pairing. jeon jungkook x fem!reader genre. streamer!jungkook. smut. friends with benefits. friends to lovers. slice of life. roommates au.
with one bathroom in the apartment and jungkook’s strict streaming schedule, he’s left with no choice but to join you in the shower.
word count. 5.9k words warnings. they shower together duh. bold words are in korean (oc is not korean, she just understands korean a little bc of jungkook). HORNY OC #OVULATION. hes a lil cocky shit in this. smut. fem!masturbation. use of toy. she gets off to his voice. fingering. oral (fem!receiving). MUNCH !! HE RUBS HIS NOSE AGAINST HER CLIT. face grinding. tongue fucking.
ana’s notes. this is just the beginning .. HEHEHE
NEXT ⟡ SERIES MASTERPOST
There was always a fine line between you and Jungkook.
You could use his coffee machine — but you couldn’t use all of his coffee grinds. He could use your bunny headband — but your face wash was strictly yours.
Some things, though, you were just bound to share. Like toothpaste. The same cups. The same towel once… accidentally.
And especially the shower. Since there was only one bathroom.
It was a constant battle. You always took ridiculously long to shower. Sometimes it was because you were genuinely scrubbing your skin and washing your hair for an hour, or shaving. Most times, it was because the water felt too good — relaxing your muscles until you couldn’t bring yourself to get out.
Meanwhile, Jungkook would be on the other side of the door, pounding and telling you to hurry up because he had to take a leak. And when you didn’t answer, he’d just come in and do it anyway. It wasn’t weird — you two had been friends since you were teenagers. Besides, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
And just like all those other days, here he was again, banging on the door and yelling for you to hurry up.
You rolled your eyes, trying to drown out his voice and lose yourself in the scorching water pouring on your skin. You’d spent the entire morning replying to hundreds of emails, your back aching from hours of hunching over your desk, your neck stiff from turtleneck posture. You just wanted this — a long, hot shower, and the rest of the day to finally relax.
Until you hear an aggravating voice calling your name.
“Please hurry up! I have to stream in a bit and I need to shower!” Jungkook shouts from the other side of the door.
“Kook, I just got in!” you yell back, head tipping back in frustration.
“No, you haven’t! You’ve been in there for half an hour!”
“Well, you’re gonna have to wait!”
He groans, then shouts your name again. “I’m so serious, if you don’t hurry up, I’m going in there with you!”
“Well, I’m not getting out!” you say back.
And with that, Jungkook twists the doorknob and walks in.
“You’re not serious!” you exclaim, seeing his blurry silhouette through the fogged up shower door.
“You left me with no choice, bro,” he says, already stripping his clothes off.
You don’t say another word, completely flabbergasted.
There’s no way.
Before you could doubt him again, the door opens and he steps into the tiny shower with you, one hand on your bare back as he nudges you forward to make room.
“Jungkook!” you scream, covering your breasts.
“Fuck, why’s it so damn hot in here?” he says, leaning forward and adjusting the water, his bare chest brushing against your back.
“This is so weird, Kook.” you mutter, turning slightly to glare up at him.
“Relax. I won’t even look at you,” he says, eyes squeezed shut as he lathers shampoo through his hair. “I just need to wash up and I’ll be out.”
You try not to look either — you really do — but he’s right there. Water and soap slide down the solid lines of his chest, tracing the dip of his toned stomach before disappearing out of sight. Your gaze follows before you can stop it, curiosity flickering where it shouldn’t. He’s so big, even on soft.
You swallow hard, snapping yourself out of it. Then you turn around and push him back a little, his chest firm beneath your palm.
“You’re hogging, dude. I need to wash my conditioner out.”
His eyes stay shut, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “No one’s stopping you.”
You’re facing him — way too close for comfort — as you tilt your head back under the water. He finally opens his eyes, but his gaze stays low, focused on the way he scrubs his torso with the washcloth. Foam and bubbles lather over his skin, gliding down the water.
It’s respectful, really. How he isn’t ogling at you — a naked woman right in front of him — like any other man would. And somehow, that only makes it worse. Makes you want him to look.
God, you can barely breathe. He’s so close. His knuckles brush your ribs, a light bump that sends a jolt through you.
“Sorry,” he says in Korean, though his tone is completely casual.
You blink at him. What the fuck? How the hell is he so calm about this? You two have never seen each other naked — not that there was ever a reason to. Are you overthinking it?
He cracks one eye open, catching you before you can even look away. You’re still staring at his chest as he scrubs, and he lets out a low, breathy chuckle.
“Y’know, you're staring real hard for someone who said this was weird,” he teases.
Your eyes snap up, wide. “Shut up. You’re weird.”
“Hm. Okay, perv,” he says with a lazy grin.
“Just- hurry up and get out!” you snap, turning back toward the water to hide your face.
“Well, someone’s hogging the water!” he retorts.
“Hmph!” you huff, crossing your arms before stepping aside to let him under the water.
He rinses the soap from his hair, water streaming down his body and splashing everywhere like a wet dog — droplets hitting you from every direction. Annoyed, you twist the shower to hot, and when the water heats up, Jungkook yelps.
“Bro, you’re actually so annoying. C’mere!” he laughs, grabbing your shoulder and pulling you under the stream with him as he shifts it to freezing cold.
Your back collides with his slippery front, his arm instinctively looping around your waist to steady you. The sudden contact steals your breath — but before you can even process it, the cold water hits, and you let out a scream.
“Jungkook, please!” you shriek, trying to pry his arm off your waist.
“Brat,” he laughs, holding you in place as the freezing water pours down on both of you.
“Jungkook!” you shout again, squealing. “I’m genuinely going to kill you!”
He just laughs harder. Meanwhile, you can barely breathe through your shivers. Goosebumps start to form on your skin, but you can’t tell if it’s from the cold water or Jungkook’s cock pressing into you.
“Okay, seriously! It’s cold and I can feel your dick in my ass, dude!” you finally gasp, twisting in his grip.
He finally releases you and you immediately turn the water back to hot, the rush of warmth hitting your skin in relief and the glass immediately fogging up. He’s still laughing as he opens the shower door, grabbing his towel from the rack and getting out.
“Annoying ass,” you mutter, brushing water from your face.
“Yeah, yeah. Pervert,” he says back, wrapping the towel around his waist as his eyes flicker down to your chest.
“You just looked at my boobs!” you exclaim, brows knitted.
He shrugs. “You were looking at mine first?”
You grab the shower door handle and slam it shut. “Next time, I’m locking the door!”
“Yeah, and try showering faster!” he calls back, leaving the bathroom and shutting the door with a click.
Jungkook has always just been your best friend.
He’s funny, dorky, and has that annoying boyish charm that somehow made him impossible to stay mad at. You’d known him forever — too long to ever think of him that way.
But ever since he hopped in the shower with you the other day, your brain wouldn’t shut up. You kept replaying it — the proximity, his skin against yours, his cock literally pressed up against your ass. And now, every time he walked by, you couldn’t act normal without feeling carnal.
