alone
—previous chapter • chapter two
—genre • werewolf au × mate au × supernatural au × strangers to lovers au ( angst × romance × fluff × supernatural )
—rating • mature-rated
—wordcount • 9 k
—warnings • vampires exist. mentions of blood. consumption of blood and human remains. human body mutilation. badly written action scenes. death of loved ones. talks about insanity, cults, mass-psychosis and serial killings. the reader is found extremely hurt and almost dead. bites are a constant mention.
—author’s forenote • hi everyone! I have edited the last chapters a bit because I realised there were a few things I needed to add and remove to help better understand the flow of the chapter. So, please give that a read before reading through this. I am trash, so I am back after a year, please forgive me, and enjoy the chapter ahead!
—chapter summary • you meet jin's brothers and we find out partly how you ended up in the cult.
“Jin, do you—”
You hesitate, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “Do you mind staying back for a bit?”
His brow furrows in concern. “Is anything wrong, Ahmi-yah?”
“No-no,” You rush to say, shaking your head. “I just… I feel a little bored.” The admission feels small, almost selfish. You’re certain Jin has better things to do than entertain a heartbroken, injured girl who’s desperate for distraction.
Jin laughs softly, the sound warm and comforting. “Of course, I’ll stay. What do you want to do? Though,” he adds with mock seriousness, “I’m not sure screentime is advisable for you right now.”
“I mean, anything is fine.” You shrug. “You could just… talk. About yourself, about the people outside this room, about your world.”
His lips quirk into a small smile. “My world, huh? Well, I live here with my six younger brothers.” As if summoned, a loud crash echoes from somewhere down the hall, followed by a cacophony of shouts —half in agony, half in laughter. Jin rolls his eyes so exaggeratedly you can’t help but grin. “That’s them, by the way. The rascals causing the chaos.”
“Tell me about them?” you ask, your curiosity piqued. You had heard all these loud noises the past few weeks, but you knew nothing about the people causing them.
“Let’s start with Yoongi,” he begins. “He’s the second oldest.”
“Dr. Min?” you ask, eyes widening in recognition. “I didn’t know you were brothers.”
“Yep,” Jin confirms with a wink. “Though it’s hard to connect my worldwide handsome face to his old-man energy.”
You laugh, shaking your head at his antics. “He doesn’t seem like an old man to me.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen him groaning about his back after sitting at the piano for two hours,” Jin retorts. “Speaking of which, he’s incredible at playing. You should hear him sometime.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn the piano,” you admit wistfully.
Jin brightens. “Once you’re better, I’ll ask Yoongi to teach you.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?” You look at him, startled by the consistent kindness he’s shown you since you arrived.
“Of course. Anything for you.” His gaze softens, and you feel warmth bloom in your chest.
He continues. “Then there’s Hoseok. You’ve probably heard him —he’s loud, very loud.” As if on cue, another booming cheer erupts from the hallway, and you hear someone yell, “Dance-off time!”
Jin sighs dramatically. “That’s him being quiet, mind you.”
You giggle at his expression, and Jin gives you a playful grin before moving on. “Namjoon is the one recommending books to you.” He gestures toward the stack on your bedside table. He had asked you two weeks into your bed rest if you’d like reading and brought some really varied book recommendation stacks. “He says you have great taste and even invited you to his book club.”
Your eyes light up. “Oh, I’d love to join!”
“He’ll be thrilled,” Jin chuckles. “It’s just him for now, so he’s been looking for new members.”
“What about the others?” You ask, eager to hear more.
“Ah, let’s see. There’s Jimin. He’s sweet but also loves teasing everyone. If you ever need someone to cheer you up, he’s your guy. He’s great at dancing, too.”
“And?” you ask.
“Taehyung,” Jin says fondly, “Taehyung is an artist at heart. He’s a bit eccentric but in the best way. Loves photography, painting and collecting random things that somehow make sense to him.”
“Sounds like fun,” You muse.
“Definitely. And lastly, Jungkook, the youngest. He’s insanely talented but also a bit of a troublemaker. Always trying to outdo himself and everyone else.” You smile, imagining the lively household Jin is describing.
You grew up alone, with only your mother and dad to call as family, so to hear about a large group of siblings felt so interesting. You wondered how they might be, seeing as Jin was such a kind and beautiful man.
“How about this?” Jin suggests. “Join us for breakfast tomorrow. It is about time you left this room,” You still looked unsure, so he added, “I’ll make all you two types of bulgogi and at least ten side dishes.”
“You don’t have to—” You start, but Jin cuts you off with a wave of his hand.
“Nonsense. It’s settled. I’ll see you at breakfast.” He grins, “Or is it brunch?”
You woke the next morning stuck between dread and anticipation, the two emotions tangling so tightly in your chest you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
You moved slowly, deliberately, as if care itself could steady you. You brushed your teeth, washed your face, took a long shower, letting the familiar scent of soap bloom in steam. You put on the lotion Jin had gotten you, applying skincare with gentle precision. You had washed your hair, dried it, combed it through until it fell obediently over your shoulders. You redressed the wounds carefully, especially the ones at your neck which were still tender and half-healed. The fabric of the pants and sweatshirt Jin had washed and left for you yesterday felt soft in the gentlest way.
You sat in the lounge chair by the window, hands folded in your lap, staring at nothing. Minutes passed and with each one your pulse climbed a little higher. The silence wasn’t comforting at all, instead it was amplifying everything. You exhaled sharply and you stood up, smoothing your sweatshirt as if preparing for battle. One last look in the mirror, not to admire, but to check. You slipped your feet into the ridiculously soft slippers, their comfort almost comical against the storm in your stomach.
You swung the door open. The hallway was empty. And for a split second, a strange stillness washed over you, not relief, not fear. Just the hollow, echoing awareness that you were stepping into something new without anyone escorting you there. You stepped out, exhaling the breath you held.
It had been nearly two months since you’d arrived at the packhouse, and this was the first time you’d stepped beyond the safety of the room. You knew logically that you were safe here, no shackles, no locked doors, no cold stone walls, no shadows waiting to swallow you whole, and yet, something restless lived beneath your skin.
The hallway was wide and sunlit, the wooden floors warm under your feet. Built-in shelves lined the walls, holding framed photographs, small sculptures, and pieces of artwork collected over the years. It felt lived in. One particular painting caught your eye; an artwork washed in deep blues and silvers, almost lunar. You slowed, drawn to it, taking a hesitant step closer.
A door opened by you. “It’s bulgogi time, everyone!” a voice called out in an exaggerated sing-song tone. You nearly leapt out of your skin. Your shoulders hunched instinctively, breath catching as you spun around. Your face registered fear even before your mind did, not true fear but something sharp and electric. Your heart was racing, hammering against your ribs.
“Oh—shit,” the boy breathed. He approached quickly but carefully, dropping into a crouch a few feet away from you, hands raised slightly as if approaching a startled animal. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, voice softening instantly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You lifted your head. And promptly forgot how to think. He was shirtless. For a full second, your brain went completely blank. You blinked. Once. Twice. Your eyes lifted to meet his, and then, traitorously, dropped back down again.
His eyes widened. “My bad—again,” he said quickly, crossing his arms over his torso in an almost comically modest gesture. It reminded you absurdly of a vintage film heroine clutching a towel. “I’m not used to there being a lady in the house.” He gave a sheepish little giggle that died almost immediately when he saw your expression.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concern replacing embarrassment. “I really didn’t mean to scare you.”
You realized then that you hadn’t said anything. That silence had become your default again. “Yeah,” you managed finally. Your voice felt rusted from disuse. “I’m okay.”
He frowned slightly. “I must’ve really startled you,” he murmured. “Your heart’s still going a mile a minute.”
