✧ Spending the evening in a coffe shop was the way i found to get closer to my crush: the bartender. But what I never expected was that my daydream could come true.
A Day At A Time | a, f | Jackson Wang x Reader | Read
✧ It’s been a while since you’ve been drowning in you’re problems and avoiding you’re beloved boyfriend. But as always he surprises you and show that you were never alone.
Blank Canvas | s | Yoonseok | Read
✧ A depressed artist and a bar singer. Apparently they had nothing in common beyond their troubled lives, but only one night together transformed their fate.
Shameless | s, f | Kim Namjoon x Character | Coming Soon
✧ That night both had to de-stress. But Namjoon wasn't going to give me what I wanted so fast, He likes to prolong things when he has time, and we had the whole night.
Jealousy | s | Jung Hoseok x Reader x Min Yoongi | Coming Soon
✧ You both at a party, yoongi see you interecting with the boys and mostly with hoseok. After the party he decides to show you who you belong to.
Here’s The Plan | f | Kim Seokjin x Reader | Coming Soon
✧ A couple with the dream of opening their own bakery, but as the years go by things happens.
——————
Long Fics
Police Sketch | a, s | Min Yoongi x Character | Coming Soon
✧ A newspaper reporter that works reporting murders and disappearances in one of her investigations ends up cornered, but an unknown guy who goes by the code name Agust save her in the last minute. One day the newspaper informant hands her a picture of agust and points him out as the culprit of the crime she witnessed. So to repay him for saving her life, she finds herself running around the clock to prove the innocence of the man who helped her to the police and the local mafia.
Pairing: 20 y/o curious college student!reader × 33 y/o famous anonymous kink author!Namjoon
Word Count: ~7k+
Warnings: Explicit smut, BDSM elements (tying up, spanking, fingering, blindfolding, rough sex, edging, orgasm denial, squirting), power dynamics, daddy issues, slow corruption, filthy dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, possessiveness, mild fluff, emotional vulnerability. All activities are consensual with safewords established.
The library is a labyrinth of secrets, its air thick with the musk of old books and unspoken desires. You’re on your tiptoes, stretching for a book you’ve only heard rumors about: The Art of Obedience by RM, hidden in the restricted section like a dirty little secret. Your fingers graze its worn leather spine, the title sending a shiver down your spine, when another hand—big, warm, and far too confident—brushes yours.
You gasp, startled, and the book crashes to the floor with a thud that echoes like a slap in the silent library. Your cheeks blaze as you stammer an apology, but a voice stops you—deep, velvety, laced with danger.
“Careful, sweetheart,” it purrs, amusement curling around the words like smoke.
You look up and fuck, you’re not ready. He’s towering, a wall of lean muscle in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that could snap you in half. Dark hair falls into sharper eyes, gold-framed glasses perched low, and his lips—god, his lips—curve into a smirk that screams trouble. He’s older, maybe mid-thirties, but the way he’s looking at you makes your thighs clench involuntarily.
“I—I didn’t mean to—” you start, voice barely a whisper.
He crouches, slow and deliberate, picking up the book. His fingers linger on the cover, thumb tracing the embossed RM. like it’s a lover’s skin. He placed this copy here himself, months ago, under his secret pen name—a test, a game to see who’d dare touch it. And now you, a wide-eyed college girl dripping with innocence, are reaching for his filthy words.
He straightens, eyes raking over you—slow, predatory, like he’s already fucking you in his head. “Interesting choice,” he murmurs, flipping the book open with a casual flick. The pages fall to a chapter on submission, and his smirk deepens. “What’s a sweet thing like you doing with a book like this? Researching for a boyfriend?”
Your throat tightens, heat pooling low in your belly. “N-no, I am single. I was… just curious.”
“Curious,” he repeats, stepping closer, close enough that you can smell him—clean soap, leather, and something dark, like bourbon and sin. “That’s a dangerous word, little girl. Curiosity gets you wet in places you don’t understand yet.”
You try to step back, but the bookshelf digs into your spine. Trapped. His gaze is a physical thing, heavy and hot, stripping you bare. He holds the book out, dangling it like bait. “Take it,” he says, voice low, commanding. “But if you do, you’re mine to teach. You ready to learn what this book really means?”
Your fingers tremble as you reach for it. His hand doesn’t budge, forcing you to lean into his space, your chest brushing his. Your breath hitches, and you catch the faintest twitch in his jaw, like he’s holding back from devouring you right here.
When your fingers close around the book, his brush yours again, deliberate and lingering. “Good girl,” he whispers, the words dripping with mockery and promise. “Lesson one: always listen when someone more experienced offers you help.”
“Lesson two: you don’t touch what’s mine without permission. And this—” he taps the book, “—is mine. Just like you’re about to be.”
You’re already fucked, and you haven’t even said yes out loud.
A week later, you’re in a private reading room at the back of the library, the door locked with a soft click that feels like a gunshot in your chest. Namjoon leans against the oak table, arms crossed, his presence filling the room like he owns it. The book sits between you, its leather cover gleaming under the dim light.
“Rules first,” he says, voice low and firm, like he’s already got you under his thumb. “You say ‘red’ to stop. ‘Yellow’ to slow down. Nothing means you’re good. Got it?”
You nod, mouth dry, pussy already throbbing. “Yes.”
His eyebrow arches, sharp and expectant. “Yes, sir,” you correct, voice shaking.
His lips twitch, a flicker of approval. “Good girl. Stand up.”
You do, legs wobbly, and he’s behind you in an instant, his heat pressing against your back. You feel the smooth silk of his tie slide over your wrists, cool and tight as he binds them behind you. The knot is firm, leaving you helpless, your arms pinned and your pulse hammering in your clit.
“Feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “That’s what it’s like to be mine. Completely at my mercy, but safe. You trust me, don’t you?”
“Y-yes, sir,” you whisper, cunt slick with need.
He steps in front of you, fingers grazing your jaw, tilting your chin up. His eyes are molten, searching, and his thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing just enough to make you part your mouth. “So fucking innocent,” he says, voice dark. “You’re trembling already, and I haven’t even touched you.”
You whimper, and he leans in, lips hovering over yours, so close you can taste the mint on his breath. “I’m gonna make you beg for it,” he whispers, “make that pretty little pussy drip just from my words.” His fingers slide down your neck, ghosting over your collarbone, then lower, circling your nipple through your shirt. It’s hard, aching, and he pinches it lightly, making you gasp.
“Not yet,” he says, stepping back, leaving you panting, tied up, and so fucking wet you’re soaking your panties. He picks up the book, casual as hell, like he didn’t just set your body on fire. “Read the first page. Out loud.”
“W-what?” you stammer, cheeks burning.
He smirks, settling into a chair, legs spread wide, bulge obvious in his slacks. “You heard me. Read. Let’s see how good you are at following orders.”
You stumble through the words, voice shaking as you read about surrender, about giving yourself over completely. Every sentence feels like a caress, his eyes locked on you, devouring every flush, every hitch in your breath. When you finish, he stands, slow and deliberate, and unties your wrists, his fingers lingering on the faint red marks.
“Go home,” he says, voice soft but commanding. “Touch yourself daily until we meet again. Think about me. But you don’t come. Not until I say so.” - He gives his card. "Call me in case you need help."
You leave, pussy throbbing, mind spinning, already desperate for more.
You’re five minutes late to the next meeting, and Namjoon’s waiting, eyes dark and dangerous, like a predator who’s been kept waiting too long.
“Late,” he says, voice a low growl. “You know what that means.”
“I’m sorry, I—” You said. "The Bus-"
“No excuses.” He’s in your space before you can blink, towering over you, his hand tipping your chin up so you can’t look away. “You need to learn what happens when you make me wait.”
Your stomach flips, arousal pooling between your thighs. “W-what happens, sir?”
He doesn’t answer, just points to the table. “Bend over. Now.”
You obey, heart pounding, bending over the polished wood, hands braced on the table. The anticipation is electric, your body humming as he steps behind you. His hands lift your skirt, slow and deliberate, exposing your thighs, then your ass, your panties clinging to your soaked cunt. The air is cool against your skin, and you shiver, feeling utterly exposed.
“Count,” he orders, voice like velvet and steel.
His hand comes down, a sharp smack on your ass, the sting blooming hot and sweet. “One,” you gasp, voice trembling.
Another spank, harder, the heat spreading through your core. “Two.”
By five, your skin is burning, and you’re dripping, the fabric of your panties sticking to your swollen folds. He pauses, fingers grazing the edge of your underwear, so close to where you’re aching but not touching. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust. “So fucking wet already, and I’ve barely started. You love this, don’t you?”
You whimper, too turned on to be ashamed. “Y-yes, sir.”
Another spank, and this time you moan, loud and needy, your clit throbbing. His hand lingers, fingers slipping under the fabric, brushing the slick heat of your pussy but not pushing inside. “Such a dirty little girl,” he says, teasing, his touch gone before you can beg for more. “You want it so bad, but you don’t get to have it yet.”
He pulls your skirt down, leaving you trembling, unsatisfied, your ass stinging and your cunt aching. “Same time next week,” he says, voice calm, like he didn’t just wreck you. “And don’t you dare touch yourself until then.”
You leave, a mess of need, your body screaming for release you’re not allowed to take.
You’re on time this week, heart racing as you step into the reading room. Namjoon’s waiting, a black silk blindfold dangling from his fingers, his eyes dark with intent. Your pussy clenches at the sight, already wet, already his.
“Trust me?” he asks, voice soft but heavy, like he’s asking for your soul.
“Yes, sir,” you breathe, and he ties the blindfold over your eyes, plunging you into darkness. Every sound is sharper—his footsteps, the rustle of his clothes, the hitch in his breath. He guides you to the table, lifting you so you’re perched on the edge, thighs spread.
“Spread your legs wider,” he commands, and you do, skirt riding up, panties exposed. His hands slide up your thighs, slow, torturous, until he’s peeling your underwear off, leaving you bare. The air hits your slick folds, and you bite your lip, aching for his touch.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and then his fingers are there, teasing your entrance, circling your clit with featherlight strokes. You moan, hips bucking, but he grips your thigh, holding you still. “Not yet. You beg for it first.”
“Please, sir,” you whimper, voice breaking. “Please touch me. I need your fingers inside me. I need to come.”
He chuckles, low and filthy. “That’s better.” One finger slides inside, slow and deep, stretching you, then another, curling against that spot that makes you see stars. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you’re shaking, so close it hurts.
“Look at this greedy little cunt,” he says, voice rough. “Sucking my fingers in like it’s starving. You’re so fucking tight, baby. Gonna feel so good when I finally fuck you.”
You’re whining now, desperate, the blindfold amplifying every sensation. His fingers pump faster, wet sounds filling the room, and you’re right there, teetering on the edge. “Please, sir,” you sob. “Please let me come. I can’t—I need it.”
“Come for me,” he growls, and you do, shattering, your pussy clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. His fingers don’t stop, curling harder, thumb pressing relentless circles, and something builds—intense, overwhelming. You cry out as your body convulses, a gush of wetness soaking his hand, the table, your thighs. You’re squirting, the release so powerful it leaves you trembling, oversensitive, a whimpering mess.
“Fuck,” Namjoon groans, voice raw with awe. “Look at that. You’re fucking perfect, baby, squirting all over me like a good little slut.”
He pulls his fingers out, and you hear him suck them clean, moaning like he’s savoring every drop. The blindfold comes off, and his eyes are wild, pupils blown, but there’s a flicker of something softer—something that scares him.
“You’re too fucking perfect,” he says, kissing your forehead, gentle and jarring after the filth. “Rest up. We’re far from done.”
The fourth meeting is different. Namjoon’s hungrier, rougher, like he’s been holding back too long. You’re on your knees, wrists tied with his tie, his hands fisted in your hair as he guides you closer to his cock, straining against his slacks. The book’s open on the table, and you spot something—a scribbled note in the cover: Kim Namjoon as well as RM. Both handwritten signatures side by side, RM's signature same as printed inside the book.
Your breath catches. “You’re… R.M.?”
He freezes, then laughs, dark and dangerous, tugging your hair to tilt your face up. “Caught me, baby. Now you know who’s been writing the shit that gets you so wet. And you’re still gonna let me ruin you.”