How could you not? It's not exactly normal to shower with your best friend. And this was all his fault, anyway!
You started seeing Jungkook in a completely different light.
The air got colder, and he was back to living in hoodies — cozy, oversized ones that made him look effortlessly attractive in a boyfriend way. His hair was always messy, his face bare, and every time he walked around, you’d get that swooning girly feeling.
And even worse? The sweats. The fucking sweats. The way they hung low on his hips, the way they showed too much. His print visible through the fabric, reminding you how absolutely hung he is.
God, you are a pervert.
You’ve been avoiding him. Leaving the room whenever he walks in. He hasn’t noticed yet — or maybe he has, but he hasn’t said anything about it.
Working from home didn’t help either. You were stuck in the apartment with him every hour of the day since he worked from home too. Your earphones and endless emails were enough to distract you for a while, but once the day ended and you were left in bed with nothing but your thoughts, it got bad.
And it was especially worse when you could hear his voice.
“Chat, I’m not taking off my hoodie,” you hear him say from his room, muffled but still clear through the thin wall. “It’s cold and I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
Then he laughs — low and knowing.
Fuck.
You’d checked your period tracker earlier. Of course you were ovulating. That probably explained why every little thing he did suddenly aroused you ten times harder.
The ache between your thighs had been building all evening, a throbbing inconvenience that no amount of ignoring could make go away. Your pink vibrator sat in the bedside drawer, tempting, calling your name like a ritual. Quickly, you slid it open, fingers wrapping around the silicone toy.
You pushed the button, and the persistent buzz filled the room. The walls in this apartment were ridiculously thin; every word came through like he was right there with you. You could hear him, his voice pushing through the barrier as he flirts with his viewers like the little tease he is. If you were able to hear him, he could definitely hear this toy's relentless whirring.
But you didn’t give a single fuck — you needed this too badly to stop or care.
Impatiently, you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and panties, yanking them down in one swift motion. The cool air hits your wet and swollen heat, pussy clenching in anticipation and need. You spread your legs slightly on the bed, the sheets crumpling beneath you and you positioned the vibrator.
Then you hear his voice again. “Take it off anyway? Yo, chat! Behave!” He giggles softly.
Why did that make you even hornier? Imagining him there, taking his hoodie off and streaming shirtless, feeding his audience what they want. It makes you wonder if he’ll give you what you want. The thought has you trailing the buzzing tip along your inner thigh first, teasing yourself. Finally, you pressed it firmly against your clit.
The contact was intense — vibrations pulsing directly into that sensitive bud full of nerves. Your body jerked involuntarily, hips bucking as a sharp wave of pleasure shot throughout you, making your toes curl. You cursed quietly, a soft moan escaping before you bit down on your lower lip.
On the other side of the hall, he drives you to your edge quicker. “No! Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jungkook chants, the words tumbling out in frustration. A deep groan followed, guttural and unrestrained. “Goddamnit! I was so close, then I fucking sold!”
He’s losing his shit over a game while you were about to cum from the pathetic sounds he was making.
You circled the vibrator slower now, grinding it against your clit in deliberate movements, the wetness coating the toy. Each stroke sent your nerves radiating, your pussy aching to be filled, but for now, this was enough — more than enough with his oblivious presence so close.
You clamped a hand over your mouth, fingers digging into your cheek as your back arched off the bed. The vibrator thrummed at its highest speed now, the intense vibrations assaulting your clit relentlessly. All that lust you’d been bottling up poured out in a flood of slick heat between your thighs.
Living with Jeon Jungkook was torturous…
“Chat, one more round or should I end stream for the night?” His tone was casual, yet had you in full effect — oblivious to the way your pussy throbbed at the rasp in his voice.
A muffled moan escaped despite your efforts, vibrating against your palm. Your hips lift from the mattress, grinding your swollen clit harder against the toy. You can feel it coming — the tight coil in your tummy twisting, your walls clenching around the toy as arousal leaks profusely out of you.
“One more round? Alright, just for you,” he replied to his viewers — that signature giggle slipping out, the one he does when he knows the girls and gays are already folding over the simplest things he does.
But you weren’t some thirsty fan in his chat. No, Jungkook’s effect on you ran way deeper than that — a constant simmer that turned into this frantic need to fuck yourself while listening to him.
You threw your head back against the pillow, neck straining as you bit down on your knuckle, teeth sinking into skin to muffle the moan clawing up your throat. The pressure surged to its peak, your body locking up as the orgasm took over.
Your clit pulsed under the vibrator’s assault as the pleasure exploded, making your toes curl and your back arch. Slick seeped out of you, coating your fingers and the toy, the wet sounds barely audible over the buzz and your ragged breathing.
As you came down from your high, the overstimulation became too much. You yanked the vibrator away with a gasp, fumbling to turn it off, the sudden silence deafening — you could hear Jungkook tapping away at his keyboard, finger clicking down on the mouse. The toy rolled away as you tossed it somewhere on your bed, too spent to care about the mess on it right now.
One thing was clear: you hadn’t felt like that in far too long — your thighs shaking uncontrollably, your sopping heat still throbbing hypersensitively, that deep, aching relief lingering in your lower stomach. The raw force of it drained you, a sluggish feeling in your limbs.
Post nut clarity hit you like a truck, shame and guilt starting to eat at you: you came harder than ever, all because you were fantasizing about Jungkook, your best friend. That incident in the shower and all the glances you stole — his wet skin glistening under the water, those thick, muscular arms flexing as he lathered soap all over his body, and his heavy cock hanging between his thighs. It had all ignited this secret explosion of lust. It wasn’t forbidden, but it had felt that way since you’d never thought about him like this.
Now, the idea of him walking by while you were in the living room, or coming into the kitchen behind you, peering over your shoulder to see what was for dinner — it all makes your tummy flutter, like a stupid crush.
No way you could keep living like this.
You managed to successfully avoid Jungkook for the rest of the week. Not that it was difficult — he’d been too busy with his streaming schedule, headset on and door shut most of the time.
It was ironic, really — living with Jungkook and yet not seeing him for days.
Still, you weren’t taking any risks. You’d started taking quicker showers — gosh, you missed standing under the water until your skin steamed. You hadn’t cooked in days either, constantly dragging Jennie out for dinner or inviting yourself over to her place instead.
Now, the cold air had your hands trembling as you tried to fit the key into the lock. After a few fumbling attempts, it finally clicked, and you pushed the door open, grateful to step inside the warm apartment.
You’d just come back from Jennie’s place after a cozy pasta dinner for two. She had joked about you moving in with her instead, just so you could cook for her like that every night.
And damn, maybe you should’ve considered her offer — because the moment you walk into the apartment, Jungkook’s already there in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up and a pan on the stove. He must’ve just finished streaming. Poor baby probably hadn’t eaten all day until now.
On other days, you’d cook for the both of you. But tonight, you couldn’t shake the guilt crawling up your spine.
“Hey,” he says, glancing over his shoulder as you step inside.