Your eyes snapped back to him. You stared. He stared back, patient, observant, waiting. You’d gone quiet again, and before panic could bloom fully in your chest, another voice drifted down the hall.
“Hobi-yah.” Yoongi stepped into view, exasperation lacing his tone. “Did we not tell you to keep your decibels under control for at least the first week Ahmi is out of her room?”
“Ah—hyung!” Hobi grimaced. “I didn’t realize she was out—”
“And,” Jin added, appearing behind Yoongi like a second wave of authority, “—clothes are not optional.”
He fixed Hoseok with a pointed look. “Respect the feminine presence in this house, Hoseok-ah. Wear a damn shirt.”
Hoseok lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I get it. I’m the villain.” He shot you one last apologetic glance. “Sorry again.” Then he retreated into his room, the door clicking shut far more gently this time.
Silence settled again but softer now. Yoongi’s eyes flicked over you briefly, assessing, before his voice dropped a few degrees. “You alright?” You nod, straightening up to your height, and looking at Jin again.
Jin, despite his scolding moments earlier, looked openly concerned. “I am okay,” you tell him, wanting to ease his worry. “Really,” You press. The hallway no longer felt quite as overwhelming, when he smiled softly at you.
“C’mon,” Jin said gently, his voice softer now. His hand settled at the base of your back, not pushing, not firm, just there. You let yourself be steered out of the hallway, down the wide staircase, your fingers brushing the smooth wooden railing as you descended. The space below opened up gradually, and when you reached the last step, it felt less like entering a room and more like stepping into air.
The living, dining, and kitchen area flowed together in one expansive sweep. There were no harsh divides, just subtle shifts in furniture and lighting that suggested purpose without confinement.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the back wall, flooding the entire space with daylight. Warm golden light that spilled across wood floors and stone accents. It reflected softly off glass surfaces and metal fixtures, making everything feel alive. Your eyes squinted slightly. It was brighter than what you’d grown used to.
The living area sat slightly sunken, almost like a modern conversation pit. Two massive sectionals faced each other across a low stone table, with thick woven rugs anchoring the space. Throws were carelessly draped over armrests. A wide hearth of pale stone framed a modern fireplace, currently unlit but commanding attention nonetheless.
To the right, another seating area curved toward the windows, armchairs angled toward the view, as if meant for late-night talks or early morning coffee. A long bookshelf ran along one wall, filled with an odd mix of hardbound novels, vinyl records, framed photographs, and small sculptures that hinted at shared history. Beyond the living space stood the dining area.
The table was solid wood, long, heavy, capable of seating at least fourteen comfortably. The chairs didn’t match perfectly, but they complemented each other, as if added over time and one side held a long, solid wood bench. Above it hung three pendant lights, matte black with warm interiors that probably cast a golden glow at night. You could almost imagine it.
“Pick any seat,” Jin said warmly. “The boys aren’t territorial over the chairs.”
“I’ll sit beside you,” you replied quietly. “Tell me which one is yours.”
“I always take the bench,” he grinned. “But I’ll sit next to you even if you choose the prettiest, most comfortable throne in the middle.”
“The middle chairs are dangerously cushy,” Yoongi called on his way to the kitchen. “The boys used to fight over them. There were casualties.”
“Translated,” Jin said dryly, “the younger brats claimed the chairs, and we were exiled to the bench.” Yoongi snorted.
“But today,” Jin continued, turning to you with a soft smile, “Ahmi is the guest of honour. The brats can take the bench.”
“I don’t want to—” you began quickly.
Jin gently shushed you. “Their well-fed butts can survive one meal on hardwood.”
You nodded, though a small knot formed in your stomach. You didn’t want to disrupt their rhythm. Didn’t want to feel like an intrusion. You’d already startled Hoseok upstairs. You probably kept upsetting their balance just by existing in it. Jin pulled out one of the centre chairs for you, the very one Yoongi had called dangerously cushy and you slipped into it carefully. The seat was softer than expected. You folded your hands neatly in your lap, back straight, posture almost formal.
You felt like you were being introduced to royalty instead of family.
“Good morning, everyone~” You stiffened at the familiar, jovial voice before you saw him. Hoseok appeared at the top of the stairs, this time very much clothed, followed by a taller man with broad shoulders and thoughtful eyes. You rose instinctively to your feet.
“You’ve met Hobi, of course,” Jin said lightly. Hoseok offered you a small, apologetic grin.
“I am really sorry, Ahmi. I genuinely didn’t hear you earlier, and I promise I wasn’t trying to give you a heart attack.” He bowed deeply.
You bowed immediately in return. “No, no, Hoseok-ssi. I’ve just been… jumpy lately. It wasn’t your fault at all.”
“Call me Hobi,” he said, laughing softly. “Hoseok-ssi makes me sound like I pay taxes and complain about back pain. I am not fifty, I swear.”
Before you could respond, Yoongi called out, “Hoseok-ah. Help me carry these to the table.”
Hobi gave you a playful salute. “Duty calls,” he declared, then bounced toward the kitchen.
The taller man stepped forward. “I’m Namjoon,” he said, offering his hand. You hesitated just a fraction before taking it. His handshake was firm but gentle.
“You have excellent taste in books,” he added, smiling in a way that felt both amused and sincere.
Your lips curved before you could stop them. “The book club president,” you teased back softly. “You have a beautiful collection.”
“But apparently my taste is questionable,” Namjoon gave a definitely uncharacteristic pout of misfortune.
You turned sharply to glare at Jin. “You told him?” You said, the accusatory tone making Namjoon laugh.
“I presented it as constructive feedback,” Jin defended, before he could continue, you turned back to Namjoon quickly. Your face warmed in embarrassment.
“I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant —your collection is very far-reaching. You read authors from everywhere. Different styles, different eras, different languages. It’s just… hard to pinpoint what is that you exactly enjoy.” You cringed inwardly. That hadn’t sounded better.
Namjoon blinked at you once and then laughed. “I was teasing you,” he said easily. “You’re right. I read anything that keeps my brain occupied. Philosophy, poetry, sci-fi, political essays, obscure Lithuanian novels—”
“That might explain the chaos he carries around,” Jin muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Exactly,” Namjoon nodded solemnly. “My shelves are organized. My taste is not.” A small laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“Aww,” a new voice chimed from the staircase, warm and honeyed, “—she has a cute laugh, hyung.”
You turned to the voice. A shorter beautiful man with bright blonde hair was descending the stairs with effortless grace, sunlight catching in the soft waves of it. Behind him followed someone taller, broader, quieter, his steps heavier, more measured.
“Jimin’s a bit of a flirt, Ahmi,” Yoongi informed you flatly as he set a bowl of rice onto the table. “And Jungkook needs time to thaw before you see his true colours.”
“I am not a flirt,” Jimin shot back immediately, scandalized. He reached the bottom step and walked straight toward you like you were the only fixed point in the room. You froze. He stopped just a breath away, his eyes bright and openly curious. There was something feline about his movements that were fluid and deliberate.
Before you could prepare yourself, he gently took your hand. He bent slightly and pressed the faintest kiss against your knuckles, his lips barely grazing your skin.
“I’m Park Jimin,” he said softly, looking up at you through his lashes with exaggerated sweetness. “But since you’re so beautiful —you can call me Oppa.” Your brain short-circuited. The room seemed louder and brighter.
“Um…” You blinked at him, still very aware of the warmth of his hand around yours. “No?”
There was a split second of silence and then Jin burst into his signature, windshield-wiper laugh. “Good girl, Ahmi!”
Yoongi snorted. Hoseok clutched his chest dramatically. “Rejected on first attempt. That’s rough.”