You’re too shocked, too turned on to argue. He kisses you, hard and possessive, teeth clashing, tongue claiming your mouth like he owns it. Clothes rip—your shirt’s buttons scatter, his belt clanks, your skirt’s yanked down. He lifts you onto the table, spreading your thighs wide, and pauses, just looking at your dripping cunt.
“Fuck, you’re a masterpiece,” he growls, and then he’s pushing inside, thick and long, stretching you so good it’s almost too much. You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, and he fucks you like he’s claiming you, each thrust deep and punishing.
“Mine,” he snarls, hands gripping your hips, leaving bruises. “This pussy’s mine. No one else gets to fuck you like this. Say it.”
“Yours,” you gasp, clenching around him, already close. “Only yours, sir.”
He groans, slamming harder, the table creaking. “Gonna fill you up,” he says, voice raw. “Make you mine for good.” His thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast, and you come undone, screaming his name, your pussy milking his cock as he spills inside you, hot and thick.
You’re both panting, sweaty, tangled together. He brushes your hair back, eyes soft for the first time, like he’s scared of what’s between you. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says quietly. “About the book. It’s just… a side hobby. Don't need attention.”
“I won’t,” you whisper, and he kisses you, slow and deep, like he’s sealing a promise. His cock buried deep inside you, hot and unyielding.
Weeks later, you’re back in the library, the familiar scent of old books wrapping around you like a lover’s embrace. You’re seated at a secluded table, The Art of Obedience open in your lap, every filthy page now a map of your own desires. You’ve read it cover to cover, each chapter a spark that ignites memories of Namjoon’s hands, his voice, his cock. Your thighs press together under the table, your panties already damp just thinking about him.
Across from you, Namjoon’s writing in a leather-bound notebook, his glasses low on his nose, that same predatory focus in his eyes. He’s been working on something new, he said, a chapter written just for you. The thought alone has kept you on edge all day, your body humming with anticipation, your cunt aching for what he might have in store.
He glances up, catching you staring, and his lips curve into a smirk that’s pure sin. “Done daydreaming?” he asks, voice low, teasing. He slides the notebook across the table, the pages open to a freshly inked chapter. “Read it. Out loud. Let’s see how you handle it.”
Your breath catches, heat flooding your core. You take the notebook, fingers trembling slightly, and begin to read, your voice soft but steady, though every word feels like it’s unraveling you.
The chapter is titled “Lessons in Lust” It begins with a description of a woman—clearly you, though unnamed—kneeling before a man, her wrists bound with silk, her body bare except for a thin lace garter. The man’s voice is described as a low growl, commanding her to spread her thighs wider, to show him how much she wants him. The prose is vivid, explicit, detailing the way her arousal drips down her inner thighs, the way her clit pulses with every word he speaks.
“You’re so fucking desperate for me, aren’t you?” he says in the text, and you can almost hear Namjoon’s voice in your head, feel his breath against your ear. “Look at that pretty cunt, begging for my cock. But you don’t get it yet. Not until you’re crying for it.”
He teases her, his fingers tracing her folds, collecting her slick and spreading it over her clit, but never giving her enough. He edges her, bringing her to the brink again and again, until she’s sobbing, pleading, her body shaking with need. The scene shifts—he bends her over a table, her cheek pressed to the wood, and spanks her, each strike making her wetter, her moans louder. He whispers filthy promises, telling her she’s his, that no one else will ever make her feel this way.
“You’re mine to break,” he says, “mine to fuck, mine to ruin. And you love it, don’t you? You love being my dirty little girl.”
Your voice falters as you read, your pussy throbbing, soaking through your panties and onto your skirt. You shift in your seat, trying to relieve the pressure, but it’s no use—every word is a pulse straight to your clit. Namjoon’s watching you, his gaze heavy, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers twitching like he’s holding back from touching you right here.
“Keep going,” he says, voice rough, his own arousal evident in the tightness of his jaw.
You swallow, continuing, your cheeks burning.
The man finally gives in, sliding his cock into her, slow at first, letting her feel every inch. He fucks her hard, relentless, the table shaking beneath them. He pulls her hair, forcing her to arch back, and whispers in her ear, “Come for me, baby. Show me how much you need this.” She does, her body convulsing, squirting around him, soaking his cock, the table, the floor. He doesn’t stop, fucking her through it, claiming her completely.
You finish the page, voice barely a whisper, your body trembling with want. Your cunt is so wet you can feel it dripping, your thighs slick under the table. Namjoon leans forward, his eyes dark, dangerous, and so fucking pleased.
“Liked that, didn’t you?” he murmurs, standing and rounding the table. He stops behind you, his hand sliding over your shoulder, fingers brushing the nape of your neck. “You’re soaked just from reading it. I can smell how much you want me.”
You whimper, head tilting back as his fingers trail lower, dipping under your collar to graze your skin. “Please, sir,” you whisper, already desperate.
He chuckles, low and filthy, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Oh, baby, we’re gonna make that chapter real. But not here. Tonight, in my bedroom. You’re gonna show me just how much you want to be my good girl.”
He pulls back, leaving you panting, and slides the notebook into your hand. “Finish your reading,” he says, smirking. “I want you thinking about me all day, dripping for me until I’m ready to fuck you senseless.”
You nod, too overwhelmed to speak, your body alive with need. As he walks away, you open the book again, knowing every page is a promise of what’s to come—and you’re already his, completely.
A/N: "This library’s closed, but I hope Namjoon’s lessons left you soaked and begging for more of my words. Tell me your dirty thoughts in the comments. Hey @namluvili hope you like it."
Pairing: Professor!Namjoon x Ex-Wife!Reader
Genre: University AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff
Word Count: ~8k+
Warnings: Explicit smut, dom/sub dynamics, brainy dom!Namjoon, strict punishments, praise + degradation, orgasm control, fingering, oral (f receiving), desk sex, throat grabbing, spanking, unprotected sex (wrap it up!), bickering, emotional angst (divorce due to emotional neglect and career conflicts), 18+ only.
Vibe: Brainy, strict, chaotic, emotional, filthy, tender, unhinged, layered with unresolved pain and desire.
The lecture hall is a cavern of fading echoes, the last of your classmates’ footsteps swallowed by the corridor as the clock above the whiteboard ticks past 6 p.m. You stand at the front, heart hammering like a war drum, your backpack slung over one shoulder, your psychology textbook clutched against your chest like a flimsy shield. The air smells of chalk dust, old books, and the faint, maddening trace of Namjoon’s cologne—sandalwood, cedar, and a dark undercurrent of ink that clings to him like a shadow. You hate that you still notice it. Hate that it still makes your stomach twist, even after everything.
Namjoon—Professor Kim, your ex-husband, and the architect of your academic misery—sits at his desk, one long leg crossed over the other, the leather chair creaking as he leans back. His silver-rimmed glasses perch on the bridge of his nose, catching the desk lamp’s glow, and his broad shoulders strain against his crisp white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’s grading papers, his fountain pen moving with surgical precision, and he doesn’t glance up as you clear your throat, the sound pitiful in the vast room. On his desk, half-hidden behind a stack of books, you spot a familiar silver frame—a wedding photo he hasn’t thrown out. Your stomach lurches, and you look away, but not before catching the way his fingers linger on it as he gathers his papers.
“Office hours ended fifteen minutes ago,” he says, voice low and clipped, like you’re just another student interrupting his evening. “You should’ve emailed.”
You shift your weight, the hem of your pleated skirt brushing your thighs, and grip the textbook tighter. “I did email. Three times. You didn’t answer.”
His pen pauses mid-sentence, hovering over a student’s paper, but his eyes stay fixed on the page. “That’s not an excuse to barge in unannounced. And also less than half attendance and incomplete assignments doesn't take you anywhere.”
“Namjoon, please.” Your voice cracks, raw with desperation, and you hate how small it makes you feel. “I’m failing your class. I need extra credit. I’ll do anything.”
The word anything hangs like a lit match, and finally, he looks up. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes his glasses up with one finger, his gaze raking over you—your flushed cheeks, the nervous clutch of your book, the way your skirt hugs your hips. His lips twitch, not quite a smirk but close enough to spike your pulse. His eyes flicker with something darker, something that’s not just about your grades but about the years you’ve spent apart, the wounds neither of you have healed.
“Anything?” he repeats, his voice dipping into a velvety growl that used to unravel you in the privacy of your shared apartment. “Careful, babygirl. You don’t know what you’re offering.”
The nickname cuts like a blade. He hasn’t called you that since you wore his ring, since you thought forever meant something. Your throat tightens, but you stand taller, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck.
“I’m serious,” you say, stepping closer to the desk, your sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. “I can’t fail this class. It’ll tank my GPA, my scholarship—”
He cuts you off with a raised hand, standing in one fluid motion. He’s tall—God, you always forget how tall—towering over you as he rounds the desk, his presence swallowing the space. The cologne is stronger now, wrapping around you like a trap, and you feel the warmth radiating from him as he stops inches away. His fingers brush the silver frame on his desk, a fleeting touch, and you see the muscle in his jaw tick.
“If you want an A so badly,” he says, his voice low and measured, an edge of something bitter beneath it, “prove you can follow instructions.” He pauses, his eyes locking onto yours, and his voice softens, laced with a pain you almost miss. “You were always good at listening… when you wanted to be. Before you walked away.”
The jab lands hard, stirring the ghost of your divorce. It wasn’t just a split—it was a slow bleed. Namjoon had been your world, but his obsession with his career—late nights at the university, missed dinners, entire weekends lost to research—left you feeling like a footnote in his life. You’d poured everything into supporting him, but he never saw how much you were fading. You’d begged him to notice, to choose you, but he’d buried himself in his work instead. So you left, filing for divorce after one too many nights alone, the silence louder than any fight. He’d been furious, not at you but at himself, you later realized. But by then, the papers were signed, and you’d vowed never to let him close again. Yet here you are, begging for his help, and the old wounds feel fresh.
“What… what do you mean?” you ask, voice steady despite the storm inside you.
He tilts his head, studying you like a research subject, his dark eyes glinting with heat and hurt. “Show up to my office tonight,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Eight o’clock. Don’t be late. And wear something… appropriate.”
Your breath hitches. “You’re serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” His eyes are unreadable, but there’s a fire there, a mix of desire and unresolved anger. He steps back, grabbing his briefcase. “If you’re not there, don’t bother asking for favors again. I don’t reward failure.”
He brushes past you, leaving you alone in the lecture hall, heart pounding. This isn’t just about a grade. This is Namjoon reclaiming control, punishing you for leaving, and God help you, you’re already hooked.
The campus is a ghost town as you trek to the psychology building, the night air sharp against your flushed skin. Your heels click on the cobblestones, each step a debate—turn back or face him. You picture Namjoon’s office, the desk where you once left him coffee during his late-night grading sessions, back when you were still his wife. The memory stings—those quiet moments when you’d linger, hoping he’d look up and see you, really see you. He rarely did. Your failing grade stings more, though, and you keep walking, the psychology building looming ahead like a judge’s gavel.
By 7:55, you’re outside his office, nerves fraying. You’ve chosen your outfit with care: a fitted black skirt that hugs your thighs, a silky blouse with a neckline that teases without screaming, and heels that make your legs look endless. Red lipstick stains your lips, a bold choice to mask the fact that you’re a live wire. Your hair falls in loose waves, framing your face, and you hope it’s enough to make him falter, even for a second.
The hallway is a tomb, the silence amplifying your heartbeat. You knock, and his voice comes, calm and commanding: “Come in.”
Namjoon sits behind his desk, glasses on, a stack of essays before him. The office is warm, all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a single lamp casting golden light over his sharp features. He doesn’t look up as you shut the door, but you catch the way his pen freezes when he sees you. The silver frame of your wedding picture is still there, tucked behind a book, and you wonder if he’s moved it since this afternoon.
“You’re early,” he says, eyes flicking up to take you in—your skirt, your blouse, the lipstick. His grip on the pen tightens, and you swear his jaw clenches. “Good girl.”
The words hit like a spark, and you clench your fists to keep from reacting. “Let’s get to it,” you say, crossing your arms. “What do I have to do?”
He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
You hesitate, then sink into the seat, crossing your legs. Your skirt rides up slightly, and his gaze follows, a flicker of heat in his eyes. You tug at the hem, but he’s already leaning forward, his hand catching yours, warm and firm.