“Hi,” you reply, quick and polite.
But suspicious.
Normally, you’d linger — maybe steal a bite of whatever he was cooking or tease him about the mess he was making. Instead, you head straight for your room without another word.
Jungkook’s brows knit together. That just won’t do.
Your door’s already shut by the time he follows, knuckles tapping against the wood.
You scrunch up your nose, already dreading the conversation you’re about to have with him. How do you tell your best friend of years that you feel guilty because you got off to his voice?
“Come in,” you call, trying to sound casual.
He walks in — looking good as ever. His hair is tousled, his hoodie hanging loose but still fitting him perfectly.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
Shit.
You shrug off your jacket and toss it into the hamper. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. You seem… weird.”
You sigh, turning away from him as you open your laptop, pretending to be busy. “Really, I’m okay.”
It’s quiet for a moment. And just when you expect to hear the door close, you hear him instead.
“Did something happen while you were out?” he asks, voice soft but worried.
You turn around to face him — brows slightly furrowed, that worry in his eyes making your chest tighten.
“No,“ you glance away, fumbling for composure. “I swear, everything’s okay.”
He still doesn’t look convinced.
“Then why won’t you look at me?” he presses.
You let out a nervous laugh. “I’m looking at you!”
You’re not. You’re very pointedly looking anywhere but at him — specifically at your nightstand. Yeah. That one.
“You’re not!” he whines.
“Jungkook, please.” You shut your eyes, trying to sound firm, though your anxiety betrays you.
“No! If something is wrong, you can tell me!” he insists, voice mixed with worry and frustration now. He takes a few steps closer.
“I said everything’s okay! Why won’t you just believe me?” you shoot back, finally looking up at him — a mistake, because he looks unfairly good even when he’s upset. Eyes bigger somehow, brows knitted in that way that makes him look both worried and boyishly stubborn.
“Because you’re not being believeable?” he says, as if obvious.
You sigh, looking down at your hands in your lap, the guilt gnawing away.
Then, quieter, almost hesitant. “Did… did I make you uncomfortable that day?”
Your head snaps up. There it is — the forbidden topic neither of you had spoken about since it happened. It feels foreign, like it shouldn’t have been brought up, but here it is anyway — being brought up.
“No, you didn’t,” you say quickly, almost too quickly. But he still doesn’t look convinced. “Kook, no. I swear you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”
“Then what’s wrong?” he asks, almost pleading now. He knows you too well — knows the difference between you’re fine and you’re pretending to be fine.
“It’s me, okay?” you blurt out, looking away. “That wasn’t exactly a boundary we should’ve crossed as friends, and now….” You exhale shakily, cheeks getting warm. “Now I feel guilty because I can’t stop thinking about you in ways I shouldn’t.”
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
You can feel his gaze burning into you, and every inch of your body wants to sink straight to the floor. You brace yourself for it — for him to laugh and tell you he doesn’t see you that way. Or tell you you’re like a little sister to him. Either way, you’re already planning to text Jennie and tell her you’re moving in, because there’s no way you’re surviving this humiliation.
“You’ve… been fantasizing about me?”
Your head snaps up. A smug, satisfied look plastered all over his face — it has ego written all over it. His lips curl into a slow, teasing smirk, and his hands slip casually into the pockets of his sweats like he’s enjoying this way too much.
Of course he is. Of course this cocky little shit would love hearing that.
You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “Oh my god, Jungkook, you actually need to die.”
“That’s basically what you said, though!” he argues, clearly entertained.
You drop your hands and glare at him. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asks, tilting his head, that little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he takes a step closer.
“Don’t be annoying.”
“Okay,” he says, hands raised in surrender — though he quickly slips them back into his pockets, that smirk turning into a soft smile. “I’m sorry.”
Your lips press into a thin line, your face hot. “Well?”
“What?” he asks, blinking at you like he’s clueless.
“Aren’t you going to reject me?” you ask, exasperated. “Actually, do it now so I can start packing.”
He just chuckles quietly. No rejection. No teasing comeback like he usually would’ve done.
“Come here,” he says, nodding his head toward himself.
“Jungkook…” you hesitate.
“Come here,” he repeats, firmer this time — his voice deeper, leaving no room for argument.
You roll your eyes before finally pushing yourself up, dragging your feet toward him like you’re walking into something you shouldn’t.
Once you stop in front of him, Jungkook’s hand slides around your arm — firm but gentle — and he guides you down until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You sit, confused, eyes darting up at him.
“What are you trying to do?” you ask warily.
Instead of answering, he kneels down in front of you. His face is level with yours now, expression unreadable but somehow still soft.
“Whatever happened to that guy you were hooking up with?” he asks suddenly.
“Eunwoo?” you blink, caught off guard. “We stopped.”
He hums, leaning in slightly. “And since then?”
You hesitate, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “It’s… been a while.”
His tongue clicks as his lips curve. “You poor thing.” He plants his forearms on either side of your thighs, caging you in. “No wonder you got all weird after the shower.”
You roll your eyes and shove lightly at his chest. “Shut up.”
He laughs teasingly, but doesn’t budge.
“And you?” you ask, lifting your chin, trying to stabilize your voice.
He tilts his head, smiling faintly. “Nope. Too busy streaming.”
He’s so close now, closer than he’s ever been — even closer than that incident in the shower. Your heart pounds vigorously in your chest, your frantic heartbeat echoing in your ears, and you’re sure he can hear it too. Heat floods your face, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“So… if you want to…” he murmurs, leaning in even more until his breath fans hot against your lips.
“Don’t you have a bunch of streamer girls you know that you could fuck instead?” you ask, breath hitching as your thighs clench together instinctively, trying to subdue the ache between them.
“Don’t want them,” he whispers as he closes the gap further.
His lips brush yours — not a full kiss yet, just a tentative bump, testing the waters, giving you the chance to pull back if you want to. But you don’t. You can’t.
The moment stretches, and then he crashes into you like a man starved. His mouth claims yours, lips soft yet demanding, tasting faintly of the sweet balm he slathers on after every shower. His tongue slips past your parted lips, exploring, tangling with yours.
His hands roam boldly now, sliding around your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He pulls you flush against him, trapping you completely in his grip, your body pinned by his solid weight.
With a sudden surge, he lunges forward, laying you down. He hovers over you, lips never leaving yours, devouring you with sloppy, urgent kisses, sucking on your lower lip before diving back in to taste every flavor of your mouth.
One hand trails downward, slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings and panties. His palm is surprisingly warm, contrasting deliciously against your colder skin from the air outside.
He wastes no time, fingers delving lower until his middle one grazes your sopping pussy. You’re already so wet, warm slick coating his digits as it profusely drips out. The first touch sends a jolt through you, your hips bucking.
He adds another finger, pressing it firmly against the sensitive bud, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. A muffled moan escapes, vibrating against Jungkook’s mouth.
You break the kiss, turning your head to the side, teeth sinking into your lower lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out louder.
“How long exactly is a while?” he asks, voice husky, laced with amusement.