Namjoon hid a smile behind his glass of water. Jimin, meanwhile, gasped like you’d mortally wounded him. “You didn’t even hesitate.” Jimin placed a hand over his heart. “I was being welcoming.”
“You were being shameless,” Yoongi corrected.
Jimin ignored him entirely, turning back to you with a softer expression, less theatrics and more sincerity. “I’m really glad you’re here now,” he said quietly. “We’ve all been waiting.”
That softened something in your chest. “I—” Your voice almost caught, but you steadied it. “Thank you.”
Behind Jimin, the taller man gave you a small nod. You nod back, instinctively. He didn’t step forward immediately, just gave you space. His eyes flickered over you briefly before turning them away when your eyes met.
“He’s shy at first,” Jimin stage-whispered very loudly, making Jungkook shoot him a look. “I’m not shy.”
“You didn’t even say hello.” Jungkook hesitated. “…Hi,” he said, directing it to you properly this time. But his eyes flickered away right as they met yours once again. You now could see the blush creeping up his face.
You offered him a small, polite smile. “Hello.”
Jimin leaned slightly toward you again, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Don’t let them bully you. If anyone gives you trouble, you can sit next to me.”
“But You are the trouble,” Jungkook deadpanned.
“I am charm,” Jimin corrected, flipping his hair.
“You are delusion,” Yoongi added dryly. Jimin clicked his tongue but finally released your hand, though not before giving it one last, deliberate squeeze.
“Where’s Tae?” Jimin asked, glancing around. “He had a full identity crisis last night trying to pick a suit for the occasion.”
“A-a suit?” you repeated, suddenly hyper-aware of the oversized sweatshirt and soft lounge pants you’d borrowed. Your fingers instinctively smoothed the hem. You hadn’t even brushed your hair properly.
“Ahmi-yah,” Jin said gently, sensing the shift in your demeanour. “Relax. This is completely informal—” He looked up toward the staircase and froze. “Tae—” Jin’s voice rose a full octave. “What the hell are you wearing?!”
All heads turned. You turned too and your brain momentarily left your body.
Descending the stairs like he was stepping onto a red carpet was a tall man with sharp features and effortless poise. He was, in fact, wearing a suit. Not just a suit, a deep emerald velvet blazer tailored to perfection. Crisp white shirt underneath. Black slacks. Polished shoes. A silver brooch pinned at his lapel. His dark hair was styled deliberately, falling artfully across his forehead as if wind machines followed him indoors. He paused halfway down the stairs, tilted his head almost akin to a puppy.
“I dressed appropriately,” he said smoothly. “This is a special occasion.”
“This is brunch,” Yoongi muttered sighing tiredly. Tae ignored him entirely, his gaze locking onto you. He descended the rest of the stairs with slow, controlled steps. When he reached the bottom, he adjusted his cuffs and offered you a small bow, deeper than necessary, almost theatrical but not insincere.
“I’m Kim Taehyung,” he said, voice low and warm. “I wanted to make a good first impression.”
Your throat went dry. You were painfully aware of your borrowed clothes now, of your messy hair, of your heart beginning to beat a little too fast.
“I— you look…” Your brain scrambled for vocabulary. “—very prepared.” Behind you, Hoseok snorted.
“He tried on four different jackets,” Jimin stage-whispered. “He asked if charcoal made him look emotionally unavailable.”
“It does,” Yoongi replied without missing a beat. Taehyung shot them a lazy glare before returning his attention to you.
“You don’t need to feel underdressed,” he said quietly, as if reading your thoughts. “You look comfortable. That matters more.” The comment wasn’t teasing. It was grounding. Something in your shoulders eased.
Jin let out a dramatic sigh. “Fashion week is over. Sit down, Taehyung.” Taehyung gave one last small smile in your direction before moving to the table. “Alright, enough theatrics everyone,” Jin announced, clapping once again. “Sit and eat, before the meal gets cold.”
“I made everything I promised, Ahmi,” Jin said, as he pulled out your chair, “Beef bulgogi, spicy pork bulgogi, beef and radish soup,” He pointed at each dish, and went on to list over fifteen side dishes, making you wonder since when he was cooking and a little guilty, he had to cook so much.
“Thank you, Jin,” You smile, awestruck but grateful, “Everything looks and smells delicious,” Jin smiles bashfully at your compliment, moving to pull the chair next to you. Jimin made another bold attempt toward the chair beside you. Jin cleared his throat pointedly. Jimin froze mid-step, slowly, dramatically. He pivoted toward the bench instead.
“You wound me daily, hyung,” He muttered, pouting.
“You’ll survive,” Jin replied calmly, taking the seat beside you as promised. Yoongi took the other seat on your side, giving you a small smile when you looked at him. The rest of the five naturally had took on the bench. The seat directly across from you on the bench side, remained empty. Three pairs of eyes noticed at once. A silent understanding passed between the youngest three.
Jimin straightened first. “I think,” he said smoothly, “I should sit there. For balance.”
“For balance?” Jungkook repeated.
“Yes. Aesthetic balance.”
Taehyung leaned back slightly, unimpressed. “You just want direct eye contact.”
Jimin didn’t deny it. Jungkook crossed his arms. “We’re not arguing over a seat.”
“We are,” Jimin said calmly.
“Settle it quickly,” Yoongi muttered, already taking a bite of the seafood pancake.
Jimin perked up instantly. “Rock, paper, scissors!”
Hoseok and Namjoon took to the end seats on the bench, leaving enough space for the three in the middle. You blinked. They were absolutely serious. The three of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the end of the table like warriors preparing for battle.
“One round,” Jungkook said.
“Best of three,” Jimin countered.
“Only chickens need three rounds to decide,” Taehyung replied coolly.
“Fine,” Jimin agreed.
“Rock—paper—scissors!” They crouched slightly. Hands shot forward. Jimin put out scissors.
Jungkook put out scissors as well and Taehyung put out a rock.
Hoseok burst into laughter. “Clean sweep!” Taehyung didn’t celebrate but looked smug enough to annoy the other two. He simply adjusted his blazer sleeve like this had always been the inevitable outcome.
Jungkook stared at his defeated scissors. “I demand a recount.”
“There is no recount in rock-paper-scissors,” Namjoon said wisely.
Taehyung exhaled through his nose but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at his lips. Taehyung slipped on the bench seat directly across from you back and sat down with unhurried grace. Jimin and Jungkook sulked dramatically; Jimin dropping to Taehyung’s left with exaggerated despair, Jungkook taking the right side with dignified resignation.
“You cheated spiritually,” Jimin accused.
“I simply won,” Taehyung replied, folding his hands neatly on the table.
From your seat, you could feel your confusion fighting with something lighter. This was ridiculous, loud, unnecessary and completely harmless. Taehyung glanced up at you, just briefly with victory in his eyes.
You looked down quickly, pretending to focus very hard on your soup. Across from you, the three youngest continued muttering about ‘rematches’ and ‘strategic errors,’ while Namjoon and Hoseok settled onto the bench, and Jin quietly added another slice of bulgogi to your bowl like none of this was out of the ordinary. The absurdity of grown men battling over seating arrangements made something loosen inside your chest.
“We lost the visual advantage,” Jimin muttered.
“You’re acting like this is combat,” Namjoon sighed as he moved to grab some more pork.
“It is,” Jungkook agreed solemnly, sliding onto the bench beside him. Jin ignored all of them and focused entirely on you. He placed a bowl gently in front of you first —rice, fluffy and steaming. Then a bigger bowl of soup. He added portions of beef bulgogi with careful attention, and even pieces of pork before asking quietly, “Too much?”
You shook your head lightly at the extra portion.