“Leave it,” he says, voice a low growl that makes your thighs clench. “You wanted extra credit. This is how you earn it.”
Your pulse hammers as he kneels in front of you, large hands resting on your knees. He pushes them apart slowly, deliberately, and you feel the air rush out of your lungs, your body betraying you with a soft whimper. He pauses, looking up through his glasses, his expression infuriatingly calm, like he’s about to lecture on Freud instead of unraveling you.
“Tell me,” he says, thumbs tracing slow circles on your inner thighs, inching higher until they’re brushing the hem of your skirt. “What’s the primary function of the amygdala?”
Your brain scrambles, the question jarring in the haze of his touch. “It’s… it regulates emotions,” you manage, voice breathy. “Fear, pleasure, anger…”
“Good,” he murmurs, hands sliding higher, pushing your skirt up to reveal the lace edge of your panties. His thumb grazes your skin, so close to where you’re already aching, and you bite your lip to stifle a moan. The slick sound of his fingers brushing your thigh fills the quiet, and your legs quiver against his wrists. “Next question. What’s the difference between classical and operant conditioning?”
His fingers slip beneath the lace, brushing your slick folds, and you gasp, “C-classical is… Pavlov. Stimulus-response. Operant is… rewards and punishments.”
“Very good,” he purrs, sliding one long finger inside you. The intrusion is slow, deliberate, the obscene slickness of it loud in the silent room as he curls his finger, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. You grip the chair’s arms, nails digging into the wood as your thighs tremble, the chair creaking under your shifting weight. “You’re not as hopeless as your grades suggest.”
“Fuck, Namjoon,” you moan, hips bucking against his hand, but he presses your thigh down, pinning you in place.
“Language,” he scolds, tone calm but edged with warning. “And it’s Professor Kim. One more question. Define cognitive dissonance.”
You’re shuddering now, his finger working you with agonizing precision, and you can barely think. “It’s… when you hold two conflicting beliefs… or behaviors… and it causes tension.”
“Correct,” he says, and then his finger is gone, leaving you empty and aching. You whine, a desperate sound, but he stands, wiping his hand on a tissue with a casual flick, the gesture cold and dismissive. It stings, a reminder of the distance between you—the years, the divorce, the unspoken wounds. He’s not savoring you, not indulging in the intimacy, and it hurts more than you expect.
You glare, chest heaving. “You’re being an asshole,” you snap, sharper than intended. “You don’t have to act like I’m nothing to you.”
His expression hardens, and he steps closer, gripping your chin to force your gaze up. “You’re in my office, begging for my help,” he says, voice low and dangerous, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “You don’t get to make demands. Stand up and bend over the desk.”
Your legs shake as you rise, bracing your hands on the desk’s edge. The wood is cool against your palms, grounding you as he moves behind you, flipping up your skirt with practiced ease. Your panties are yanked to your ankles, and the air hits your bare skin, your body humming with embarrassment and anticipation. The desk creaks faintly as you lean forward, papers shifting under your elbows.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, smoothing a hand over your ass before delivering a sharp slap that makes you yelp. The sting blooms into heat, and he chuckles, low and dark. “Can’t even focus for five minutes without spreading those pretty legs, can you? Pathetic little thing. You need me to teach you how to behave?”
“Yes,” you whisper, the word slipping out, your face burning. “Please.”
He hums, and you hear the clink of his belt, the rustle of fabric. You feel him—hot, hard, pressing against your entrance, teasing with slow drags along your slick folds. He doesn’t thrust in yet, letting the anticipation build until you’re quaking, your fingers digging into the desk.
“You’re going to answer my questions while I fuck you,” he says, voice steady, like he’s discussing syllabus changes. “Get one wrong, I stop. Understand?”
You nod, and he grips your hips, thrusting into you in one deep, punishing stroke. The stretch is overwhelming, his cock filling you completely, and you gasp, rocking forward against the desk. The wood groans, papers scattering like fallen leaves, and each snap of his hips is a reckoning, his anger at your leaving poured into every thrust. It’s not just desire—it’s fury, a silent why did you leave me? in every movement.
“First question,” he says, voice calm despite the brutal pace, his hand tangling in your hair to pull your head back. “What’s the Hawthorne effect?”
You’re panting, mind hazy, but you force yourself to focus. “It’s… when people change their behavior… because they know they’re being watched.”
“Good,” he says, rewarding you with a deeper thrust, the desk creaking louder as you moan, your body arching against him. “Next. What’s the primary criticism of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs?”
His pace picks up, each thrust sending sparks through you, the slick sound of your bodies mingling with the desk’s protests. “It’s… too simplistic,” you gasp, voice breaking. “Ignores cultural differences… and individual variation.”
“Very good,” he growls, and his thrusts turn punishing, each one laced with that raw, festering anger. His fingers dig into your hips, bruising, and you feel it—the weight of the divorce, the nights you screamed at each other, the love you buried. “Last question,” he says, his voice rougher now, almost breaking. “Why did you leave me?”
The question hits like a blow, and you freeze, your body tensing around him. He doesn’t stop, his hips slamming into yours, but his voice is softer, raw with pain. “Answer me,” he says, and you hear the crack in his armor, the hurt he’s carried since you walked away.
“I…” You’re sobbing now, not from pain but from the flood of memories—the cold dinners, the empty bed, the way his office always came first. “I couldn’t take it anymore,” you choke out, voice raw. “You were always here, in this fucking office, with your books and your students, while I was alone, waiting for a husband who never came home. Dinners went cold, Namjoon. I went to bed alone. I loved you, but I was invisible. It was breaking me.”
He stills, buried deep inside you, and for a moment, there’s only your ragged breathing, the faint hum of the air conditioning. His grip falters, and you feel his breath hitch, like your words have finally pierced him. Then he moves again, slower, his hands gentler, almost reverent. “You think it didn’t break me?” he whispers, voice barely audible. “You think I didn’t miss you every fucking night? That I didn’t hate myself for letting you go?”
You can’t answer, because he’s fucking you again, and it’s different now—less angry, more desperate, like he’s trying to pour everything he never said into each thrust. His cock hits that spot that makes your legs shake, and his hand slides around to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, grounding you. “Beg for your grade, babygirl,” he says, voice hoarse, raw with emotion. “Loud enough so the whole building hears.”
“Please,” you moan, pushing back against him, your body trembling. “Please, Professor, give me an A. I’ll do anything, I swear, just—fuck, please.”
“Louder,” he growls, his hand tightening on your throat, his thrusts deeper, harder, each one pushing you closer to the edge.
“Please!” you scream, voice echoing in the empty room, raw and desperate. “I need it, Namjoon, please, I’ll be so good for you—”
That breaks him. He groans, guttural, and you feel him spill inside you, his cock pulsing as he rides out his release, hips stuttering. You’re trembling, so close but not there, and he knows it. He pulls out, spinning you to face him, and before you can protest, he’s on his knees, mouth on you, licking and sucking your clit with a precision that makes your head spin.
“Namjoon,” you gasp, fisting his hair, tugging the dark strands as he works you, his tongue relentless, glasses fogging from the heat of his breath. He looks up, eyes dark and intense, and the sight—Professor Kim, on his knees, devouring you—sends you over the edge. You come with a cry, body shaking as pleasure crashes over you, knees buckling until he catches you, licking you through the aftershocks.
You’re a mess when it’s over, panting, sweaty, legs barely holding you up. Namjoon stands, adjusting his glasses with a calm that’s infuriating after what he’s done. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, hair mussed from your hands, and he looks at you like he’s deciding whether to kiss you or send you away.
He steps back, adjusting his tie with a practiced flick, his expression cool and composed, like he didn’t just fuck you senseless over his desk. “Better hope you did well,” he says, delivering a sharp slap to your thigh that makes you gasp, the sting blooming into heat. “If not, we’re doing this every night.” He smirks, tossing you your panties, the lace dangling from his finger like a taunt. “Fix yourself up. You look like a mess.”
You’re still trembling, legs shaky as you pull your skirt down, the damp fabric of your panties clinging to your skin. He leans against the desk, arms crossed, watching you with that infuriating professor’s gaze, like he’s grading every fumble of your fingers. The silver frame catches your eye again, and you feel a pang—does he keep it there to torment himself, or is it just another relic he’s too stubborn to throw away?
“Don’t think this changes anything,” he adds, voice low and teasing, but there’s a bite to it, like he’s reminding you of the chasm between you. “You’re still failing unless I say otherwise.” He straightens, brushing a speck of lint from his shirt, and points to the door. “Get out. I’ve got papers to grade.”
You glare, snatching your backpack from the floor, your thighs still burning from his touch. “You’re a prick, you know that?”
“And you’re a desperate little thing who’ll be back tomorrow,” he shoots back, not even looking at you now, his pen already scratching across another essay. “Don’t be late. I hate tardiness.”
You leave his office, body humming, thighs sore, heart a tangled mess of longing and regret. Your panties are damp, your skin still tingling from his touch, and somewhere deep down, you know this wasn’t just about a grade—it was about unfinished business. You hate him. You want him. And you know, deep down, you’ll be back. The next morning, you check your grade online, heart pounding. The 52% is gone, replaced with a B. You text him immediately.
You: B? I thought I earned an A.
Namjoon: Keep dreaming, babygirl. Come back tonight if you want to try again.
You groan, tossing your phone onto the bed, but a smile tugs at your lips. You’ll be back. And this time, you’ll make him give you that damn A—anger, resentment, and all.
A/N: Hello guys, here is our Daddy Namjoon though he doesn't have kids yet. 🤭
you overhear your roommate bragging to his friends, and decide to put him to the test.
pairing — roommate!namjoon x reader
genre — college au
content — (slight) angst, fluff, smut
wordcount — 10.7k
warnings — virgin!namjoon, kissing, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up), multiple positions (cowgirl & missionary), slight degradation??? (reader keeps calling namjoon a virgin, he calls her a slut), but otherwise fluffy
notes — sorry this took so long! lowkey inspired by “nuts” because someone clearly gave this man the ride of his life
18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
your kitchen is an absolute mess.
beer cans litter the table, half melted ice floats in cloudy glasses, and there's a bottle of whiskey being passed around like some sacred ornament. the air is thick with alcohol, laughter, and the rich aroma of something warm and buttery from your pan.
you didn't plan on being here. you just wanted a snack before getting back to your studies, but namjoon's friends have taken over the entire kitchen, their voices bouncing off the walls as they pre drink and debrief for their night out. leaving now would only draw more attention to you, so you keep your head down, hoping to remain invisible.
"sooo, namjoon," taehyung drawls, dragging out the words like he's been waiting for the right moment. "you gonna see your little lady friend tonight?"
you don't turn around, but you listen.
"who?" namjoon asks, far too casual to be convincing.
jungkook snickers. "don't play dumb. that girl from your english class you've been sneaking around with."
your grip tightens on the spatula. you flip your sandwich, watching the cheese melt at the edges, pretending this conversation isn't happening.
"ohhh," seokjin hums. "so that's why he's been dipping early."
namjoon exhales a laugh, and when he speaks again, his voice is different - looser, cockier, like he's already playing into whatever image his dumb friends have built in their heads.
"yeah, well," he says, stretching back in his chair. "we've hooked up a couple times. but it's nothing serious."
someone whistles. someone else laughs.
you glance at namjoon from the corner of your eye. his usual easy confidence is turned up a notch, like he's playing a role he's comfortable in.
interesting.
"damn," yoongi mutters, amused. "didn't think you had it in you, joon."
"nah, the real question," jimin grins, eyes gleaming with mischief, "is she any good?"
your hands still for half a second.
you shouldn't care. you shouldn't be listening. but you are.
namjoon chuckles, low and cocky. "oh, she's good alright."
the room erupts. taehyung slaps the table, jungkook nearly chokes on his drink.
"shit, that good?"
namjoon grins. "man, i swear, i had her begging for more."
someone groans. someone else swears.
you press your lips together, not in anger but in something closer to amusement. so this is how he talks when he thinks you're not listening.
noted.