God, you’re not even facing him, but you can hear that smug smirk in his tone, feel it in the way his fingers pause just to tease.
“Five months,” you gasp out, the admission hanging heavy in the air, your body trembling under his touch.
He doesn’t respond with words — just pushes two fingers deep inside your soaked pussy. Your walls clench around the intrusion, slick heat welcoming him, and you throw your head back with an audible moan.
He leans down, lips finding the curve of your neck, starting with a gentle kitten lick of his tongue before his teeth graze the skin. He bites down — not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to mark, sucking the spot until you feel the delicious sting straight to your core.
Your hands fly up, cupping his face, thumbs brushing his sharp jawline as you pull him back into a feverish kiss. Tongues messily clash again. In response, his hand inside your pants speeds up, fingers thrusting in and out with a steady rhythm. The squelching of your arousal grows louder, filling the room.
“You haven’t eaten today, have you?” you manage through moans, your thumb rubbing soothing circles over the apple of his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under your touch.
He chuckles low in his throat, the vibration rumbling against your lips as he leans into your hand. “You’re really doing this right now?”
“I-“ Your words cut off as his fingers curl sharply inside you, pressing against your inner walls with precision. A moan rips from your throat, your body shuddering. “I feel bad. Haven’t been cooking for you because I was embarrassed.”
“Don’t. That’s not your job,” he says, his smile evident in his voice, eyes gleaming at how sensitive you are, how every twitch and gasp fuels his ego.
“Don’t wanna starve you,” you whimper, the words tumbling out through the haze of pleasure.
“No?” He tilts his head, that playful dominance shining through as he watches your face contort.
You hum in agreement, shaking your head weakly.
“Okay, I’ll eat then,” he says.
He withdraws his fingers slowly, the sudden emptiness making you whine in protest, your pussy clenching around nothing as your sticky arousal gets on your thighs.
You exhale shakily, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath, but before you could regulate your breathing, Jungkook’s hands are at your waistband. With a forceful tug, he pulls your leggings and panties down your legs in one rough motion.
“Jungkook!” you exclaim, voice pitching higher as embarrassment floods. “What’re you doing!”
“About to eat,” he replies casually, kneeling between your legs hanging at the edge of the bed. “Since you’re so worried about my appetite.”
“This is not what I meant,” you protest, thighs closing in futile attempt to hide.
“Come on,” he whined in Korean, playful but insistent, his accent thick. His hands gently but firmly pry at your knees. “Been a while, hasn’t it? Let me take care of you.”
“Do not use that against me!” you whine back.
He switches tactics, those pleasing eyes boring into yours, one hand resting warmly on your knee.
You’ve thought about this for days now. The cool press of his lip rings against you, how good he is with his tongue. The thought alone makes more arousal seep out of your entrance. Your legs part instinctively, opening wide for him, a silent invitation.
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, dimple peeking as he leans in. He starts with soft kisses along your inner thigh, nipping lightly at the skin until goosebumps erupt. His eyes stay fixed on yours, intense and unwavering. But the intimacy gets too much, and you avert your gaze to the side, biting your lip again.
He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your thigh. “Look at me.”
Obediently, though with a hint of attitude in your narrowed eyes, you turn back, meeting his stare. It feels exposing, vulnerable, but the command in his voice sends even more arousal out of you.
He pushes your thighs wider, fingers digging into the soft flesh to hold you splayed open, your pussy on full display — swollen, wet, clit begging for attention.
Finally, he leans in closer, his breath ghosting over your heated core, making you shiver. His tongue darts out, licking a stripe right over your sensitive clit. Immediately, a sharp wave of pleasure shoots down your spine, your hips jerking into his mouth further. Your thighs quiver, instinctively trying to close in on his head, but his grip is stronger, keeping you spread at his mercy.
He holds your gaze as he buries his face deeper, the metal of his lip rings against your folds. His mouth latches onto your clit fully now, lips sealing around the bud as he sucks — gentle at first, then harder, tongue flicking rapidly against it.
The suction pulls a quiet moan from your open mouth, your back arching, pressure building in your lower tummy. Slick coats his chin, dripping down as he devours you, humming in approval at your taste, the vibrations adding another blissful yet tormenting sensation.
He lowers his face further, his tongue extending to lap directly into your sopping entrance. The tip of his tongue presses inside, tasting your arousal, swirling against your inner walls as he gathers more of your juices. Then, his nose nudges firmly against your swollen clit, the firm bridge bumping it with just the right pressure.
“Y- yes, Kook, right there,” you moan, the words spilling out in a breathy plea as you lean back on one arm, propping yourself up to watch him work, your free hand gripping onto the sheets.
He starts moving his head up and down in a steady rhythm, the rounded tip of his nose circling and pressing into the throbbing nub, intensifying the friction. His tongue stays buried inside your pussy, thrusting shallowly, lapping up your warm slick.
A deep hum vibrates from his throat, the sound muffled against your heat, like he’s seeking your approval or praise, dark eyes flickering up to lock onto yours. The lower half of his face is completely buried deep between your spread thighs.
You nod frantically, eyebrows knitting together in ecstasy, your bottom lip caught so tightly between your teeth that you’re convinced you might’ve drawn blood. “Fuck, yes, just like that,” you gasp, the praise fueling him as your body trembles.
Jungkook’s own brows furrow in concentration and bliss, his expression twisting like he’s savoring the richest feast imaginable — and he is, devouring your pussy with all his focus. Breathing is a challenge with your thighs clamped around his ears and your pussy coating his mouth and nose, but the thought doesn’t discourage him; he’d gladly suffocate between your legs.
His gaze never wavers from your face, taking in every detail: the way your features contort in pleasure, eyes half-lidded and glassy, your lower lip now visibly swollen from the abuse of your teeth.
Driven by your reactions, he shoves his face even deeper, the hard ridge of his nose bone grinding harder against your clit, providing relentless friction that builds the coil in your tummy tighter. His tongue plunges further inside, fucking into your pussy with wet, slurping strokes that echo obscenely in the room, pushing you toward the brink.
“Jungkook, baby, I’m already so close,” you moan, your voice coming out hoarse and hushed, strained from all the moaning and restraint.
Your hips start to rock subtly against his mouth, and he hums again — the low vibration rumbling straight through your core, making your clit pulse against his nose and your inner walls clench around his invading tongue. That sensation ignites something within you — your hips buck forward, grinding harder into his face, chasing the pressure as you smear more slick across his skin.
You throw your head back as louder moans tear from your throat, your entire body flushing hot, skin prickling with sweat. The orgasm crashes over you, seizing your muscles in a frozen moment of pure intensity before you convulse, thighs shutting around his head, pussy clenching as your cries fill the room.
After a few blissful seconds, the aftershocks turn into overstimulation, the continuous lap of his tongue and nudge of his nose becoming too much on your hypersensitive nerves.
“Okay! Okay!” you giggle breathlessly as you push at his shoulder with your foot, trying to create some distance while your body still twitches.