Jin studied your face for a second longer, then nodded once, satisfied. He’d been quietly tracking things; how much you ate, how often you finished your meals, how your appetite had grown since that first fragile week when even a few bites had exhausted you. He had noticed you loved eating a lot, so he always brought you different dishes to try and enjoy. Only after your bowl was filled did he finally serve himself.
The table settled into a rhythm. Chopsticks lifted. Ceramic clicked softly. Someone reached for water. Low conversation threaded through the space, overlapping but not overwhelming. The food was amazing like always. You let the noise blur into the background and, for the first time without panic clawing at your ribs, really looked at them. Now that the rapid introductions were over, now that your pulse had steadied. They were all distractingly good-looking. Not in the same way. Not identical. Each carried something distinct.
Jin, beside you, felt almost unreal up close. Broad shoulders beneath a simple shirt, posture relaxed but assured. His face was striking in that balanced way, sharp lines softened by warm eyes. He looked like someone who could command a room without raising his voice, yet would kneel to fix a loose shoelace if you asked. There was authority in him, yes but never intimidation. Sitting next to him felt like leaning against something steady and solid. A calm you hadn’t known you were missing.
Yoongi, on your other side, was the opposite kind of presence. Quieter, denser and composed in a way that felt carved rather than grown. Dark hair falling just enough over sharp eyes that seemed to register everything without announcing it. He spoke rarely, but when he did, it was precise and efficient. There was something undeniably feline about him; pale skin, delicate features, a brooding gaze that softened unexpectedly when he smiled. And that smile, small, gummy, and disarming, was startling against his otherwise controlled demeanour.
Namjoon, seated across on the bench, was larger than you’d first registered. Taller, broader, carrying himself with quiet intellectual weight. His features were strong, handsome in a thoughtful way rather than flashy. When he spoke, even casually, there was intention behind his words. His hands were big, movements occasionally awkward as if he forgot his own size but you could see the care in the way he adjusted his strength around objects and around people. He looked like someone constantly balancing ideas in his head, philosophy and curiosity layered beneath muscle.
Hoseok seemed to emit light. Even sitting still, there was a current to him; expressive face, high cheekbones, skin clear and luminous. His smile came easily, full and bright, but when his eyes flickered to you, that brightness softened instantly. It dimmed into something protective, almost tender. He’d startled you earlier, but he looked more troubled by that fact than you ever had been. His warmth was so immediate that it almost disguised how handsome he truly was at first glance.
Jimin, currently sulking in exaggerated defeat beside Taehyung, was compact but magnetic. There was easy-going beauty in him. The way he tilted his head. The way he folded his hands. The way he pouted just enough to be dramatic but not enough to be childish. His jawline was sharp, but his cheeks still held softness. His lips were a natural pink that made you briefly and traitorously wonder if they’d always looked that way. When he smiled fully, his eyes curved into crescents, and you could absolutely imagine how easily he made people blush. Flirtatious, yes. But observant. Calculating in a gentle way.
Jungkook was quieter than the others but not smaller for it. If anything, the silence made him more noticeable. He was broader through the shoulders, his build solid in a way that felt earned rather than decorative. The fabric of his t-shirt pulled naturally across his chest and arms when he reached for something, muscle shifting beneath like it was simply part of him, not something he displayed, just something that existed. His face was unfairly handsome. Large, dark eyes framed by thick lashes, soft at first glance, almost doe-like but sharpened by the way they focused.
A few piercings glinted when he turned his head, small flashes of silver against warm skin. They suited him. Not flashy, not rebellious for attention’s sake. Just a quiet edge that contrasted with the softness of his eyes. There was youth in him, but not immaturity.
And then Taehyung, seated directly across from you.
Taehyung didn’t need to try to be noticed. He simply was noticed. Even seated casually across from you, even with his brooch removed and his blazer slightly loosened, there was something composed about him. Intentional. Like every line of his body had been arranged with unconscious elegance. The emerald of his jacket caught the light when he shifted, rich against his skin tone, dramatic without being gaudy.
Strong brows. Straight nose. A mouth that seemed sculpted rather than grown. His features weren’t soft like Jimin’s or sharp like Hoseok’s, they were balanced in a way that felt almost classical. And yet there was something playful hidden underneath, something that flickered in his eyes when he thought no one noticed. He looked every bit of the art you had heard he adored.
“So, Ahmi,” Jimin began smoothly, resting his chin in his palm as he cast an exaggeratedly sharp look at his older brother, “do tell us about yourself.”
His eyes flicked toward Jin again, playful but accusing. “Jin-hyung only ever sings praises about your manners and beauty.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’m certain you’re far more accomplished than that. Surely a lady like you deserves to be known for more than just her looks.”
Your brain stalled again. You swallowed. “Um…” The word came out smaller than intended. “I—I don’t really have any remarkable achievements, I’m afraid.” Other than getting kidnapped by monsters, your mind supplied unhelpfully.
Hoseok barked out a soft laugh. “Ignore whatever theatrical nonsense he’s performing, Ahmi.” Jimin gasped in mock offense. “Just tell us about yourself,” Hoseok urged gently. Then, seeing the way your fingers tightened slightly around your chopsticks, he softened further. “Or… actually how about we start? And you can follow in a similar way?” You nodded quickly, grateful for the lifeline.
“I’ll go first,” Hoseok declared, grabbing his spoon and holding it like a microphone. He cleared his throat theatrically. “I am Jung Hoseok but you can call me Hobi. I am twenty-four. Born on February eighteenth. I help with the family business,” He tilted his head proudly. “But what I truly enjoy is dancing. I’m a part-time instructor at the Seoul Dance Academy.” There was warmth in the way he said it, like dancing wasn’t just work.
You tilted your head slightly. “Where did ‘Hobi’ come from?”
“It’s from J-Hope,” Jimin chimed in immediately, barely suppressing a giggle behind his palm. “He’s the Jung Hope of Seoul Dance Academy. Jung Hope. Hope. Hope-ie. Hobi.”
Understanding lit up your face. “Oh! Hope because you’re bright and happy?” You clapped softly to yourself, pleased with the connection. “That’s adorable. It’s such a cute nickname.”
Hoseok froze, then dramatically turned toward Jin in pride. “Did you hear that, hyung? I’m cute.”
Jin didn’t even look up from his plate. “Don’t let it get to your head.” The table laughed, including you.
“I’ll go next,” Jimin announced, snatching the spoon-microphone from Hoseok with unnecessary flair. He sat up straighter, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his shirt. “Park Jimin. October 13th. Twenty-three years old. I also assist in the family business which let me tell you, is tragically dull but I am, in contrast, an exceptionally talented dancer.” He paused for effect. “I teach at Seoul Dance Academy as well. With Hobi-hyung.” There was satisfaction —but it wasn’t arrogant. It was earned.
“Are you trained in any particular style?” you asked, leaning forward slightly. The second mention of dance had sparked genuine curiosity.
Jimin’s eyes brightened at your interest. “Contemporary and modern.”
You turned back to Hoseok. “What about you?”
“Street dance,” he grinned. “Hip-hop, locking, popping. Anything that lets me move.”
“Do you dance, Ahmi?” he asked, tilting his head curiously. The attention shifted again, but this time it felt lighter. You felt a little bashful under their interested gaze.
“I trained in ballet when I was younger,” you admitted. “But my parents moved around a lot, so I couldn’t stay anywhere long enough to continue properly. I did contemporary and modern for a while too.” You gave a small, almost embarrassed shrug. “Once I started university, I couldn’t keep up with that as well.”
“You did ballet?” Jimin’s posture changed instantly. Gone was the teasing flirt; in his place was a dancer, alert and interested. “For how long?”
“A few years,” you said softly. “Nothing professional.”
“That’s still training,” Hoseok said quickly. “Ballet foundation is no joke.”