"nah, you're lying," hobi accuses. "no way you're pulling girls like that."
namjoon scoffs. "swear on my life. she couldn't get enough of me."
they laugh again, and the conversation keeps moving, but now you're just... interested.
not in the girl, and not in whatever namjoon did or didn't do.
but in him.
because you've known namjoon for a while now, and this? this version of him, loud, cocky, bragging like he's that guy?
it doesn't quite match the namjoon who lingers in doorways, rambling about philosophy books he thinks you'd like. or the namjoon who lets you steal his hoodies even though you never give them back. or the namjoon who once fell asleep on your bed mid conversation, only to wake up embarrassed and apologetic, scrambling out before you could make fun of him.
you're not mad. not jealous. just... intrigued.
your sandwich is done. you turn off the stove, slide it onto a plate, and turn to leave.
and as soon as you do, namjoon is already looking straight at you.
his arm is slung over the back of his chair, drink in hand, but something in his face shifts when your eyes meet, like he suddenly remembered you were there.
you don't give him the chance to say anything. you pick up your plate and head straight for your room.
you almost make it until you hear one of them call out your name.
"hey, y/n."
it's taehyung. his voice is still playful, still teasing, but there's genuine curiosity in it, too. you pause in the doorway, exhaling slowly before glancing back.
he tilts his head, lips twitching like he's already amused by whatever you're about to say. "why aren't you coming out with us?"
you raise an eyebrow. "because you's are so painfully irritating."
the table erupts in laughter, jungkook clutching his chest in mock offense.
"shit," yoongi mutters, shaking his head. "that was brutal."
"not that brutal," jimin smirks. "she's got a point."
you don't stick around to hear the rest. you turn and walk to your room, closing the door behind you before the laughter fades completely.
the second you're alone, you set your plate down on your desk and pull your chair out, sitting down and pulling your knees into your chest. you take a bite of your sandwich, chewing slowly as the voices outside blur into the background.
you're staring at your notes, but you're not really reading them. the words swim in front of your eyes as your mind drifts back to the conversation in the kitchen.
you're not angry. you're not upset. you're just... interested.
namjoon was talking about another girl. a girl he's apparently that confident about. a girl who he claims "couldn't get enough of him." interesting.
but the thing is, you've seen namjoon in ways that don't match the version he showed to his friends. you've seen the way he stumbles over his words when you get too close. you've caught the subtle, almost shy glances he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking.
so hearing him talk so freely about this other girl - bragging, no less - it's not that it bothers you. it's more that it's... fascinating.
you lean back in your chair, biting your lip as you consider it.
so, that's how he plays it with them...
you almost want to roll your eyes at how easy it is to see through him. you've spent enough time with him to know when he's being the version of himself he thinks people want to see. maybe it's fun for him to be that confident guy in front of his friends.
you chuckle softly to yourself.
and maybe it's time you had a little fun with that.
you don't know how much time passes before there's a knock at your door.
soft. hesitant.
you already know who it is.
"hey." his voice is quieter now, careful. "you still up?"
you glance at your laptop, pretending to consider it. you could mess with him. pretend you're asleep, give him a little taste of his own medicine.
but then you sigh, playing it cool. "yeah."
a moment of silence. then, "can i come in?"
you glance at the desk, the notes you're definitely not studying, and the plate with the sandwich. you could say no.
but where's the fun in that?
"...yeah."
the door creaks open, and namjoon steps into your room. he doesn't close the door behind him, instead, he stands there, leaning against the doorframe with a casual ease that you almost hate to admit you've come to expect from him.
he looks effortless, like he always does, yet there's something about him tonight that catches your attention. he's wearing a simple white t-shirt, the kind that fits just right, nothing flashy, but it highlights his broad shoulders and the faint lines of his muscles. his jeans are worn, the edges slightly frayed, fitting him perfectly, and his grey hair is styled in a quiff, the strands messy yet purposeful, like he's just run a hand through it and didn't care to fix it. despite the casual outfit, there's a subtle edge to him tonight, a quiet confidence that fills the room the moment he steps in.
"you okay?" he asks.
you smirk, resting your chin in your hand. "why wouldn't i be?"
his jaw tightens. "you left kind of fast."
"i was studying," you point out, nodding toward your laptop. "some of us actually care about our grades."
he rolls his eyes, but there's something unreadable behind them. an uncomfortable silence settles between you two, as namjoon is clearly aware that you overheard his conversation in the kitchen. it's as if he wants to say something, but the words just don't come.
you raise an eyebrow, not giving him the satisfaction of breaking the silence first. "so... are you just here to check on me?"
his lips twitch at your response, but he stays quiet for a moment longer than usual, like he's trying to figure out if you're actually annoyed or just messing with him.
finally, he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck in that way he always does when he's unsure. "we're heading out now."
you nod. "okay."
another moment of silence. his eyes glance toward the door, like he's about to leave, but then he looks back at you, his gaze shifting just slightly, as if he's hesitating. it's only for a moment, but you catch it.
"you sure you don't want to come?" he asks, his voice a little quieter now.
you meet his gaze, letting the moment stretch. you could say something snarky, make him laugh, maybe even throw in a playful jab at his friends, but instead, you just smirk.
"nah."
he lingers in the doorway, eyes still on you, like there's something he wants to say, but he doesn't. you don't push. you just watch him as he hesitates, caught somewhere between leaving and staying.
"right, well uh," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck again in that familiar way, as if searching for the right words. "i'll see you later?"
you tilt your head, raising an eyebrow. "no," you snort, your tone casual. "i'll be asleep like a normal human being."
namjoon lets out a small chuckle, but it's awkward, not his usual carefree laugh. "oh, yeah." he pauses, shifting on his feet as though unsure of what to say next. "well, uh, i'll try not to make too much noise when i get back."
gotcha.
you suppress a grin, leaning back in your chair slightly, eyes gleaming with mischief. this is too easy.
"oh, please," you reply with a teasing edge in your voice, "don't let me interrupt you and your little lady friends' fun."
his eyes widen, the shock clear across his face, and for a second, he stands there completely silent, as though the words you just dropped are a little too much for him to process. his mouth opens like he wants to say something, but no sound comes out. instead, he just stands there, caught between saying more or pretending like you didn't just throw him off balance.
the corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn't respond. he simply glances at you one last time, his expression unreadable now, before he slowly backs out of the room. he doesn't say a word as he closes the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the silence that remains.
you sit there for a moment, watching the door, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. there's something almost satisfying about how easily you've unsettled him. you never thought a simple line could make him hesitate like that, but it did. and now, you're left with the sound of your own breath in the room and a growing curiosity about how things are going to play out when he gets home.
after the door clicks shut, the silence in your room feels almost suffocating, a stark contrast to the lighthearted buzz that just filled the space a moment ago. you sit there, your laptop forgotten in front of you, staring at the door as if the sound of namjoon's retreating footsteps will give you some clarity.
but it doesn't. the words from downstairs keep echoing in your mind.
"she couldn't get enough of me."
"had her begging for more."
it's funny, really. namjoon may think he's the one in control, spinning tales for his friends to make himself look good, but you know better. you know him better.
he can talk a big game, but you know he's bluffing.
you lean back in your chair, a smirk slowly curling at the corners of your mouth. it's almost too easy. namjoon thinks he's the one in charge, but what if you turned the tables? what if you showed him exactly what he was missing out on?
you know what he's like - deep down, you're pretty sure he's not as smooth or confident as he tries to make everyone believe. you've felt the way his breath hitches when you're near, the slight shift in his gaze when your fingers brush against his. you've caught the little signs that scream he's just as affected by you as you are by him, but neither of you has dared to admit it.
but now, as you sit there alone in the quiet of your room, the idea starts to settle in your mind. why wait? why keep pretending like you don't want the same thing?
you're going to show him what it's really like.
the thought lingers for a moment, heavy and certain, like the beginning of something inevitable. you'll make him feel it. you'll make him see what he's been missing by pretending he's the only one with the upper hand.
you push yourself out of the chair, walking over to your bed, your mind racing with the plan. it's not just about proving something to him. it's about taking control of a situation you both know is heading somewhere. it's about time you stopped pretending like you didn't have just as much of a claim on him as he does on you.
you're not going to text him. you're not going to wait up like some girl desperate for his attention. but you are going to be here when he gets back. awake. aware. and ready.
and when he walks through that door, still riding the high of the night, still thinking he's the man?
you'll be right here. waiting.
and you'll be the one to change everything.
a few hours pass, the draining task of studying long forgotten. your laptop is open, but instead of your notes, netflix flickers on the screen, casting a soft glow across your room. some random show plays, but you're barely paying attention, the voices blending into the background as your mind drifts.
it's late. later than you thought. the clock on your bedside table reads past two in the morning, and you wonder where namjoon could be.
then, just as you're considering turning off the episode and actually going to bed, you hear it - the front door creaking open, followed by the quiet shuffle of footsteps.
he's back.
you don't move, don't to pause the show, but your senses sharpen instantly, hyper-aware of the sounds outside your door. the rustle of a jacket being shrugged off. the soft clink of keys being dropped onto the counter. the hushed sigh that tells you he's tired but not entirely drunk.
you glance at the clock again. alone?
interesting.
for a moment, you just listen, waiting for what he'll do next. sometimes, when he comes back late, he'll go straight to his room, closing the door quietly as if he doesn't want to wake you. other times, he'll linger in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water, scrolling through his phone, moving around just enough for you to know he's still awake.
but tonight, there's hesitation.
you hear him in the kitchen. the faint clatter of a glass against the counter, the soft rush of water from the tap. no heavy footsteps toward your door, no lazy knock just to see if you're still up. just namjoon, alone, moving quietly in the dim light of the apartment.
you don't know why you expected anything different.
maybe some part of you thought he'd come straight to you - lingering in your doorway again, throwing out some half hearted excuse to check on you, like he wasn't the one who fed his friends a story earlier. but he doesn't. instead, he takes his time, moving around like he's trying not to wake you, completely unaware that you're still awake, still listening
you wonder if he's thinking about earlier. if he even remembers what he said.
something about it makes you smirk.
stretching your legs out in front of you, you lean back against the pillows, keeping your eyes on the glow seeping in from underneath your door. you could go out there. catch him off guard...
you spring into action. one second, you're comfortably curled up in bed, the soft glow of your laptop screen lighting up the dark. the next, you're pushing off the blankets, swinging your legs over the side, and standing.
you tell yourself you're just getting a glass of water. nothing more. nothing calculated.
but as you pad down the hall, your steps light against the floor, you already know that's a lie.
the kitchen is dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the glow beneath the cabinets. namjoon stands by the counter, one hand gripping the edge while the other lifts a glass to his lips. he's still wearing the same white t shirt and jeans from earlier, but the shirt is slightly wrinkled now, hanging looser against his frame. his hair, once styled so neatly, has fallen slightly out of place, making him look softer.
he doesn't notice you at first. he just stands there, staring down at the counter, lost in whatever thoughts are swimming in his head.
you step forward, letting your presence be known.
his eyes shoot up immediately, and for a split second, there's something different in them, something that shifts too quickly for you to catch. then, just as fast, he blinks it away, straightening slightly.
"you're up," he murmurs, voice lower than usual, rougher.
you arch a brow, stepping past him toward the cabinet to grab a glass. "clearly."
he watches as you move, eyes following the way you reach up, the hem of your shirt lifting just slightly before you set the glass on the counter and fill it with water. you take a slow sip, letting the silence stretch.
he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "it's late."
"so?" you counter, setting the glass down and leaning against the counter across from him.
his lips twitch, but he doesn't respond right away. instead, he studies you, his gaze slow and deliberate, as if he's trying to figure out why you're really here.
the tension between you is almost unbearable, but neither of you acknowledge it. instead, you both bask in it.
you lean against the counter, tilting your head slightly as you watch him. he doesn't say anything, just swirls the water in his glass, avoiding your gaze like he knows something's coming. like he knows you didn't just come out here for a drink.
"so," you start, keeping your voice casual, "how was your night?"
namjoon exhales, setting his glass down. "it was fine."
you hum, taking another sip of your water. "just fine?"
he glances at you then, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. "yeah. why?"
you shrug, tapping your fingers against the counter. "just wondering. i mean, you talked such a big game earlier, figured you'd be out all night keeping some poor girl begging for more."
namjoon stills.
just for a second. just a tiny, almost imperceptible hesitation before he recovers, scoffing under his breath.
"you heard that, huh?" he mutters.
you arch a brow. "hard not to, considering you were basically shouting it."
he sighs, running a hand through his already messy hair. "it was just talk."