Jungkook finally pulls back with a low, guttural moan, his tongue darting out to lick his lips clean of your essence, savoring the sweet taste. He rises slowly, crawling up your body, his eyes low and dark with lust.
You haven’t laid a single hand on his cock yet, but he looks utterly wrecked — face flushed a deep pink, hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead with sweat. Your arousal glistens across the entire lower half of his face, from his chin to the bridge of his nose.
“Your face is all wet!” you giggle again.
He doesn’t respond verbally, just leans down to capture your lips in soft, lingering pecks, as if he suddenly can’t be apart from you for even a moment, sharing the faint tang of your own essence between you.
“Alright, munch,” you say with a teasing lilt, pressing your palms against his chest to create space, sitting up alongside him on the bed. “Go wash up.”
“Fine, fine,” he succumbs, getting off you with exaggerated defeat, hands raised in mock surrender as he stumbles to his feet, legs a bit unsteady like he’s had one too many drinks, his bulge straining obviously against his sweats.
“Need help with that?” you ask, your voice light and teasing, eyes flicking pointedly to the obvious problem between his legs.
“Nah,” he groans, the sound low and rough. “You rest, I’ll take care of it.”
“And eat a real meal, please?” you call after him, voice laced with affectionate concern as he heads toward the bathroom.
“I just did!” he yells back, the playful retort echoing down the hall, followed by the sound of running water.
You snort, a hand coming up to cover your face as laughter bubbles out.
Yeah, you wouldn’t be texting Jennie tonight. You’re right where you want to be.
synopsis: after months of dating, namjoon finally says the three words you’ve been waiting for, and you can’t help but confess you’ve felt the same all along.
months into dating namjoon, you learn the language of him without realizing it’s a language at all.
it’s the way he always walks on the side closer to the street. how he memorizes your coffee order after hearing it once, then pretends it’s a coincidence every time he gets it right.
the way his hand finds the small of your back in crowded places, grounding you, steady, like he’s reminding both of you that you’re real and here together.
he loves quietly, but thoroughly.
you notice it in the details. how he listens, really listens—when you talk, even about the smallest things.
he sends you photos of the sky when it’s especially pretty, no explanation attached, as if he knows you’ll understand.
and you do.
you’ve wanted to tell him you love him for a long time.
it started somewhere around the two-month mark, sneaking up on you when you weren’t paying attention.
it landed on the tip of your tongue during late nights tangled together on the couch, when his thumb traced absent shapes into your arm while you watched something neither of you were really following.
during mornings when he’d press a soft kiss to your forehead before getting out of bed, careful not to wake you, even though you always woke up anyway.
there were moments (too many) where the words almost escaped.
when he kissed you slow and unhurried, like he wasn’t trying to go anywhere but right there. when you were half-asleep, face tucked into his chest, breathing him in. when he laughed, head tipped back, dimples deep, eyes crinkled.
but you swallowed it down every time.
you didn’t want to rush him. namjoon feels like someone who carries his heart carefully, like he needs to know it’s safe before he sets it down anywhere.
and you’re patient. you can wait. you’re content loving him quietly for now, even if it sometimes aches.
tonight is ordinary.
you’re at his place, curled up on the couch, legs draped over his lap. it’s late enough that the city outside is quieter, the lights softer.
he’s reading something on his phone, brow slightly furrowed, glasses slipping just a little down his nose. you reach up without thinking and push them back into place.
he smiles at you like you’ve just done something profound.
“what?” you ask, already smiling back.
“nothing,” he says, fondly. “you’re just… you.”
he puts his phone away after that, like nothing else matters more than this moment. his hands settle on you—warm, familiar. one resting on your knee, the other brushing your arm. you lean into him, head against his shoulder, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
there’s a comfortable silence between you.
“can i tell you something?” he asks eventually, voice softer than usual.
you lift your head, heart stuttering just a little. “yeah, of course.”
he looks nervous.
it’s subtle, most people wouldn’t notice, but you do. his jaw tightens and his thumb goes still against your skin. he stares ahead for a second too long, like he’s lining up his thoughts, making sure they won’t trip over themselves.
you wait.
he turns to you then, fully, like he wants your entire attention.
“i’ve been thinking,” he starts, then lets out a small, breathy laugh. “actually, i’ve been thinking for a while.”
your chest feels tight, but warm.
“about us,” he continues. “about you.”
your heart is loud now and you wonder if he can hear it.
he reaches up, fingers brushing your cheek, gentle, reverent. the room feels smaller somehow, like everything has narrowed down to just the two of you, suspended in this quiet space.
“i’m not always good at saying things right away,” he says. “you know that. i like to be sure. i like to… understand my feelings before i put words to them.”
you nod, because you do know that. you’ve always known that.
his eyes search yours, vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch.
“but i’ve been sure for a long time,” he says softly. “every time i think about my day, you’re there. every time something good happens, i want to tell you first. when things are hard, you’re who i want beside me.”
you smile even though your throat tightens.
he swallows, then mirrors your smile—small, nervous, sincere.
“i love you.”
the words land gently, like they’ve been waiting for the right place to rest.
for a second, you can’t move. can’t breathe. it feels like something inside you has finally exhaled after holding its breath for months.
your eyes sting, and you laugh a little.
he looks worried immediately. “oh shit. is that—did i—”
you cut him off by leaning forward, crashing your lips onto his. slow, deep, full of everything you’ve been holding back. it feels different now, fuller.
namjoon groans softly, fingers curling into your hair to keep your head in place as he kisses you back with just as much intensity.
he breaks the kiss, only to mouth along your jaw as he murmurs. “you love me that much, baby?”
you chuckle, though it’s breathless as his kisses trail down to your collarbone where you feel his teeth graze as the corners of his mouth lift. “yeah.”
he smirks, placing a wet, open mouthed kiss to your skin before returning to your lips. the kiss is deeper, full of tongue and it makes your head spin.
his hands slide down your body, rubbing up and down your sides before one snakes underneath your (his) shirt. he immediately bunches the material up and around your waist to expose your breasts to the cool air of the apartment.
luckily, more often than not, you’re wearing nothing underneath. which gives him easy access to your nipples.
you gasp softly as he tilts his head down, latching onto one of the hardened peaks—he begins sucking, swirling his tongue just to hear you moan softly.
you tug your shirt off the rest of the way, and namjoon all but growls to himself, before diving back in.
your fingers rake through his hair, tightening with each circle of his wet muscle. namjoon groans when you tug, popping off your breast to give the other equal attention.
you arch into him, purely from instinct and the amount of times you’ve been in this exact situation. though, this time it feels special.
his hands immediately sliding to your hips and you grind down for some form of pressure on your aching core.
he groans, pulling off your breasts with a wet pop. “baby..” he warns, though there’s no heat in it, only the tremor of someone already giving in.
you whimper, rocking against him, the pressure is subtle but deliberate. you can feel the ridge of his cock tenting under his pants and rubbing against the thin barrier of your panties.
you shiver.
namjoon groans, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed. “fuck, jagi.. you’re gonna ruin me.”
you roll your hips harder, firmer this time, and his grip tightens on your hips, guiding the movement. the friction is perfect, harsh in a way that makes your thighs tremble, the drag of fabric delicious and so filthy.
his lips find your neck, teeth grazing just below your ear. “shit, you’re driving me crazy.” he mutters against your skin. “you need me that bad?”