“You should come by the academy sometime.” Jimin leaned forward, elbows on the table now. “We host workshops all the time. Contemporary, fusion, even ballet crossover sometimes.”
“You’d like it,” Hoseok added, his grin gentler now. “No pressure. Just fun.”
There was no mockery or teasing, just genuine enthusiasm at sharing the same passion. Across from you, Taehyung had gone still again, watching the exchange with thoughtful eyes. Jungkook’s gaze lingered a second longer when you mentioned ballet, as if picturing it. Jin placed another small portion of food onto your plate without interrupting the conversation. Yoongi filled your glass with warm water.
“I’d like to, someday,” you said.
The words sounded agreeable enough, but even to your own ears they lacked certainty. The idea of dancing again felt distant, like something belonging to a version of you that existed before fear carved hollows into your days. Lately, even joy felt exhausting. Reading was easier. Reading was safe. It wasn’t happiness —it was escape. And with how wildly different Namjoon’s book recommendations were, you could disappear completely. Exist between pages instead of inside your own life.
“I’ll go next,” Taehyung announced, lifting the spoon-microphone with dramatic reverence. He sat up straighter, shoulders squaring as though preparing for a performance.
“I am Kim Taehyung. Also, twenty-three. December thirtieth.” He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “I like dancing. I like taking pictures. I like art. I like jazz. I like doing a lot of things.” The enthusiasm in his voice made you laugh before you could stop yourself.
“I heard you paint as well,” you said, warmth returning to your tone. “Have you been working on anything? Can I see some?” For the first time, his energy quieted.
“I haven’t completed the recent piece, it is the closest to my heart,” he admitted, fingers absently tracing the edge of the spoon. “Not with everything that’s happened recently.” You stiffened faintly. The shift in his tone was subtle, but real. The ‘recent happenings’ hung between you like an unspoken understanding. He noticed your reaction and softened immediately. “I’ll finish it soon,” he said, voice low and certain now. His eyes held yours steadily. “You’ll be the first to see it. I promise.”
“Ooh,” Jimin sing-songed. “That’s a privilege.” Taehyung didn’t deny it. He simply smiled.
“Guess it’s my turn,” Namjoon said, taking the spoon with far less flair.
“I’m Kim Namjoon. Twenty-four. September twelfth.” He adjusted his shirt unconsciously as he spoke. “I handle most of the strategic side of the family business. I read a lot. Probably too much.” He smiled faintly. “I enjoy museums, poetry, philosophy.”
“And breaking things.” Jin added helpfully, making the rest chuckle including Namjoon.
He sighed. “It’s not intentional though, only accidental.”
“You recommend books like a literature scholar,” you said softly before you could stop yourself. His eyes flicked to yours, surprised.
“Do I?”
“They’re all very different.” You say, “But immersive.”
Something in his expression shifted, pleased, but contained. “I’m glad.”
Yoongi didn’t reach for the spoon.
“I’m Min Yoongi,” he said simply. “Twenty-five. March ninth.” He leaned back slightly, arms crossing loosely. “I am a doctor. I prefer quiet.” His gaze lifted briefly to you. “Noise gets exhausting.”
“You live with six brothers.” The corner of your mouth twitched. “I can’t imagine you getting much quiet,”
“I said I prefer quiet,” he corrected dryly and you giggle at his correction. You turned to Jungkook, finding absolutely no other way to ignore Jimin who had been pretending to reintroduce himself again, with his spoon-microphone near his face, that Taehyung nearly wrestled out of him and held out to Jungkook. He hesitated a second before taking the spoon from Taehyung.
“I’m Jeon Jungkook. Twenty-one. September first.” His voice was steady, sweeter than expected. “I box and do martial arts.” He shrugs, “I like working out and cooking.” That made sense and you could see it in him, the alertness, the way he tracked movement without appearing to.
He added after a second. “And eat. Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Jin scoffed lightly. “You devour the kitchen.”
Jungkook’s ears flushed slightly pink. “Hyung—” You smiled softly at that; it was endearing to see the relationship the brothers seemed to share. Jungkook finished, a little stiff at the attention, and gently set the spoon back in the centre of the table like he was returning something ceremonial. There was a beat of silence.
“Ahem.” Jin reached forward and claimed the spoon with exaggerated dignity. “How rude,” he said lightly, arching a brow at the rest of them. “The eldest nearly forgotten.”
“You were too busy feeding her,” Yoongi muttered and your cheeks heated up. Jin ignored him completely. He straightened in his seat, shoulders rolling back effortlessly. “Kim Seokjin. Twenty-six. December fourth.” His voice carried natural authority, warm, but unmistakably firm. “I oversee the primary operations of our family business.”
“That’s a very vague description,” Namjoon commented mildly.
Jin shot him a look. “It’s intentionally vague.” A ripple of amusement passed around the table. “I also cook,” Jin continued, gesturing lightly toward the spread before you. “Clearly better than some people appreciate.”
“I appreciated it,” you said quietly, gesturing to your empty bowls and plates. His gaze softened.
“Good,” he replied, and there was no teasing in it. “Then my work is done.” He tapped the spoon thoughtfully against his palm. “I enjoy fishing. Traveling when time allows. Collecting recipes from places I visit.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “And making sure everyone eats properly.”
“Especially you,” Hoseok sing-songed, wiggling his eyebrows at you and your blood rushing up to your cheeks again. Jin didn’t deny it. He simply reached over and adjusted your bowl a fraction closer to you, as if the motion alone proved the point. There was something about the way he spoke; less flashy, less bright, less deliberate than the rest. Jin didn’t try to impress. He stated facts. He existed solidly within them. When he finished, he didn’t toss the spoon back dramatically. He placed it gently in your hand.
“Now,” he said quietly, turning slightly toward you, “—continue.” His tone wasn’t pressing. It was steady and supportive, like he was anchoring you before you stepped back into deeper water and so you did.
Seven faces looked at yours, not expectant in a demanding way; just open and curious. You swallowed.
“I am Yoo Ahmi, twenty-one years old.” you began quietly. “I was born in China, but my parents moved around a lot due to my father’s job. He was a Diplomat. So, we barely spent a year in one place. I was homeschooled till university. I’ve lived in China, Japan, Vietnam, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Canada, the UK, Switzerland, France…” You let out a small, almost breathless laugh. “It’s easier to list where I haven’t been.”
Hoseok’s eyes widened. “That’s incredible.”
“It sounds exciting,” you admitted softly. “But it was mostly temporary. I never stayed long enough to call anywhere home or make any real friends.” Jin’s posture shifted beside you, so slight most wouldn’t notice. But you did. “This is my first time in Korea. Even though I’m Korean.” You gave a small, almost self-conscious smile. “I wanted to finish university in one place. Just once. So, we stayed in—” You named the city quietly. “The plan was always that I’d graduate there and then move to Korea.”
You rolled your eyes faintly, fondness threading through it. “But Appa said we’d spent far too much time away from home. That it was time to return to our roots.” A few of the boys exchanged subtle glances. “I didn’t want to,” you admitted. “But he bribed me. Said we’d build a house that looked exactly like my Pinterest dreams.” A tiny, broken laugh escaped you. “He knew that would work.” You drifted somewhere else for a moment, back to that version of life where the future still felt solid.
“He promised it would finally be ours. So, we packed everything again and moved to Seoul.” Your voice thinned. “We stayed in an apartment while searching for property. And then, we found one.” Your fingers curled into themselves. “It was near the woods. There was a wide stream nearby. The backyard was huge. Omma said we could host summer dinners there. We’d already started unpacking and decorating, pulling things out of boxes.” You swallowed.