"was it?" you press, watching him closely. "so, no desperate girl who just can't get enough of you tonight, hm? no pussy for joonie?"
he looks at you now, really looks at you, and for the first time tonight, you see it - that look of uncertainty, the realization that you're not just teasing him. you're testing him.
his jaw clenches slightly. "why do you care?"
you smirk, setting your glass down with a soft clink. "i don't."
but you both know that's not entirely true.
you pause just long enough to let the tension settle between you, watching the way his fingers tighten around the glass. then, with a slow tilt of your head, you let the words slip out, smooth and certain.
"because i know you're full of shit."
he blinks, confusion flashing in his eyes. "what?"
your lips curl into a devilish smirk. "you're a virgin."
his reaction is instant.
his eyes widen, shoulders stiffening as if you just caught him in a lie he wasn't prepared to defend. for the first time tonight, he looks genuinely speechless, his mouth opening slightly before he snaps it shut.
you almost laugh. bingo.
"what..." he starts, but his voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, gripping the counter like it'll steady him. "what are you talking about?"
you smirk, crossing your arms over your chest as you lean back against the counter. "oh, come on," you say, tilting your head. "you really expect me to believe all that bullshit you were saying earlier? that you had some girl begging for you? you've never had a girl back here!"
his ears turn the faintest shade of pink. "i never said-"
"you swore on your life, actually," you cut in, eyes gleaming. "so either you were lying then, or you're lying now. which is it?"
he exhales sharply, looking anywhere but at you. "i don't... why does it matter?"
"it doesn't," you say easily, though the way you're watching him says otherwise. "i just think it's cute. you putting on this whole act for your friends, talking like you're some kind of sex god when really..." you trail off, letting the silence fill in the rest.
"you've never felt the warmth of a woman in your life."
his jaw clenches, his grip on the glass so tight you think it might crack.
"you don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, but there's no force behind it. just the quiet, half hearted defense of a man who knows he's been caught.
you take a slow step forward, watching as his shoulders tense, as his breath stutters just slightly. his fingers twitch against the counter, knuckles tightening around the glass like it's the only thing grounding him.
"don't i?" your voice drops lower.
he doesn't answer. doesn't move.
and that silence? that tiny, fleeting moment of hesitation?
that's all the confirmation you need.
a smirk pulls at the corner of your lips as you close the last bit of space between you, slow and confident. you reach out, taking the glass from his hand, your fingers grazing his for the briefest second before you set it down on the counter with a quiet clink.
"well, lucky for you," you murmur, tilting your head, "i happen to know a thing or two about sex."
namjoon inhales sharply, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast. his throat bobs as he swallows hard, like he's trying to force down the tension tightening around him.
you can see it - the way his mind is racing, the way he's trying to figure out if you're messing with him or if you really mean it. the way his entire body is betraying him, because no matter how hard he tries to play it cool, his breathing is heavier, his pupils blown wide, his fingers twitching at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.
you lean in, slow and teasing, bringing your mouth dangerously close to his ear. you don't touch him, but you don't have to - the warmth of your breath against his skin is enough to make him shiver.
"your little gang's gonna find out sooner or later," you whisper, teasing, "that you're just a little lying virgin boy who doesn't know what he's doing."
his jaw clenches. his breath comes out shaky.
you pause, letting the weight of your words settle, letting him feel it.
then, just as he starts to react, you add, voice dripping with amusement, "but not if i teach you."
namjoon doesn't move. doesn't breathe. just stands there, frozen in place.
your words hang in the air, thick and undeniable. you can see the effect they have on him. the way his fingers flex at his sides, like he's holding himself back, the way his jaw tightens, the muscle feathering under his skin.
he's fighting something. you can feel it.
his lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. his throat bobs again, another sharp swallow, and when he finally meets your eyes, there's something in his gaze that wasn't there before.
and god, it's satisfying.
you take a step back, just enough to put a little space between you - not because you're unsure, not because you're backing down, but because you want to see what he does next.
the air between you crackles.
his hands twitch like he wants to reach for you, to pull you in and have you there and then, but he's hesitant.
instead, he exhales sharply through his nose, tilting his head slightly, his eyes scanning your face like he's trying to figure you out. like he's still processing what you just said.
"you're messing with me," he finally says, though his voice is strained. like he doesn't even believe his own words.
you shrug, a slow, lazy smile pulling at your lips. "am i?"
his breath stutters again.
you tilt your head, watching him closely. "you want me to stop?"
"no."
your smirk deepens.
"good."
and then, before he can second guess himself, before either of you can overthink it, you close the distance between you and kiss him.
and he kisses you back immediately.
the moment his lips press against yours, it's like something snaps inside him.
gone is the hesitation, the uncertainty. this time, there's no delay, no moment of frozen shock like before. he moves, responding to you with a kind of urgency that sends a thrill through you.
his hands finally find you, gripping your waist like he's afraid you'll pull away. his fingers press into your sides, firm but not rough, testing, learning.
he's inexperienced, you can tell. the kiss is a little unsteady at first, a little unsure, but the way he wants, the way he's desperate to match your pace, to keep up with you, makes up for it tenfold.
you smile against his mouth, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just slightly. he groans, low and deep, and you swallow the sound, pressing your body closer to his.
oh.
you feel it, the way his entire body reacts to you, the way his fingers tighten their grip, the way his breath shudders.
you pull back just slightly, just enough to ghost your lips over his jaw, feeling the way he tenses beneath you. "see?" you mumble against his skin. "nothing to be scared of."
his breath is heavy when he exhales. "i told you," he says, voice rough, "i wasn't scared."
you smirk, dragging your lips down the side of his throat, feeling his pulse hammer against your mouth. "no?"
his fingers dig into your waist. "no."
"good," you whisper.
then you kiss him again, and this time, he really kisses you back.
his hands slide up your sides, tentative but eager, like he's trying to memorize the feel of you. the kiss deepens, his lips parting against yours, and you hum in approval, pressing even closer.
he groans softly at that, like he wasn't expecting how good it would feel, like he's just realizing how easy it is to lose himself in you.
you tilt your head, deepening the kiss, teasing your tongue along his bottom lip just to see what he does. the reaction is instant - a sharp inhale, his grip tightening, his fingers twitching like he wants to do more but isn't sure if he should.
adorable.
you pull back slightly, just enough to murmur, "you can touch me, joon.”
his breath hitches.
then, like something inside him finally snaps, he does.
his hands slide up, fingers skimming over your waist, your ribs, before settling at the small of your back. he pulls you flush against him, and you can feel how worked up he is, how much he's holding back.
you smirk against his mouth. so eager. so desperate to prove himself.
"you're learning fast," you tease, lips brushing against his.
"shut up," he mutters, and then, before you can respond, he kisses you hard, like he's trying to take control of the situation.
and fuck, it's good.
you can feel the shift in him, the way his confidence is building, the way he's catching on. he tugs you against him like he needs you there, like he's determined to show you that he's not as inexperienced as you think.
but you still feel it, the unpracticed edge, the slight hesitation between movements.
and god, it only makes you want to ruin him even more.
you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers sliding down his chest, slow and deliberate.
"want me to show you more?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
his eyes flicker with something dark, something hungry.
"yes."
you grin, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt.
"then let me teach you."
his breath stutters, and for a second, he just looks at you - eyes dark, lips swollen, chest rising and falling a little too fast.
then, slowly, he nods.
"good boy."
the words slip out before you can stop them, but the effect is immediate.
namjoon shudders.
his fingers tighten on your waist, and his eyes go impossibly wide, like he wasn't expecting that, like he doesn't know what to do with it.
you grin. interesting.
your hand drifts down, fingers ghosting over the hardness straining against his jeans. the touch is barely there, just the lightest brush, but it's enough to make him tense. his breath stutters, his jaw clenches, and though he tries to stay composed, the faint wince gives him away.
he's so fucking hard already.
"you like that?" you murmur, tilting your head.
his throat bobs. "i..." he cuts himself off, shifting slightly like he's suddenly aware of how hard he is against you.
adorable.
"don't think," you whisper, dragging your fingers along the hem of his shirt, feeling the way his muscles tense under your touch. "just let me take care of you."
a sharp exhale. a shaky nod.
then he finally lets go.
you pull his shirt up and over his head, and he moves to help you, movements slightly rushed, slightly uncoordinated. it's almost cute, the way he's trying to keep up, trying not to seem too eager.
but you can feel it. the way his hands twitch when they touch your skin, the way his breath catches when you kiss down the column of his throat.
"you're shaking," you murmur against his jaw, lips curving into a smirk.
"shut up," he mutters, but there's no real bite to it, just that same unsteady, desperate edge.
you pull back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.
"make me."
he blinks, eyes flickering to your mouth, and for a second, he just looks at you, like he's debating, like he's trying to figure out if you're serious.
then, with a sharp inhale, he does.
his hands slide up, fingers threading into your hair, and he kisses you.
hard.
gone is the hesitation. gone is the uncertainty.
this is new, rougher, needier. his confidence is building, his hands bolder, his body pressing into yours like he wants to devour you whole.
good.
you grin against his mouth, letting him take control - just for a second, just to see what he does with it.
because as much as you love teaching him, you really can't wait to break him.
you slide your hands up his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. his breathing is uneven, shaky, but he doesn't stop you, doesn't pull away when your fingers toy with the hem of his shirt.
instead, he just watches you.
his eyes are dark, lips parted like he's trying to catch his breath.
"lift your arms," you mumble.
he hesitates for half a second - just long enough for you to smirk - but then he obeys, raising his arms so you can pull his shirt over his head.
the fabric slides away, and you let it drop to the floor, barely sparing it a glance.
because fuck.
namjoon is solid. broad shoulders, toned chest, smooth skin stretched over lean muscle.
you already knew this, of course - you've lived with him long enough to catch glimpses when he walks around the apartment half-dressed - but seeing him like this, standing right in front of you, chest rising and falling, body flushed with heat?
yeah.
you reach out, tracing your fingers down the center of his chest, slow and deliberate, feeling the way his breath stutters at the contact.
"you work out?" you tease, dragging your nails lightly across his skin.
he exhales a sharp breath. "sometimes."
"mm." your fingers skim lower, trailing just above the waistband of his jeans. "good to know."
namjoon swallows hard, hands twitching at his sides like he's debating whether or not he should touch you again.
you tilt your head, watching him carefully. "you nervous?"
"no." the answer is immediate - too quick, too defensive.
you smirk. liar.
but instead of calling him out on it, you step closer, pressing your body against his, skin against skin.
his breath hitches
"don't be," you whisper, lips grazing the corner of his mouth. "i'm gonna take care of you."
a sharp inhale. a slight tremor in his fingers.
"yeah?" his voice is rough, low.
you peck his lips again. "yeah."
your hands fall back down to his crotch, palming him over his jeans. you don't rush him. you take your time, keeping your touch light, teasing, watching the way his body reacts to you.
his breathing is heavy, and when you slip your fingers into his belt loops and tug - just enough to urge him toward your room - he follows without hesitation.
the moment you step inside, the air shifts.
the teasing edge fades, replaced by something heavier, something deeper.
namjoon stands at the edge of your bed, watching you carefully, his chest rising and falling with each uneven breath.
"lie down," you murmur.
he hesitates for only a second, then obeys, lowering himself onto your mattress, propping himself up on his elbows as he watches you.
his hair is messy now, the grey strands tousled from your fingers. his lips are still swollen from your kisses, his skin flushed, his jeans unbuttoned but still clinging to his hips.
he looks wrecked, and you haven't even started yet.
you smirk, climbing onto the bed, straddling him, settling your weight against his lap.
his breath hitches, hands hovering at your sides like he wants to touch you but doesn't know if he should.
you lean down, pressing your lips to his ear.
"relax, joon," you whisper. "just let me take care of you."
his fingers twitch. his throat bobs.
then, finally his hands find your waist, gripping just tight enough to let you know that he wants this.
"good boy."
you start slow, pressing your lips to the sharp line of his jaw, letting them linger just long enough to feel the way his breath shudders.
his hands tighten on your waist, fingers digging in slightly, but he doesn't rush you.
you trail lower, down along his adam's apple, tasting the warmth of his skin, the faint salt of sweat. he tilts his head back slightly, giving you more access, and you take it, dragging your mouth along his pulse point before sucking lightly.
a sharp inhale. his fingers twitch.
you smile against his skin.
"you okay?" you murmur, lips brushing against his collarbone.
he swallows hard. "yeah."