“yes,” you whisper, shameless, gasping when he bucks up against you. “i need it so bad, joon.”
his laugh is low and rough, more a growl than anything. he presses your body down firmly, making you feel how hard he is, the head of his cock pressing directly to your clit.
“so needy, my pretty baby.” he smirks, hand sliding from your hips, skimming over the damp fabric of your panties and sliding it aside.
you moan softly when his fingers tease your plush folds, thumb teasing your clit. namjoon hums, glancing up at you through his eyelashes.
“so wet,” he comments.
the words make you whimper. he kisses you then—messy, urgent, his tongue tangling with yours.
with the barrier of your panties being pushed aside, the friction is mind consuming—making you work your hips faster.
your arousal coats his lower half, forming a wet spot on his sweats.
his hands roam greedily, alternating between squeezing your waist, and holding you flush to him as you rut against each other.
the heat builds quickly, every drag of his cock against your soaked folds sending sparks down your spine. namjoons sounds alone make your pussy weep, and you shoot forward to crash your lips to his as you teeter on the edge.
your breath comes in broken gasps, muffled against his mouth as he kisses you, sloppy and desperate. he breaks away only to groan, forehead pressed to yours. “cum for me, baby. right here, give it to me.”
that alone tips you over the edge—hips stuttering, thighs trembling as you shatter against him, clutching at his shoulders as waves of heat ripple through you.
he holds you through it, rubbing soothing motions up and down your back. his own hips jerking, teeth clenched as if barely holding himself back.
when you finally collapse against his chest, breathless, he kisses your temple. he lets you catch your breath for only a moment, before shifting so he can lay you down on the plush cushions of the couch.
he dips down, mouth brushing your jaw now. “back with me?” his fingers slide higher, dragging the lace of your panties down your ankles slowly.
you nod weakly, chest rising and falling. you watch him through hooded eyes, nails scratching his scalp gently.
he grins against your neck, already shifting lower, tugging the lace the rest of the way down like it personally offended him. he pushes your legs apart, firm but gentle at the same time, hands spreading your thighs like he’s unwrapping something just for him.
you feel the air hit you—cool against how warm you are. how wet, glistening under the dim light filtering the room. and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet. you feel light and warm under his gaze, heart full because he looks at you with so much tenderness.
he groans softly at the sight, his own desire evident. “fuck, baby.. look at you. so so beautiful.”
the way he speaks, voice deep and raspy only adds to your arousal, biting your lip as he runs a soothing hand over your thighs. his hands hold your thighs open, moving your ankles over his shoulders for leverage. his mouth is so close you can feel the heat of him before it even lands.
“you’re so pretty, baby. always dripping for me, aren’t you?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, right beside where you need him most.
you nod, barely able to speak, hips lifting into him on instinct.
he smiles, kissing your other thigh.
then he finally leans in, tongue flat and slow, licking a stripe up your slit. you gasp, legs twitching in his grip, but he just groans, hungrier this time.
he eats you out like it’s his favorite meal. like he’s starved. soft, deliberate licks turning into messier, wetter one. he focuses on your clit, teasing it with the tip of his tongue, then sucking it into his mouth until your hand is fisted in the couch. the sounds are obscene, wet, slick sounds that fill the room along with your breathless moans.
“joon,” you whimper.
“mhm..” he hums against you, then goes right back in, trying to pull more of those sounds out of you with his tongue. his fingers join in next—one finger sliding in with practiced ease, curling just right. he watches your face while he does it, eyes dark and soft all at once.
“feels good?” he breathes.
you nod again, barely able to think clearly for yourself. your mind is completely consumed by him. his finger pumps in and out, then he adds a second—stretching you open while his mouth keeps working your clit, never missing a beat.
you can’t stop moving, moaning his name. everything’s too much in the best way—his tongue, fingers, all adding to the heat building fast and low in your belly.
and he knows your close. he can feel it in the way you’re practically sucking him in. “that’s it baby,” he says between licks, voice wrecked. “give it to me. wanna taste you.”
your whole body tenses—hips bucking into his mouth, grinding against his face. he groans, sending vibration through you—and then you’re gone. your orgasm crashes through you hard and sudden, white-hot and blinding.
namjoon doesn’t stop, no, he works you through it. his tongue relentless, lapping up every drop of your release. his fingers slowing when your body starts to tremble from the aftershocks.
your completely spent, glowing.
he kisses his way up your body, dipping down to let you taste yourself on his tongue.
“you’re unbelievable.” he says against your mouth, tongue sweeping every corner.
you smile against his lips, because you’re not done. you’re still catching your breath, but already reaching for him.
he shifts above you, and you feel his cock still hard and aching against his zipper. you hum softly, sitting back up to look at him. your hand moves to his pants, undoing his fly and palming him through the fabric of his boxers, when he stops you abruptly.
you pout, glancing up at him.
his hand cradles your cheek like you’re precious, but his eyes are pure heat. “baby, you don’t have to—“ he starts.
you cut him off, brows furrowed in confusion. “i want to.”
he chuckles at your expression—though his eyes are soft as he gazes back at you, brushing his thumb over the apple of your cheek before leaning in for a chaste kiss. “okay, my love.”
your heart flutters at that, and you smile sheepishly.
you place your palms against his chest until he leans back. his shirt rides up, exposing smooth skin and the hard lines of his stomach, and you trail your hand down, following the warmth of him.
you kiss down his chest, taking your time. letting your teeth scrape gently, lips leaving heat. he props himself on his elbows to watch you, jaw clenched, eyes locked on your mouth as you hook your fingers into his waistband and tug it down.
his cock springs free—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip.
you wrap your hand around him first, giving slow, deliberate strokes, thumb circling his head. his hips twitch, a sharp hiss falling from his lips.
“oh my god,” he groans, breathless.
you don’t answer, just lower your head, tongue flicking over the tip first—salty, hot. then you flatten your tongue and lick a slow stripe from base to head, watching the way his thighs tense under your touch.
you take him in slowly, lips stretching around him, inch by inch. you know exactly how he likes it—wet, slow, messy at first. your tongue swirls under the head, then you sink further down, hollowing out your cheeks.
his hand pulls your hair back, caressing your jaw as you slowly bob your head up and down.