“But I never got to actually live in it.” The table had gone completely still. No one touched their food. No one interrupted. “Omma and I went out to buy ingredients to make tteok,” you continued, your throat tightening. “She said if we shared it with the neighbours, it would help us integrate, make a good first impression. It was supposed to be the last move after all, the last beginning.”
Your breathing grew uneven. “We were on our way back when we-we got kidnapped by—” The word wouldn’t come. Your pulse roared in your ears. “By—” Monsters sounded childish. Creatures sounded fictional. Men sounded too human. Your breathing hitched sharply.
Around you, every trace of playfulness vanished. Jin’s hand moved closer to yours, not touching yet. Just there. Yoongi’s jaw set hard. Jungkook’s shoulders squared almost imperceptibly. Hoseok’s brightness extinguished completely. Namjoon’s gaze sharpened with focus. Taehyung and Jimin looked almost unreal in their seriousness, like masks had been stripped away.
“You don’t have to tell us more,” Jin said gently, he put an arm around you, “Not right now.” The silence that followed wasn’t suffocating. It was shielding. And somehow, that made it easier to force the truth out.
“I don’t know what they were,” you breathed, tears spilling despite your effort to stop them. “They were monsters, fangs and sharp nails. They had eyes that weren’t right, it was inhuman.” Your voice trembled violently now. Jin held your hand his, stroking with his thumb, “They bit Omma, drank her blood.” Your hands shook. “They were cruel. There wasn’t just one. There were many. He kept touching me—” Your breath stuttered. “I begged them—him to let us go. I begged them—him to let my mum go.” No one moved.
“They fed on us, over and over.” A sob tore from your chest before you could contain it. “She kept telling me Appa would come, that he’d find us.” Your vision blurred. “He did find us,” you whispered. Jin’s hand finally closed around yours. “But they killed him too.” The words dropped like stones. “They hurt him first. And then they killed him.” Your voice fractured completely now. “The feeding didn’t stop. It just kept happening and happening. And one day… Omma didn’t wake up.” Tears slid off your chin and you sobbed.
“There were many like me,” you continued hollowly. “So many. Some of them died. I kept wondering when it would be my turn.” The room felt smaller, tighter but not because of judgment, but because of fury.
“After Omma—” You blinked hard, as if forcing yourself back into your own body. “I don’t remember much. I remember being bitten. Feeling tired. Dizzy. Restless. Like I wasn’t inside myself anymore.” Your breath trembled on the way out. “And then I woke up here.”
You smiled. It wasn’t hopeful. It wasn’t grateful. It was simply the only expression you could manage when there were no more tears left to fall. The silence that followed was deafening but not fragile, not uncertain.
Jin’s hand remained wrapped around yours, firm and immovable, like the foundation of a house that refused to crack. His thumb pressed once against your knuckles, steady and grounding. Across the table, Yoongi had gone utterly still. Not the relaxed stillness of someone at ease, but the kind that preceded violence. His eyes were dark, flat, calculating. A storm held behind glass. Jungkook’s knuckles had blanched white against the edge of the table. The wood creaked faintly beneath his grip. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle ticked near his ear. He hadn’t blinked in several seconds.
Hoseok’s brightness, the laughter, the warmth had vanished entirely. His eyes shone, not with pity, but with something sharper; protective and furious. As though joy itself had been insulted. Namjoon inhaled slowly before speaking, like he was containing something vast and dangerous inside his chest.
“They won’t touch you again,” he said, each word was measured and precise. “We will protect you. At all costs.” It wasn’t a reassurance. It was a vow for them. Across from you, Taehyung’s usual softness had burned away. What remained was something ancient and resolute. His gaze held yours without wavering, emerald jacket catching the light as if nothing about him had changed, yet everything had.
Jimin’s lips had parted slightly, his usual pout and theatrics replaced by something painfully quiet. His eyes shimmered, but he did not look away from you. His softness had hardened, not into coldness, but into promise. Almost all of them were holding back tears, not because they pitied you. But because something in them had shifted irrevocably.
It was one thing to look at victims from a distance; to feel anger at monsters, regret at arriving too late, frustration at the limits of power. It was another thing entirely to watch someone at your own table recount the moment their world was torn apart. To imagine their pack member, because that was what you were, waiting in the dark for death while her parents were slaughtered.
The wolves felt it like a blade through their own ribs. Their hearts, creatures built for battle, for dominance, for protection, softened in a way that startled even them. You had spoken the worst parts aloud. And instead of shattering the room, you had changed it. The air felt different now, heavier but steadier. The grief you had carried alone for weeks, months, perhaps longer than that, no longer echoed into nothingness. It landed here, on the table, in their chests, shared among the seven sets of shoulders that bore it without hesitation.
For the first time since that night, you were not the only one holding the memory of parents’ last breaths. Your grief had witnesses. It had warriors.
You became aware of your own tears only when one slid off your chin and onto your hand. Heat rushed to your face. “I’m sorry,” you murmured automatically, voice small. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t.” Jin’s tone wasn’t sharp, but it was absolute. “Don’t ever apologize for surviving.” The words settled around you like something solid, protective and final. His arm remained around your shoulders, drawing you slightly closer; not enough to trap you, just enough to steady you. Hoseok silently passed him a napkin, and Jin used it carefully, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks as though you were something precious and breakable.
“We’re grateful you shared this with us,” Jin said softly.
Yoongi nudged a glass of water toward you. “Take a sip.” You did. Your hands trembled less than before. The air began to loosen. Not because what you’d said mattered less, but because they had accepted it and held it.
“You know,” Hoseok said after a moment, clearing his throat lightly, “We were going to get dessert anyway. But now we definitely are.” Jimin’s head snapped toward him.
“Hyung, don’t pretend this isn’t your excuse to empty the hundred-box melona stash you impulse-bought when it went on sale.”
Hoseok gasped. “It was a strategic investment.”
“Can you believe it?” Yoongi deadpanned. “We still have over fifty left.”
“It would’ve been a sin to pass it up!” Hoseok defended, pointing his spoon accusingly. “Do you know how rare that discount was?”
“Maybe Jin-hyung should make a proper dessert,” Jimin mused dramatically. “Like tiramisu. Something fancy.”
“We just ate,” Namjoon pointed out mildly.
“This is clearly an emergency,” Jimin countered without missing a beat. He turned to you, eyes bright again but softer than before. “How do you feel about being tortured with melona, our guest of honour?”
Despite everything, you giggled. It surprised you more than them.
“What do you want, Ahmi-yah?” Jin asked, brushing a stray hair from your face with his thumb.
“I… I don’t know.” You hesitated.
“What’s your favourite dessert? Would you enjoy a Tiramisu?” Jin leaned back slightly, considering. “Proper tiramisu takes time. A few hours to chill and all. Ideally a day.”
“Hyung,” Jimin protested, “that is forever for an emergency.”
“I like tiramisu too,” you admitted quietly. “But I can make do with ice cream.”
The corner of Jin’s mouth curved faintly. “I’ll make Tiramisu for you anyway.” He gave you a squeeze, his arm around you still in an embrace.
“Actually…” Namjoon interjected gently, glancing between you and the others. “While we wait for dessert, maybe someone should show Ahmi around properly.”
“The house is big,” Hoseok added. “She hasn’t seen it yet.”
Jimin shot up slightly in his seat. “I volunteer.”
Taehyung casually adjusted his blazer sleeves, as though this were a diplomatic assignment and said, “I can escort her around as well,”
Jungkook looked at you, and nodded to himself, but didn’t speak, and he didn’t look away either. Yoongi raised a brow at the three of them. Jin studied you carefully, watching your breathing, the way your shoulders had finally relaxed a fraction and then he decided.