"good." you kiss your way down, mapping a path across his chest, feeling the muscles beneath you tense and relax with every touch.
when you flick your tongue over one of his nipples - just to see what he'll do - his whole body jolts, a soft, surprised noise catching in his throat.
adorable.
"you're sensitive," you hum, kissing over the spot again.
"shut up," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it, only embarrassment, his voice breathless.
you smirk but don't push. not yet.
instead, you keep moving, trailing lower, pressing open mouthed kisses down his torso, feeling the way his stomach tenses beneath your touch.
by the time you reach the waistband of his jeans, he's a mess. his breathing is ragged, his hands fisting the sheets, his entire body wound tight beneath you.
you pause, hovering just above the hard outline straining against his jeans, lips grazing the skin just above it.
"you still with me, joon?" you tease, looking up at him.
his eyes are wild, his pupils blown, his lips parted as he struggles to steady his breath.
"yeah," he rasps. "i'm with you."
you smirk, fingers dipping beneath his waistband.
"good," you reply. "because we're just getting started."
your fingers toy with the waistband of his jeans, just enough to tease but not enough to give him what he desperately wants.
namjoon is trying so hard to keep it together, but his body betrays him - his hips shifting ever so slightly, his hands clenching and unclenching against the sheets, his breath coming out in shallow, uneven bursts.
you grin, pressing one last kiss just above his waistband before looking up at him.
"you're being so good for me," you purr.
his throat bobs, his eyes flickering with something dark, something desperate.
"please," he breathes.
you cock your head. interesting.
"please what?"
his jaw tightens. "please," he says again, voice rough, barely above a whisper, "don't tease."
your smirk deepens.
"but you look so pretty when you're all worked up," you murmur, fingers grazing just below his navel.
he groans, head tipping back against the pillows, chest rising and falling fast.
you press a kiss to his stomach, just to watch the way his muscles flex under your lips.
"relax, joon," you whisper. "let me take care of you."
and then, finally - finally - you undo his jeans.
you take your time, dragging the moment out just to watch the way he unravels beneath you.
"lift your hips," you tell him.
he obeys without hesitation, letting you slide the denim down his thighs, then off completely. you take a second to appreciate him, broad and toned, his skin flushed with heat, his body trembling slightly under your touch.
and then you see the massive bulge clothed by his briefs.
"fuck, joon."
his breath stutters. "what?"
you smirk, dragging your nails lightly up his thighs. "you've been hiding all this from me?"
his face flushes a deeper shade of red, but before he can stammer out a response, you lean down, pressing your lips to the inside of his thigh.
his whole body jerks.
"shit..."
you hum, kissing higher, feeling the muscles under his skin tense, his hands twitching like he's not sure whether to grab you or hold himself back.
"don't hold back," you mumble, glancing up at him. "i want to hear you."
he groans, dragging a hand over his face. "you're evil.”
you grin. "and you love it."
his answer is lost in a sharp inhale when your lips finally, finally graze where he needs you most.
and after that?
he doesn't try to hold back at all.
"holy shit..."
namjoon is unraveling beneath you, his breath becoming increasingly unsteady, his fingers digging into the sheets like they're the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
you take your time, teasing him with slow, lingering touches, letting him feel everything - heat of your breath against his skin, the soft press of your lips, the way your fingers skim lightly over his thighs, never quite where he wants them.
"fuck," he groans, head tilting back, voice strained.
"patience, joon," you murmur, trailing kisses up his torso, feeling the way his muscles flex under your touch. "i'm just getting started."
his hands twitch at his sides before finally giving in, finding your hips, holding tight like he needs something to ground him.
you grin, leaning down until your lips are just above his, your breath mingling with his.
"you're doing so well for me," you whisper, feeling the way he shivers beneath you.
his eyes flutter shut, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.
"you have no idea what you're doing to me," he says, voice rough, almost wrecked.
you smirk, pressing a slow, deep kiss to his lips.
"oh, i think i do."
you slip back down his torso, and hook your fingers into the waistband of his calvin kleins. he lifts up his hips slightly, allowing you to pull them down gently.
your breath leaves your body at the sight of his cock as it springs free from his briefs and slaps against his abs.
it's huge.
"holy shit..." you breathe, eyes widening as you take him in. whatever idea you'd had about ruining namjoon? yeah, that was out the window.
because with that, he was going to ruin you.
"w-what?" namjoon stammers, shifting slightly beneath you, his cheeks burning a deep shade of red. "what's wrong?"
your gaze flicks up to meet his, and slowly, a smirk tugs at your lips.
"nothing, baby," you murmur. "nothing at all. i just... didn't expect this."
that doesn't seem to ease his nerves. his brows furrow. "is it... is it okay?" he asks, voice quieter now, uncertainty creeping in. "i mean... do you like it?"
you almost laugh - not at him - but at the sheer adorableness of it all.
"joon," you giggle, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. "you're fucking perfect."
his breath hitches.
you grin against his mouth. "i'm just not sure i'm gonna be able to take all of it."
namjoon swallows hard as you make your way back down his torso, your fingers delicately lacing around his cock.
"fuck." he groans at the touch, throwing his head back against your plush pillows. you smile, and bring your attention back to his dick, licking a long stripe up the side before taking his head in your mouth.
"jesus... fuck..."
you look up at him as your mouth sinks deeper onto his cock.
his head is thrown back, messy hair falling over his closed eyes, framing his flushed face. his adam's apple bobs with each gulp, his breaths coming in sharp, uneven bursts. his chest rises and falls rapidly, every inhale shaky, every exhale laced with tension.
your head continues to bob up and down on his length, and you've actually impressed yourself with how well you're doing. you've never had a dick this big, but you were loving it. you slowly came up his shaft, popping it out of your mouth to swirl your tongue around his head, lapping up the drops of precum that leaked from his tip.
"talk to me baby," you hum, licking down his dick again. "you doing okay?"
namjoon looks up at you, one arm behind his head, his messy hair sticking to the sweat forming on his forehead. his other arm reaches down to you, cupping your face and running his thumb over and back against your cheek.
"feels... so fucking good," he pants. "don't... don't want you to stop baby."
so you start again, this time sinking deeper until he hits the back of your throat, making you gag slightly. you come back up a little, and hollow your cheeks as you start bobbing up and down his cock, swirling your tongue on his tip each time you came back up.
"ungh..." namjoon groans, "holy shit y/n..."
the way he moans your name lights a fire inside you, and you can feel your pussy pulsating with each sharp breath and loud groan that falls from his mouth. you fight with every fibre of your being to not reach between your legs and alleviate your tension, instead focusing on pleasuring namjoon as best as you can.
unbeknownst to himself, namjoon begins lightly pushing your head down - matching your current rhythm - which turns you on even more. you lift your head up and let your salvia coat his head, before swirling him a few times with your fist and going down on him again. the sight of you spitting on his cock sends a chill through namjoon, and when you come into contact with him again, he lets out a loud moan.
and you can't help but moan into his cock.
the sound sends a shudder through him, his grip tightening as he applies just a little more pressure, guiding you with shaky restraint. his breathing grows faster, more erratic, and you watch in fascination as his abs tense and flex with each uneven inhale, the rise and fall of his stomach mesmerizing.
"y/n," he pants, his fingers catching your hair. "i'm gonna... gonna cum..."
you slow down, letting your hand slide up and down the parts of his cock that you can't quite reach. you focus on his head, letting your tongue race around his tip between sucks, and your free hand finds his balls, which you gently cradle, urging him to come undone.
"jesus fucking christ," he yelps at your touch, throwing his head back and choking out a string of moans. "i'm gonna fucking... do i... will i c-cum... in your... mouth?"
you look up at him doe eyed through your lashes, giving him an instinctive nod as you continue to make love to him with your mouth. and that's all it takes for his face to fall into the prettiest cum face you've ever seen.
"shit... fuck... ahhh!"
his hips buck as shoots his load down your throat, a string of moans and cuss words falling from his plump lips. you swallow him, setting your hands free and sucking at his tip for a little while longer, making sure to finish him off properly.
as the tension in his body slowly unravels, namjoon lets his fingers slip from your hair, his touch going from possessive to tender in an instant. his chest still rises and falls in deep, uneven breaths, his body lax against the bed as he tries to ground himself.
his hand finds your cheek again, his thumb tracing lightly over your heated skin, a soft contrast to the intensity of just moments ago.
"shit, y/n," he breathes, still slightly dazed, a breathless laugh slipping past his lips. "that was... that was so fucking good."
you smirk, wiping the corner of your mouth with the pad of your thumb before meeting his gaze. "well, i'm glad you think so."
his eyes flicker over your face, dark and still clouded with the remnants of pleasure, but there's something softer there now, something different.
his thumb lingers against your jaw, his touch slower, more thoughtful. "i don't think i'll ever get enough of you," he murmurs, almost like he doesn't mean to say it out loud.
your heartbeat stutters, but you keep your expression playful, tilting your head slightly into his touch. "good," you whisper, your lips curving into a devilish smile. "because i'm not done with you yet."
as you hover above his lap, namjoon's gaze flickers downward, drifting from your eyes to your chest. his tongue swipes absently across his bottom lip, like he's trying to see through the soft fabric of your grey sweater, imagining what's hidden beneath. there's something almost hungry in the way he looks at you, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he's resisting the urge to reach out and touch.
following his gaze, you glance down at yourself before laughing, the sound light and teasing. "judging by that look on your face, i'm guessing you've never seen tits in real life, huh?"
namjoon's head snaps up, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. "wh-what? of course i have...”
you tilt your head, smirking. "ones that weren't on a screen?"
his mouth opens, then closes. "shut up," he mutters, chuckling, but you can hear the nervous edge in his voice.
you grin, finding his nervousness absolutely adorable. "guess i'll have to change that, won't i?"
his throat bobs as he swallows hard.
leaning in, you let your fingers trace lightly over his collarbone, your voice dropping into something softer, sultrier. "and maybe teach you a thing or two while i'm at it... damn, joon, with all this tutoring i'm giving you, i might just have to start charging."
his breath catches, his grip on your waist tightening slightly.
"worth every penny," namjoon mumbles, almost dazed.
you laugh, shaking your head. "come on then, joon, help me out here."
you barely finish your sentence before he moves. he sits up, hands sliding eagerly to the hem of your sweater, his touch warm and sure. as he pushes the fabric upward, his lips find your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. his breath is hot, his movements uncharacteristically bold, and when he buries his face in your shoulder, a sharp exhale slips from your lips.
"damn, joonie," you giggle, feeling the confidence suddenly radiating from him. "you learn fast."
his lips curve against your skin, breath warm as he exhales a quiet chuckle. "good teacher, i guess."
his voice is low, rougher than before, and something about it sends a shiver down your spine. his hands slide higher, fingers grazing the bare skin of your waist as he slowly pushes your sweater up and over your head. you let him, watching the way his eyes darken as he takes you in.
namjoon swallows hard, his hands resting tentatively at your sides like he's still processing the moment. his gaze flickers between your face and your chest, as if he doesn't know where to look first.
"you're staring," you tease, running your fingers through his hair.
he blinks, snapping out of whatever trance he was in. "sorry, i just..." he exhales sharply, shaking his head. "you're... beautiful. so fucking perfect."
his honesty catches you off guard, heat creeping up your neck. you expected him to be shy, maybe a little hesitant, but this? this open admiration, this awe in his voice - it's almost enough to make you nervous.
but you don't let it show. instead, you smile, leaning in until your lips just barely brush against his. "then maybe you should stop staring and do something about it.”
he doesn't hesitate this time. his hands tighten on your waist, and in the next second, he's kissing you - really kissing you. it's not just soft and hesitant anymore. it's hungry. eager. full of something unspoken that's been simmering between you for far too long.
you barely have time to smirk before namjoon moves again, his hands firm on your waist as he flips you onto your back. his body presses against yours, warm and solid, and for someone who was hesitant just moments ago, he suddenly seems very sure of himself.
"someone's getting bold," you tease, running your hands up his arms, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.
namjoon huffs out a breathless laugh, but there's something different in his eyes now - something darker, more determined. "guess i just needed the right motivation," he mumbles, his lips brushing over your jaw before trailing lower, down your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses that have your breath hitching.
his hands explore, fingers skimming over your ribs, tracing the dip of your waist like he's memorizing you. every touch is hesitant yet hungry, and it's almost too endearing - the way he wants to learn, to make this good for you.