“shit,” he mutters, his voice strangled.
you hum around him, loving the way he shudders, the way he falls apart for you.
you can tell he’s right there on the edge, his entire body tensing but he pulls you off him right before he can let go.
you pull off him with a wet pop, spit connecting your lips to his cock. then you pump him with your hand while you peer up at him with a playful scowl, eyes glassy and lips swollen. he only chuckles softly, pulling you up. “lie down for me, hm? want to cum inside you.”
you almost choke on your own spit but you quickly recover and nod your head almost too excitedly.
he lifts off you for a second, stands to tug off his sweats and boxers the rest of the way, his body lean and strong in the soft light. you sit up slightly, eyes tracing over him—broad shoulders, toned stomach, cock flushed and heavy, thick at the base and curved just enough to make your stomach flutter.
he leans over you again, bracing his hands beside your head. he lines himself up to your entrance, kissing your neck. “i’m not going to last long.”
you smile, caressing his cheek before giving him a small peck. “it’s okay, me either.”
he grins boyishly, and nuzzles his nose against yours.
then he pushes in—slow, so slow, giving your body time to adjust. you were already wet from before so the slide is easy, and he’s gentle, his hands anchoring to your hips as he pushes in inch by inch.
you whimper as he bottoms out, hips flush to yours. so full.
he stills completely, breathing ragged. “fuck, baby you feel so good. always so tight.”
you let out an audible whine at that.
he groans, sweaty forehead pressed to yours. “i’ll go slow,” he breathes, “okay?”
you nod. both of you want to drag this out as long as possible, even if it may be hard. you’re both beyond needy, needing to be close.
small strokes at first—slow and steady. he watches your face with every thrust of his hips, adjusting his rhythm when you moan, when you wrap your legs around his waist and dig your nails into his back.
he buries his face in your neck, panting, gasping your name when you tighten.
it’s overwhelming—his constant praise, the wet kisses over your skin. the way he pumps into you. his pace picks up, still slow but desperate now. his thrusts are deeper, pulling out until just the tip remains inside you then slamming back in, angling his hips until you cry out.
you arch beneath him, breath catching as his tip repeatedly hits that spot inside you. you feel the way he shudders as you clench around him, how his rhythm falters as your nails drag down his back.
“i’m so close,” you admit through a moan.
“i’ve got you,” he says, kissing your cheek, then your mouth, lips swollen and wet. “always got you.”
your orgasm builds quick, crashing over you with a loud, broken moan. your walls pulse around him and he groans, thrusts stuttering as he fucks you through it.
his hips pump harder, chasing it. his lips trail from your cheek to your neck, to your shoulder, murmuring your name like a prayer.
“i love you,” he groans, voice breaking. “so much—fuck—i’m.. i’m gonna cum, baby—please.”
he buries himself deep one last time, whole body tensing, emptying himself into you with a helpless cry, muffled against your skin. and you feel it, the warmth of him, filling you up and dripping onto the sheets below.
you lay there together in silence for a long moment, chests pressed together, bodies still tangled.
he kisses your shoulder, then your temple. “you okay?”
you nod, smiling softly. “that was.. perfect.”
he just grins, proud and a little dazed. “you’re perfect.”
you blush, which makes him chuckle and lean forward to kiss you—although, you whine from the added pressure on your sensitive area.
he whispers an apology, bracing himself as he pulls out. immediately his release trickles down your thighs, and you cringe at the sticky feeling.
he just smirks in satisfaction, and you slap his chest. eventually you two make it out of bed, and he runs a shower for you both.
the steam is warm, quiet, unhurried. afterward, everything slows down—the easy comfort of being together. when you crawl back into bed, he pulls you into his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
you fit there perfectly. his arm wraps around you, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin.
“i love you,” he murmurs, voice low and full.
you smile into him, sleepy and safe, holding him a little tighter.
: HEAD ABOVE WATER : can a cold hearted business woman and a soft hearted surgeon tackle the past and make a future together?
[⋆❀⋆] Every night Celine dreamt of drowning. Dragon Lady by day and avocado addict always, she barely has time for dating—let alone love. Enter Namjoon: a golden-retriever-vibes pediatric surgeon at the local Children’s Hospital, with too much heart and not enough hours.
Can two people with messy pasts and hectic lives stumble into a forever?
|one|two|two.5|three|four|five|
Namjoon x doctor au, random encounter, romance, strangers to lovers, smut, whirlwind romance, romantic comedy.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠂⠄⠄⠂ ೀ
: THE ART OF DECEPTION : Hoseok, a master art forgery scientist, crosses paths with Evelyn—a woman of dangerous secrets and electrifying charm.
[⋆❀⋆] Hoseok takes down art forgers before his morning coffee. Evelyn hoards secrets like treasures. When they crash together, it’s flirtation, danger, and sparks hot enough to burn past the bedroom—if they can outrun what’s coming.
LIGHT AND SHADOW : part II of Hoseok & Evelyn’s adventure.
RENAISSANCE : part III the conclusion. - coming soon.
Hoseok x forensic scientist au, lovers to enemies, romance, mystery, angst, smut.
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂ ೀ
: WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT : Seven people, seven stories, one city wide blackout. These stories can be read individually or in order. The choice is yours. ☺️
[⋆❀⋆] CURTAINS & CHAOS: He hasn’t noticed a thing, and she’s already dripping from head to toe.
Taehyung x florist au, random encounter, romance, strangers to lovers, smut.
[⋆❀⋆] HEAT ME UP, COOL ME DOWN : When you screw up, you get her flowers. And when that doesn’t work, eat pussy.
Yoongi x stoner au, random encounter, romance, strangers to lovers...friends?, smut.
♡ Coming Soon ♡
[⋆❀⋆] KIND OF CUTE, KIND OF TRASH - Jimin x main character
[⋆❀⋆] #BLESSED - Hoseok x main character
[⋆❀⋆] SAVE THE WORLD, GET THE GIRL - Jungkook x main character
[⋆❀⋆] LAKESIDE PARK - Namjoon x main character
[⋆❀⋆] LIPS OF AN ANGEL - Jin x main character
⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂ ೀ
More stories are on the way! I want to thank all of you for reading, liking and sharing my work!
•genre/tropes: doctor au, random encounter, romance, strangers to lovers, smut, slow burn, romantic comedy.
•rating: explicit
•word count: 12.6k Part 1/6
•status: ongoing || series.
•authors note: Thank you Joonie, for bringing me back to writing. And @mrsvante for always supporting me even when I couldn’t support myself.
•warnings: mentions of hang up’s of main female characters ethnicity.
I'm drowning...
It's that same feeling I have every morning, that same floating sensation, as if my mattress could sink and swallow me up. I lay there in my cold apartment, the AC always thrumming in my ears, my breaths coming out in mists, traveling like the last ghosts of the night, chased away by the early morning sunlight. I don't like to live in the shadows, but I can't escape them at night. It's hard to catch any sleep with the lights on so I just close my eyes in the dark and pretend that I'm somewhere brighter than I actually am. It's not that I'm afraid of the dark… I'm just tired of the emptiness. That's where all the worst things live, the darkness.
I give into the water for a few minutes, laying back in my bed like I'm in the middle of the ocean, counting the raised impressions on the popcorn ceiling to ground me so that I don't forget that I'm still in my apartment, that I'm awake now, that nothing can actually pull me under the water. I keep wondering when I'll sink, when my thoughts will become my reality, but I guess that's a little overly dramatic. People don't actually sink... they give up.