“Maknae line.” All three youngest straightened instinctively. “Show her around,” Jin said. His voice was calm, but deliberate. “Slowly, and don’t overwhelm her with your chatter and clutter.”
“Yes, sir!” They saluted, like in military and turned to you.
Jimin grinned softly at you. “Come on. We’ll start with the front door, like any property tour.”
Taehyung stood, offering his hand in an almost courtly gesture. “The scenic route.”
Jungkook moved to your other side without comment, close enough that you’d feel it if you stumbled but not touching. Behind you, the older four remained seated. You hesitated only a second before standing. Jin’s arm slipped from around your shoulders, but his warmth lingered. He gave you one last assessing look, as if confirming you were steady enough on your feet before nodding once.
“Don’t run,” he warned the three youngest calmly.
“We never run,” Jimin replied with immediate offense.
“You absolutely run,” Yoongi muttered.
Taehyung ignored them both, already reaching into the freezer drawer nearby and pulling it open with quiet confidence.
Hoseok gasped. “Don’t take more than four!”
“Hyung,” Jimin scoffed, grabbing one green-wrapped bar and tossing another to Jungkook. “This is an at least a two melona per head event.” Jungkook caught it easily with one hand. He peeled the wrapper halfway down, then paused, waiting for you.
Taehyung selected one carefully and stepped closer, offering it to you with a small flourish. “For the guest of honour.” You chuckled but accepted it, fingers brushing the cold plastic.
Jimin already had his open, dramatically biting into it. “If we disappear for too long, assume we got distracted by the movie room.”
“Or the art room,” Taehyung added lightly.
“Or Jungkook’s obsession with reorganizing the gym,” Jimin whispered loudly.
Jungkook gave him a look. “You’re the one who keeps arranging them wrong.”
“It is aesthetic.” Jimin offered.
“It is stupid.” Jungkook snapped back, pointing his melona at Jimin.
Behind you, Jin shook his head, though there was the faintest curve to his mouth now. “Slowly,” he repeated. “Go,” Jin ordered, though there was no real heat behind it.
Taehyung offered you his arm, to link it, still playing a gentleman. You laughed again, looping your arm with his, as he led you out of the kitchen area. You took a tentative bite of the melona. It was sweet, cold and unexpectedly comforting. The three youngest adjusted their pace without speaking about it, falling into step around you naturally. Jimin slightly ahead, walking backward as he narrated. Taehyung beside you, with his arm linked with yours, matching your stride. Jungkook just half a step behind and to the side, a quiet presence.
As you moved away from the dining area, the hum of the older members’ low voices resumed behind you. But ahead of you was space and light, the open stretch of the living area. Jimin gestured grandly with his half-eaten ice cream. “Welcome to the main living hall. Floor-to-ceiling windows, strong wood beams. Excessive but tasteful.”
Taehyung shot him a look. “You sound like a brochure.”
“I could be,” Jimin replied smoothly. “I also could be a real estate tycoon.”
And just like that, the heaviness in your chest didn’t disappear, but it shifted.
Thus, the Bangtan Packhouse tour began, with the four of you holding melting melonas in your hands.
—next chapter | chapter four
—author's endnote | feedback and thoughts are really appreciated! It keeps me motivated to write more and definitely makes me happy! I hope all of you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
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Hi, Since You Never Walk Alone is an OT7 story, I am assuming that the OC is everyone's mate. But why does no one else feel the bond yet? I saw another reader ask the same, and I am wondering if she's just going to remain Jin's mate but others' unbonded mate. Is that a possibility? Are you going down this that way?
I love the story so far! and I hope the updates happen soon!
Hello, anon 😅
First and foremost, the oc is destined to bond with every member of the pack, gradually and uniquely. This is an ot7 story, and I want to ensure that every member forms a bond with her —not leaving anyone in an “unbonded mate” dynamic. To me, that wouldn’t feel like a true bangtan x reader story. While the bonds will all happen, they will take time and be triggered by different emotions and circumstances.
Jin’s bond with the oc was an extraordinary case, triggered by the dire need to save her from being burned alive by the very wolves who were meant to be her mates someday. If this vampire incident hadn’t occurred, the bonds would have unfolded differently, starting with another member and evolving more like a modern-day polyandrous relationship. Since this is so early in the story, we haven’t yet explored how the oc would have naturally met the pack and bonded with them under normal circumstances.
The essence of the mate bonds as being tied to the Moon Goddess’s divine timing. Each bond is often triggered by a powerful emotion or cause; something that deeply resonates within the wolf’s heart —I imagine most human-wolf bonds happening in airports, right when someone is about to travel away 😅
Jin’s bond was triggered by the desperate need to save her life. Jin’s bond almost represents a cruel irony —that the wolves nearly burned their own mate.
For the future bonds, and giving a sort of spoiler: each of the other wolves’ bonds will also be ignited by a strong emotional connection or moment: a protective instinct, emotional vulnerability, the relief of knowing she’s safe, a friendship deepening into something more, the ache of yearning, or simply pure, selfless love all of which begins with a spark of infatuation that happens once they meet her.
We’ll delve into those moments as the story unfolds. Each bond will have its own timing and its own story, reflecting the uniqueness of the pack and the oc’s relationships with each of them.
In the YNWA universe, mate bonds are an enigmatic phenomenon, deeply tied to the moon’s magic. Revered and sacred, they defy logic and understanding, existing far beyond the grasp of science or reason. Researchers have studied patterns, triggers, and trends, but no definitive explanation for how or why bonds form has ever been discovered. They simply happen as a reflection of deeper truths or needs that transcend comprehension of a simple human/wolf mind. There are certain things that are said to trigger a bond, but if the bond doesn't get triggered, you'd have gone too far with someone who is not your mate. So, trying to trigger a bond is often discouraged. Though, many wolves indulge in healthy amounts of flirting, platonic skinship etc.
For most wolves, bonds develop gradually. They often begin like any human relationship —through attraction, friendship, proximity, or even platonic companionship. A bond might not manifest immediately but could suddenly appear, reshaping the relationship overnight. The connection is like a fine thread, delicate and unnoticed at first, but over time, it can weave into a rope of unbreakable fibers, symbolizing the deepening and strengthening of the bond.
Sometimes, though rarely, bonds defy this gradual process and strike like lightning. A sudden realization, a singular moment of shared vulnerability, or an inexplicable pull can forge an immediate connection. This is what makes Jin’s first-sight bond so extraordinary. In a world where such bonds are almost unheard of, his experience is an anomaly, a sacred event that draws both curiosity and awe. For Jin, the thread didn’t take years to weave into a strong rope; it was already fully formed the moment he laid eyes on the oc.
While this is deeply significant to Jin, the rest of the pack views it differently. They respect the moon’s will and the mystery of its magic. To them, bonds are deeply personal and unpredictable, and Jin’s bond doesn’t necessarily mean the oc will bond with the rest of them. Polyamorous bonds, while more common among packs are just as unpredictable. A single person might bond with an entire pack, or the pack could divide into smaller clusters, each forming separate connections. In some cases, all members of a pack bond with the same person except one; instead, they find another mate.
The process is never rushed or forced. Wolves understand that bonds are not about science or choice but about trust in the moon’s guidance. Proximity, emotional closeness, skinship, and human feelings may encourage bonds to form, but they don’t guarantee them. Bonds happen when—and if—they’re meant to, and wolves know better than to question their timing.
For now, the pack approaches Jin’s bond with curiosity rather than assumptions. His connection to the oc is rare, even sacred: plus, the unfortunate situation of the bond and how they found her makes it hard for them to view it as a sign of an inevitable polyandrous relationship. Instead, they chose to remain open-minded, allowing time, proximity and shared experiences to reveal the moon’s will. As they spend time with the oc, dynamics will evolve, shifting in ways they cannot predict. Bonds will form between the oc and other pack members but Jin’s bond of first sight is gonna remain singular and unique.