"joon," you sigh, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your skin. "you sure you're a beginner?"
he grins against your collarbone, teeth grazing just slightly. "fast learner," he murmurs, his hands sliding lower.
yeah. you can tell.
his lips trace along your collarbone, slow and deliberate, leaving a warm trail in their wake. he moves lower, his mouth grazing over your skin with a newfound confidence, as if he's memorizing every inch of you. there's a certain intent behind each kiss, like he's mirroring what you did to him earlier, determined to return the favor.
when he reaches the waistband of your shorts, he hesitates. his eyes flick up to meet yours, searching for approval.
"what are you doing?" you ask, more amused than anything.
"uh," he freezes, blinking up at you. "do you... not want me to?"
"want you to what?" you tease, biting back a smile.
he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "i mean..." he trails off before chuckling awkwardly. "you keep saying i have to learn, right?"
you raise an eyebrow, tilting your head slightly. "oh? so you're taking my lessons seriously?"
namjoon exhales a small laugh, his hands resting gently on your hips. "i mean... i'd be a fool not to."
you brush your fingers through his hair, feeling the way he leans into your touch, his eyes never leaving yours.
"good," you purr, running your thumb over his jawline. "then take my shorts off."
he swallows hard, but his eyes stay locked on yours, steady and unyielding. he presses a slow kiss just below your navel, right above the waistband of your shorts, before hooking his fingers around the fabric. his movements are careful, almost hesitant, but when he tugs them down, you lift your hips to help him.
once you're fully exposed, you catch the way his expression shifts, his confidence seemingly dwindling. the nervous furrow of his brows, the slight parting of his lips, the way his hands still for just a second too long... you bite back a laugh.
"what's wrong?" you ask, amusement lacing your voice.
"huh? oh, nothing... nothing," he stammers quickly, shaking his head. "i just... i, uh, i mean, i'm not exactly sure..."
you roll your eyes, unable to hold back your laughter. "oh my god, joon. please tell me you're joking."
"what?!" he reacts defensively, his eyes wide. you laugh again, pulling yourself up onto your elbows. "lie down." you command through sniggering laughs.
namjoon does as he's told, making himself comfortable against the pillows, his eyes taking all of you in as you straddle his lap. his tongue pushes itself against his bottom lip as his hands find your waist, gently and slowly running them up and down your curves as he examined you in awe. you smiled.
"i'm gonna guess you're clean, virgin boy..." you joke, lacing your fingers around his cock and pumping him a few times, your thumb swiping across his tip to catch his leaking precum. his eyes flutter shut again at the sensation, and he throws his head back. "yeah," he groans lowly. "i had a shower earlier."
"namjoon..."
his head shoots up again, a knowing smirk plastered across his face. "i'm joking, i'm not that stupid," he chuckles before exhaling a sharp breath through gritted teeth as you tightened your grip on him. "of course i'm clean... slut."
"slut?!" you gasp mockingly. "that's a big word."
"yeah, well," his breath becoming more ragged as you delicately stroke him. "stop calling me a virgin."
"i'm just telling it like it is," you tease, adjusting yourself above him and bringing his cock close to your heat. "but that's kinda mean, calling me a slut..."
you begin rubbing his tip through your folds, collecting your arousal. namjoon groans, his eyes fluttering shut as his chest rises and falls rapidly. "maybe it's a good thing i'm a slut, don't you think?" you tease. you try to keep your composure, enjoying the hold you currently have over namjoon, but every time his cock comes in to contact with your clit, you have to stop yourself from moaning. "only a slut would know how to treat you right, joon..." you whine, bringing the tip of his cock close to your entrance, your pussy pulsating, begging to be stuffed.
"jesus fucking christ..." he moans, swallowing hard and letting out a shaky breath. "stop it. stop fucking teasing."
"hmm, i dunno..." you smirk, running your tongue against your bottom lip as you drag him through your slick folds again. "i don't think you're gonna fit, joonie. might just have to stop..."
"no, fucking hell y/n..." he curses, his brows furrowing as his fingers tighten on your hips, digging into your flesh.
"are you gonna beg?" you ask surprised, letting his tip graze your entrance again. "how bad do you want it joonie? tell me..."
"s-so fucking bad..." he whines. "please... please baby, fuuuck..."
his neck extends even further back once you drop your hips slightly to allow his tip to slip into your entrance. "shit..." you whine, realising just how big he was. you let out a measured breath as you slowly sunk your hips down on to him, both of you letting strings of curses and whines fall from your lips.
"holy fuck..." you pant, placing your hands on his chest for support as you try to catch your breath and allow yourself to adjust to his size. whatever bravado you had is now long, long gone. "fucking hell, joon..."
you look down at him, the beads of sweat crystallising on his forehead, his plump lips parted slightly as desperately clamours to catch his breath. you smile, and lower yourself down to meet his lips, your tits grazing against his chest, giving him a peck before lightly nibbling and tugging on his bottom lip. "you okay?" you ask, kissing the spot below his ear as you lift your hips to slowly pull of him, before coming back down again. "feel good?"
"so... so fucking good." he pants, a quick smile breaking across his face, his lips finding yours again. you give in to him, kissing him with a sort of unfamiliar passion. you moaned into his mouth as you slowly slid down on his length again. "fuuuck..."
"fucking... shit... y-you okay?" namjoon asked breathlessly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
"yeah," you assure him, pressing a delicate kiss on his jawline as your hips begin to find a steady rhythm on his cock. "you're just splitting me in two."
namjoon managed a chuckle through his groans as you began to pick up the pace. "i-i'm that good yeah?"
"you don't... mmmh, don't even know." you moan, sitting up properly and arching your back, brushing your hair over your shoulder so he got a better view of your tits. "you're so fucking big..."
the streetlights from outside broke in through the window, serving as the only light in the room, and namjoon stared in awe at how the light bounced off of your boobs as you your hips drew circles around his cock. you threw your head back, your moans pornographic, and your hands found his muscular thighs, steadying yourself as you began grinding against him.
your hips picked up the pace again as soon as you became accustomed to his sheer size, bouncing up and down on him at a rapid pace. you cocked your head back up to look at him, and found him in a trance, completely transfixed on the image of you riding him. his hands gripped tighter on your hips, absentmindedly pulling you down onto his cock, simply unable to get enough of you. a smile crept across your face.
"y/n, fuck..." he cursed as you clenched around him. "you're so... you're so fucking good, so fucking hot."
you smirk through your moans, "feel good joonie?" you pant, arching your body forward and placing your hands on his chest for support. he looks up at you, and without any hesitation, crashes into your lips again. one hand leaves your hips to cup your face, while the other slips onto your ass, pulling you in closer to him.
"nnghh... you're fucking unreal," he moans against your lips as you clench around him again. "feels so... so fucking good."
you smile, a breathy chuckle escaping your lips as he kisses you again. your hips become more sloppy as you grow tired, moaning and breathing heavily into his shoulder. catching on to this, namjoon grabs hold of your hips again, and in a quick, swift motion, flips you over.
laying down on your back, your breath catches in your throat at the sheer surprise of it all. you can barely speak, but manage to croak out his name as he begins thrusting into you.
namjoon is now hovering over you, his groans growing deep in his throat, looking down at where you two connect. he picks up the pace, and looks to you for confirmation. "this okay?" he asks, his dark eyes holding onto yours.
"yes, jesus fucking christ joon..." you exclaim breathlessly. "right fucking there, yeah..."
hearing that only boosts his confidence, and his thrusts become more animalistic. his head dips down, burying into your shoulder as his breaths become heavier and more rapid. he lets out a low grunt before lifting his head so that he's face to face with you. his lips meet yours again, before shifting and resting his soaked forehead against yours. "close..." he pants.
words fail you. the way he's making you feel is absolutely indescribable, and you begin to wonder if he actually was a virgin after all. you can't help but clench around him as you near your orgasm, and he throws his head back, cursing at the sensation, before bringing his forehead back down to yours.
"i'm gonna... gonna FUCK, i'm gonna cum..." he groans, his breath hot against your lips.
"cum in me," you beg, almost whining as you reach your hands up to lace your fingers through his hair. you can feel the tension in your stomach, and you know that you're close too. you cock your head up to kiss underneath his ear, making a breathy moan fall from his pretty lips. "come on baby, cum in me, you done so good, made me feel so good..."
you both climax at the exact same time, your moans and curses bouncing off of every wall in the room. namjoon pulls out of you slowly, a loud "fuck" escaping his lips before chuckling, bringing his hand to the side of your face and kissing you gently.
"fuck, y/n..." he chuckles again, his breath still uneven as he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. rolling onto his back, he pulls you close, tucking you against his side. "you're amazing."
"you're not so bad yourself," you tease, smirking as you curl into his warmth. the blanket settles around you both as his arm tightens around you, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on your back. you listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, your own falling in sync with his.
"sorry for calling you a virgin boy," you smirk, nuzzling into his chest and pressing a soft kiss against his skin.
"you're forgiven," he chuckles. "and i'm sorry for calling you a slut."
you laugh, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. "well, i was telling the truth," you tease. "but you, my friend, are mistaken."
his brows knit together. "what do you mean?"
you smirk, exhaling a quiet laugh as you rest your head against his chest again. "i've only done that like, twice."
"what?" he nearly shrieks, pulling back slightly to look at you. "no way... you could've fooled me."
you snigger. "of course i could have, virgin boy."
"shut up," he laughs, shaking his head before letting a comfortable silence settle between you. then, after a moment, he murmurs, "thanks, y/n."
you glance up at him, curiosity flashing in your eyes. "for what?"
he shifts slightly, a small smirk creeping across his lips. "for, y'know..." he hesitates before clearing his throat. "letting me-"
"jesus christ, namjoon," you burst out laughing, lightly smacking his chest. "don't kill the mood." then, softer, you add, "but... thank you for trusting me, too."
his lips curve into a smile as he presses a kiss to the top of your head, pulling you closer. for a moment, there's only the quiet hum of the night around you, until he speaks again.
"so... is this gonna be a regular thing now?"
you giggle, tracing lazy patterns on his skin. "of course. you need to get your lessons in."
he huffs out a laugh, tightening his arms around you. "can't wait."
summary: namjoon was never supposed to fall in love.
the arrangement was simple. money for time, desire for indulgence, no strings, no expectations. he was supposed to be your provider, your safety net, the man you called when you wanted something but never needed anyone. but somewhere between the swipe of his black card and the way you sigh his name in the dark, he lost control.
warnings: smut, silent but dangerous namjoon, soft? dom namjoon, yandere joonie 😏, BDE if you squint, namjoon yeaaarrrnnnsss (maybe a bit too much), sugar baby is an independent brat, matcha 🍵 girls unite! dick riding, unprotected sex (be safe), slight choking w/ both hands, mentions of fingers in slippery places, brief boob play, is it love or lust? 🤨
word count: 2,853
a message from our sponsors 👩🏽 : i’ve been listening to this song on repeat for the last two days, the audhd stimming is in full effect (don’t judge i’ve been stressed). after looking up the english translation of the lyrics my brain cooked this up.
hope you enjoy! 😊🤍
He grips the steering wheel, thumb idly smoothing over the worn leather as the glow of his phone screen flickers across his face.
The engine hums low, steady—a stark contrast to the rhythm pulsing from the club’s entrance, where bodies move in drunken chaos under strobing lights. He doesn’t need to be inside to feel it; the bass thrums against his ribs, syncing with his heartbeat, with the restless ache lodged deep in his chest.
But he’s not looking at the club.
He’s looking at you.
Or rather, your Instagram story. Watching it for the millionth time, like a man trying to memorize scripture.
First, a picture of your morning matcha, condensation beading the glass in the early sunlight. Then a snapshot of your notes spread across the library table, neat handwriting and highlighted passages that he wonders if you’ll even remember after tonight.
And then, the last clip—the one that’s been carving through him like a slow, dull blade—your body moving in the dim, red light of the club. The glow clings to you like a brand, painting you in sin, in temptation meant only for him. But it’s not just you in the frame.
A hand reaches for you.
Namjoon’s grip tightens around his phone, the plastic casing groaning under the pressure.
The camera cuts away before he can see if you let them.