From the universe's point of view, it is this uncertainty that makes mate bonds so profound. Whether gradual or instantaneous, they are deeply personal and sacred, bound by magic that no wolf truly understands. They trust in the journey, in the mysterious thread that connects them all, knowing that only time will reveal how their stories are meant to intertwine.
P.S.: I’d love to hear your thoughts on who you think will bond with the oc next! Feel free to share your predictions about the bonding order —who’s next, who follows after, and why you think so. I’m genuinely excited to know your guesses and see how they line up with the journey I have in mind!
I hope you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
Hello there :)! I hope you're doing well. Idk where to start or anything but still I wish you're okay. Do you mind telling us a "lil" bit of when you're going to upload "You never walk alone"? It's such a good fiction and I've re-read it again again for like 30 times now 😭, you haven't been active so just wanted to make sure. Are you gonna upload it?
Hello Hi, dear anon 🥺
I have updated the second chapter of You Never Walk Alone today. I hope you like it and I'm not sure if you are still actively waiting because I've been gone for so long 🥺 but I still hope you get to see this and I hope to complete the story.. no matter how long it takes, but as of now I'm back.
And thank you so much for your kind words 💜
I hope you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
Chapter Two of You Never Walk Alone can be found here 💜
—taglist notes | comment on the post if you want to be tagged. If I have missed your name, please let me know. I'm back after quite a long time, so dropping a text to let me know I've missed your name would be ver helpful. If you are on the taglist but haven’t been notified, please check this post out.
Hi, first off : i love your fanfics, you’re an amazing storyteller and I fell in love with thé Lily of Bangtan. Do you plan on continuing the story ? I loved every bits of it !
Have a nice week, I hope you’re doing well :)
Hello, dear anon 🥺
Yes, I am going to complete the stories —just not sure if I can complete it in one go. As of bow, I have updated the second chapter of another story called You Never Walk Alone, and planning to update the next chapter of Lily Of Bangtan in the upcoming week.
Thank you so much for your kind words 🥺🥰 Trust me, I've read you ask a hundred times already 💗 and I hope you enjoy what's coming for the stories next 😊
I hope you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
When are you going to finish this story? Would love to know what happens next 😁
Hello hello, dear anon 🥺
If you are talking about You Never Walk Alone or The Lily Of Bangtan, I'm planning to write more chapters for them soon. The second chapter of You Never Walk Alone has been updated. The next chapter of Lily Of Bangtan will be updated hopefully by the next week if all things go well.
I hope you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
Heyy! Idk if you're still here but I hope you're doing alright! It's been a while, hasn't it? -🦚
Hi, 🦚 anon.
I'm doing well —have answered your other ask as well 🥺 Thank you so much for dropping by to check on me 🫠 You are truly an angel and I hope 2025 is going well so far for you 💗
I hope we can continue to be friends 🥺
I hope you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
Heyy! I finally got around to reading "you never walk alone" and your writing seriously blows me away. Reading the 4th chapter of Lily of Bangtan, I realised that the next chapter is gonna be the wedding, where I assume Saera and Jin will meet. Another variable that I hadn't really given much thought is Jin's current wife, Yeojin. What's the deal with the two of them? Also why exactly can't Jangmi and Tae talk to each other? I mean they are already engaged. Sorry if this seems kinda dumb — 🦚
Hello hello, dearie 🦚 anon 🤩 I hope you are having a great week so far ♥️
First off, I'm absolutely ashamed at having vanished out of here, but life has been such a rollercoaster ride the past year or so that I didn't find the mind space to come on here, much less work on any writing. I apologise and I'll try to do better. Moving on.. 😬
You Never Walk Alone is my baby 😂 ✨my first-born✨ and it's my longest brain-dwelling story ♥️ I can't truly wait to write more 🥺 I have some ✨ ideas✨ for it and I'm going to have fun writing it 😉 The second chapter has been updated today, so I hope you like it 🥰
And as for Jin and Yeojin, they are the better, slightly safer, questionably healthy example of bangtan-marriage-gone-wrong.
Yeojin is a pretty important negative character. If she wasn't there, Jin and Saera would've had a very, very different road to being married. There's a lot to unpack in their past —but it has been a while since they met, so you are right 🤩 they are going to meet again at the wedding.
At one point, Jin and Saera could have been even considered close friends but now, there's too many cracks in their bond to be considered a friendship anymore.
They will remain amicable of course, but there's a lot of unsaid words between them to get into all this comfortably 🤐
To Taehyung and Jangmi now.
In Bangtan, long engagements don't really exist —the main reason being that the couple get too curious, impatient, do the deed and fail during the sheet ceremony. I think I'll highlight it during the sixth chapter but the Sheet Ceremony is the final step to becoming the mafia man's wife. If you don't prove that you have remained pure for the wedding night, you are not accepted into the family.
Again, this is a pretty stupid way they handle things —First, if an engaged couple does it consensually, it shouldn't be a problem but lacking patience and self-control isn't really a good look for the mafia, is it?
Now, failing the sheet ceremony isn't a big deal for the man —because let's be honest, no man in Bangtan gets married as a virgin and there's no unscientific way to prove that he is pure. But, for a woman, her purity is determined in the most unscientific possible and not passing this test, is the end of her life. Not the best way to handle it, but this is how it's done in Bangtan.
During the engagement period, dates and talking to them etc used to be heavily frowned up on when the current Don was younger. When the current Don took over, dates were allowed but with chaperones. Over the last decade or so, a date or two after the engagement, exchanging numbers and interacting at social gatherings and at the soon-to-be bride's home is accepted, even expected by the brides.
Taehyung and Jangmi are the longest engaged couple in Bangtan, but the interest in this marriage or engagement is heavily one-sided. Plus, Jangmi is studying abroad; Taehyung specifically takes up missions that ensure he stays in Korea and keeps himself busy.
They went on one date right after the engagement and a few phone calls after that, but Taehyung's lack of interest was enough to curb Jangmi's overwhelming interest 😶
So, as of now there's no dates, no calls, Jangmi had his number, but is always too scared to text him or call him. This is also why she heavily relies on Nari for her daily Taehyung updates.
The relationship is complicated at best, and I hope this mess of an answer to your question keeps you satiated enough till I actually write their story 😇
None of the question are dumb —I love that you are asking questions, makes me very very very happy 😍 so please keep them coming 🫠
I hope you can forgive my long long absence and we can be friends again 💜
I hope you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
When are you going to update you never walk alone??
Hello hello, anon 😊
The second chapter of You Never Walk Alone has been updated today! I'm hoping that I'll update the third chapter after finishing up the 2 chapters I have planned for my other fics. As for now, please enjoy reading the chapter two of You Never Walk Alone.
I hope you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
Hiii, i just wanted to ask when the next chapter of ‘The Lily of bangtan’ will be up? I looking really forward to it! Also i’m a big fan of your work!! <3
Hi, @puffyxpeach 🥺
Thank you so much 🥺 I'm back to writing again after ages, so I'm hoping to finish The Lily of Bangtan's next chapter soon! As of today, I've updated the second chapter of You Never Walk Alone. I'm hoping and praying I find the time and motivation to continue writing and posting. And, I hope the wait feels worth it for the next chapter if Lily Of Bangtan 🥺
I hope you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
I am doing better, thank you so much for asking! I hope I continue to do better and hopefully 2025 is kinder to me than 2024. Anyways, I'm looking forward to do a lot of things I've given up on in the past few years, so here I am ✨️
I hope you are doing well, lots of love and take care, aksh 💕