He watches it again. And again. As if, on the hundredth replay, the screen might crack open and reveal the answer. As if, by sheer will alone, he could rewrite the moment—erase that hand, pull you back, remind you who you belong to.
You wouldn’t.
You know better…right?
It’s not the first time you’ve done this. Offered him pieces of you, but never the whole thing.
Let him pay your tuition, your rent, your weekend trips to the mall—but never let him own you. Never let him believe, even for a second, that he’s anything more than what you need him to be.
And yet—
He swipes away from your story and pulls up your messages instead.
Your last texts are sloppy, riddled with typos.
[12:45 AM] com3 pick me up
[12:47 AM] pls bby
[12:50 AM] need u 💋
His fingers tighten around the phone.
And then, as if summoned, the car door jerks open, and you spill inside in a mess of laughter and heat, your perfume curling into the air like a spell. The club’s neon lights cast fleeting shadows across your skin, your dress rumpled from dancing, your lips glossy with whatever sin you’ve been indulging in tonight.
You land in his lap without hesitation, your arms winding around his neck, mouth brushing against his jaw.
“Hi, baby,” you murmur, the words warm and syrupy, the kind that drip down slow and sweet.
He exhales, hands instinctively catching your waist. “You’re drunk.”
You hum, nuzzling against his throat. “Mmm. And you’re here.”
Like I always am, he doesn’t say.
Instead, he turns his head, and then your lips find his, and there’s nothing soft or hesitant about the way you kiss him. It’s urgent, messy, tongue teasing against his own, hands slipping into his hair, pulling him deeper, like you’re daring him to lose control.
And maybe it’s the way you taste—vodka and citrus and something distinctly you—or maybe it’s the way you sigh when his hands slide up your thighs, but something inside him snaps.
He grips your hips, pulls you closer, lets the need that’s been simmering in his chest take over.
Your moan is swallowed by the kiss as his fingers drag the hem of your dress up, palms mapping the bare skin beneath. The console digs into his side, but he doesn’t care. Not when you’re rocking against him, not when your body is hot and pliant and his.
“Joon,” you whine against his lips, nails biting into his shoulders. “Please.”
He exhales sharply, his restraint fraying by the second. “What do you want, baby?”
“You,” you breathe, rolling your hips again, dragging a groan from his throat. “Need you to fuck me.”
Fuck.
There’s no hesitation after that.
The next few moments blur into heat and desperation—clothes yanked, fabric bunched, fingers fumbling against buttons and zippers in the tight space of the front seat.
The center console digs into Namjoon’s side as he shifts, dragging you closer, his hands impatient, greedy. Your dress rides up as you straddle his lap, the silky material pooling at your hips, but there’s no room to move freely—your knee knocks into the gear shift, and you gasp, laughing breathlessly against his mouth.
“Oops,” you mutter, adjusting your position.
He exhales a shaky breath, his hands sliding down your thighs, gripping tight. “You okay?”
You nod, but your eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want.
His fingers slide between your legs, finding you bare and slick.
His breath hitches.
He should take his time.
Should make you beg for it.
But you’re shifting against him, rolling your hips, chasing friction, and he’s never been good at denying you.
Your hands tug at his belt, impatient, and he groans when your fingers brush against him, warm even through the fabric.
The car is stifling now, the windows beginning to fog. There’s no space, no ease—he’s too big for this, in more ways than one.
And yet, none of it matters.
Because then his pants are pushed just far enough down, and when he finally pushes inside, the stretch of your pussy desperately trying to accommodate his cock pulls a gasp from your lips. Your nails digging into his shoulders.
He stills, just for a second, reveling in the way you clench around him, the way your breath stutters against his neck.
His fingers splay against your lower back, holding you there, savoring the moment, the unbearable tightness, the way your nails drag along his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself.
Outside, the bass from the club pulses, muffled and distant, a world away.
Inside the car, it’s just you and him, tangled in sweat and need, locked in a space too small for what he feels for you.
And then he moves.
The car rocks with each slow, deliberate roll of your hips, the leather seat creaking beneath you as you sink onto his cock.
Your palms press against his chest for leverage, nails biting into his skin through his half unbuttoned shirt. Your dress is bunched up around your waist, wrinkles forming in the fabric, forgotten in the haze of lust. He watches, enraptured, as you take him—your hips undulating, your breath coming in soft, broken pants.
Namjoon groans, his hands gripping your waist, guiding you even though you don’t need it. You already know how to ruin him. You already know how to take what you want.
“You love this, don’t you?”
His fingers press into the tender globes of your ass, hard enough to leave bruises. “Riding me like this. Making a mess all over my cock.”
You whimper in response, throwing your head back, your movements faltering for just a second as his words sink in. But he won’t let you slow down—not when you feel this good, not when his sanity is hanging by a thread. He plants his feet firmly on the floor of the car, thrusting up into you, meeting each roll of your hips with deep, punishing strokes.
The air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the windows hazy from your heat. Every slick, obscene sound of your bodies colliding fills the car, blending with the desperate moans you don’t bother hiding.
Namjoon leans in, his lips dragging along the column of your throat before his teeth scrape over your pulse point. “No one else gets to have you like this,” he pants, his hand slipping up your spine before wrapping delicately around your throat. “Tell me.”
You shudder, your own hand covering his wrist, not pushing him away, just holding on.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
You gasp as he thrusts up sharply, hitting that spot inside you that makes your whole body tense. A shiver runs through you, your walls tightening around him, and for a moment, you don’t answer.
Namjoon tenses.
But then—
“Only you,” you cry, lips brushing against his, teasing, intoxicating.
A growl rumbles low in his throat. His grip on your waist tightens, his pace turning almost brutal as he fucks into you with renewed purpose, as if he can carve those words into your skin, make them permanent.
His other hand moves.
Despite the fervor thundering in his blood, he doesn’t move with haste. Slowly, delicately, his fingers curl around your throat, the grip light at first, a silent question.
You shudder, your own hand coming up to hold his wrist. Not to push him away—just to feel him.
Namjoon presses his lips against your ear, his voice dark, smooth.
“Did anyone else touch you tonight?”
You let out a breathy laugh, the sound teasing, indulgent. “Mmm. Jealous, daddy?”
His fingers tighten slightly, just enough to make your pulse flutter beneath his palm. His hips roll up harder, sharper, dragging a moan from your lips.
“Answer me.”
You shift against him, your nails biting into his forearm. He knows you’re playing with him, knows you like the way he’s teetering on the edge of control.
And then you lean in, your lips grazing his jaw.
“No. No one else,” you murmur, voice dripping with something almost affectionate. “Just you.”
Something inside Namjoon uncoils, and then unleashes.
He fucks you harder after that, driven by something deeper, something primal. He wants to believe you. Needs to. Because if you’re lying, if anyone else touched what belongs to him—
No.
You’re his.
Whether you realize it yet or not.
His hand slides up, fingers curling around your jaw, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. The dim light from the dashboard casts shadows over his face, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, the hunger in his half lidded eyes. His thumb brushes along your parted lips before pressing lightly against your chin.
“Look at you,” Namjoon murmurs, his voice thick, passionate in a way that makes something tighten in his chest. “You don’t even realize how good you feel, do you?”
Your cunt clenches around him in response, and his breath hisses through his teeth. Fuck. Every squeeze, every slick drag of your walls around him, every desperate roll of your hips—it’s unraveling him by the second.
“That’s it,” he mutters, his free hand slipping between your bodies, fingertips slipping over the sensitive bundle of nerves that has you jolting in his lap. His rhythm never falters, precise and measured, even as his control frays at the edges.
It’s too much—you’re trembling against him, your hands grip at his shoulders, your moans spilling into the humid air between you. He leans in, nipping at the hinge of your jaw, his lips dragging down to the pulse fluttering wildly in your throat.
“Go on, princess,” he breathes, his voice dark and coaxing, his fingers pressing just right. “Let me feel you.”
His head dips lower, his breath hot against the thin fabric barely covering your breasts.
The dress barely conceals anything, sheer in the right places, sinful in the wrong ones. The way the fabric clings to your body is almost obscene, the heavy swell of your breasts teasingly outlined, your nipples straining against the delicate material.
You're not wearing anything underneath.
The realization should infuriate him. Should make his blood boil at the thought of other men looking at you, at their hungry gazes dragging over skin that belongs to him.
But it doesn't.
It only makes him harder.
Because he knows—no matter how many of them watch, no matter how many of them ache to touch, you'll never let them.
They'll never have what he has. Never feel your pussy wrapped around them, never hear the breathless way you moan when you cum.
You're cruel without even trying, dangling temptation in front of them, letting them hope for something they'll never taste.
And Namjoon?
He gets off on it.
Because at the end of the night, you always come back to him.
He groans, low and desperate, before his mouth finds a stiff nipple through the fabric, his tongue dragging slow, deliberate circles around the pert peak. His teeth grazing over it with just enough pressure to make you clench around him, your walls pulsing tight around his cock.
"Ah, J-Joon." you croon.
The reaction pulls a sharp hiss from him, his fingers digging into your waist. But you don’t shy away. Instead, you arch into him, offering more, pressing your body closer like you want to drown him in you.
Greedy. Needy.
Nasty for everything he’s willing to give you.
But it happens all too fast for his liking.
The heat, the desperation, the way your body molds against his—it’s intoxicating, but fleeting. A moment never lasts long enough with you. He barely has time to commit it to memory before it’s slipping through his fingers like sand.
And it’s times like this that he wants to steal you away. Take you somewhere far from this world that refuses to let him have you. Lock you up in a tower only he has the key to, where no one else can touch you, see you, even breathe the same air as you.
There, he’d worship you the way you deserve—slowly, endlessly, until you finally understand what he’s known from the start.
Your body trembles as you cum, your moans broken, hands clutching at him, grounding yourself in him. And when he follows, thick warm cum spilling into you with a wrecked moan of your name, his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, keeping you there.
He’s not ready to let go.
But you are.
You shift, skin still damp, and he can already feel you slipping away, your presence untangling from his like silk slipping through his fingers.
And then—
“I should go back inside,” you say, your voice light, easy—casual, even. Like you didn’t just let him claim you in the tight confines of his car. Like your body wasn’t still trembling from the way he’d touched you, possessed you. As if this was nothing more than a pit stop before you returned to your night of reckless freedom.
He catches your wrist before you can move, his grip firm, a quiet warning in the way he holds you.
“Didn’t you want me to pick you up?” His words are controlled, careful.
You blink at him, then laugh softly, a sound that scratches against his chest. “I changed my mind.”
His heart stutters, but his expression remains neutral. His fingers loosen, and yet, the urge to hold you tighter—to make you stay, to remind you who you belong to—burns in the back of his throat.
He lets go. He has to.
Because if he doesn’t, if he lets his fingers tighten just a fraction more, he’ll ruin everything. You’ll see it—the madness beneath his calm. The desire that goes far beyond wanting you. You’ll notice the way his control is slipping. And then you’ll pull away.
He can’t have that.
So he watches.
Watches as you fix your dress, smoothing out the fabric like you’re erasing the memory of him, the marks he left on your body, your soul. Watches as you run a hand through your hair, indifferent to the way it still falls in messy waves from his hands, the way your breath is still heavy with the scent of him.
You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, slow and lazy, like you’re so certain none of this means anything.
Like you don’t know what you’re doing to him. Like you don’t realize that the heat between you isn’t just a spark—it’s a wildfire.
“If you want to stay out of trouble,” he says, his voice low, a warning in its calm. “Behave yourself.”
You laugh again, a soft, mocking sound that makes his chest tighten. And then—you leave. Slip out of his car, out of his hands, out of his world and back into theirs.
Back into the flashing lights and pulsing bass, back into the careless crowd that doesn’t deserve you. They don’t see you the way he does. They’ll never understand you. Not like he does.
And just like that, he’s left in the stillness, the echo of your absence filling the empty space around him. He doesn’t chase after you.
Namjoon grips the steering wheel, knuckles white. His jaw clenches. His heartbeat thrums beneath his skin, a slow, deliberate beat, keeping time with the truth he’s always known.
He has no one to blame but himself.
He’s the one who broke the rules. Who let his heart twist into something unmanageable. Who made the mistake of loving you.
But he doesn’t regret it.
Because love—real love—isn’t about caging or forcing. It’s about playing the long game. About devotion. About waiting in the shadows, watching, protecting.