I'm not giving up. I'm still kicking.
But still, somehow, I'm drowning.
—
The weather was way too hot, like disgustingly hot, the kind of hot that leaves you wiping sweat off places that you shouldn't even be sweating from. I probably wouldn't even be out if it wasn't for the fact that I really, really needed to go to the farmer's market. There's a cart that has the best avocados, and I'm not even ashamed to admit that I have a serious addiction. Sure, send me to a 12-step program. I probably still won't give them up. I might even convert my sponsor with visions of avocado toast and guacamole.
Do I sound like a millennial? It shouldn't surprise you because I am one. My generation is apparently fucking up the housing market and running fast food places out business or some shit like that. It's our fault that McDonald's, real estate, the stock market, and golf were dying. Sure thing, it was all us.
Because we buy avocados.
In my case, it was the literal truth though, so I really shouldn't be one to talk. Plus, I don't know any better. I can act innocent and coy. Nobody really raised me. I spent the better half of my childhood in the foster care system, but that's a story for another day.
I wasn't really expecting much but avocados and sweat stains in all those places that I mentioned (or didn't mention because it's too gross to talk about), but life has a way of taking you by surprise sometimes. No, the avocados weren't the highlight of my day.
He was.
Over by the strawberry booth, flirting and joking with the old ass strawberry lady, making her smile because that was just the way he was, those were just the kind of things he did. He had one of those dazzling Hollywood smiles, all straight white teeth and deep dimples that looked more like laugh lines because yeah, this guy was always smiling. He was a t-shirt and jeans guy; a windswept black hair guy; a starless dark dreamy eyes guy; a golden sun tanned skin guy...in other words, exactly the kind of guy I would've walked past without a second thought because guys like that usually walked past me without a second thought too. I was weaving in and out of the crowd, looking for my avocado guy so I probably wouldn't have even noticed him if it wasn't for the fact that he didn't walk past me. He did something really suicidal: he grabbed my bag and pulled me to a halting stop.
I wasn't impressed the first time I saw him. He was a good-looking guy; probably some creep that thought I was an easy lay.
He had the grace to let go of the strap of my bag after the look I gave him, holding up his hands as if trying to show that he wasn't some creep, but I wasn't buying it. I know from experience that only the worst kind of creeps have to go out of their way to prove that they aren't creeps.
"What?" I asked, annoyed.
"You dropped this," he said, holding up a ring of keys. My car keys.
"Oh, shit," I said, suddenly feeling like an ass. Cue the donkey haw.
He put my keys in my palm with one of those shit-eating grins, clearly amused by my embarrassment. Whatever.
"Thanks," I said, dropping my keys in my bag. "Sorry, I'm kind of a bitch this early in the morning."
He shielded his eyes and looked up at the sky.
"It's noon."
"Exactly," I said.
He, the creep, laughed. One of those deep, throaty laughs that sound genuine, but I wasn't really feeling up to laughing with some hotshot creep at the farmer's market. I had more important things to do. Like finding avocados.
"Want a smoothie? It'll wake you up."
Yep, the whole easy lay conversation that usually begins with some nice gesture.
"My body doesn't exactly react well to that kind of stuff so it's gonna have to be a hard pass."
"Your body reacts badly to smoothies?"
"Anything healthy in general. Except for avocados."
"You don't eat anything healthy except for avocados?"
No shit, wasn't that what I'd just said? But he had returned my car keys, something he hadn't had to do, so I decided to cut the guy some slack.
"Healthy things throw my whole immune system out of order. My body is used to working overtime to accommodate the cheeseburgers or whatever other shit I'm engorging myself with for the day. I don't want my body getting lazy. I've got to keep it working."
"You'd probably make a terrible boss."
"I'm a good boss, actually."
"Alright boss, so how do you get your day started then?"
"I get out of bed."
He laughed. Another genuine one, throwing me off a little.
"But what really wakes you up in the mornings? Anything in particular?"
"My alarm clock."
"You know what I mean. Don't make me have to explain what I'm really asking you."
"Alright, you got me. Coffee."
"Why didn't you just say that?"
"I don't feel comfortable talking about my addictions with strangers."
"You're making it really hard for me to ask you on a date."
Bingo. There it is.
"Is that what you're doing?"
"Obviously."
"Didn't seem so obvious to me."
"You're full of shit. Come on, I know a place."
"I don't remember agreeing to a date."
"You got anything better to do?"
"I'm looking for my avocado guy. Another addiction."
"Perfect. It's on the way."
I did kind of want a coffee, and he had returned my keys so I just shrugged.
"Try not to look too excited," he teased, motioning for me to follow him.
I bought twelve avocados from the avocado guy (shut up, don't judge me) and gifted one to the creep just for the hell of it. He seemed really pleased, acting like it was the best gift he'd ever received, cradling it carefully like it was a baby. This guy was weird, but in a frustratingly charming way. I tried not to make it too obvious that I was warming up to him, but I was pretty sure he'd caught on. He was smiling a lot more, like approval from this mean brown chick was boosting his confidence or something.
He seemed to know the farmer's market backwards and forwards because he led me through it like it was a maze, catching my wrist in one of his big hands at some point to keep from losing me in the crowd. I didn't shake him off, but I still couldn't tell you why. He stopped us in front of a food truck I'd never seen before.
"Hungry?" he asked, pulling out his wallet.
"Meals are strictly reserved for second dates," I said, humoring him.
"Alright, you're not wrong," he said grinning and walking up to the truck. "Two coffees."
"I can pay," I said, catching him by the sleeve. "To repay you for returning my keys."
"First of all, you already got me a great avocado. And secondly, these are first date rules 101. I'm buying."
"Are we living in the stone ages? I can pay."
"First argument already," he said, laughing. "You move this fast in all your other relationships?"
I rolled my eyes and shoved him out of the way, sliding my credit card across the counter. He tried to act like he was really offended, but the corners of his mouth were twitching, suppressing a smile. The sun was shining down on him, making him look like an absolute dream beneath the cloudless blue sky. He really was attractive and something told me that he probably knew it.
Two coffee cups and a picnic table later we were introducing ourselves. The avocado sat next to his hand. He was lovingly stroking it. Weirdo.
"Gary."
I snorted into my coffee.
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding," he said, laughing and passing me a napkin.
"Not that Gary's bad," he added. "I have a second cousin once removed named Gary. Or is he a first cousin twice removed? Shit, I can't really keep up at the family reunions. Nice guy, though."
Family reunions. I'd forgotten that regular people had to pencil those into their schedules every once in a while. If you haven't guessed already from my brief mention of being a foster kid, I have no family. Not even extended family.
"So what's your name then?" I asked. "Can't be any worse than Gary."
"It's not," he said. "My name's Chauncey. Great name, right?"
"Oh my god," I said, laughing even though I'd been trying really hard not to. "Really?"
"Nah."
"I don't go on second dates with strangers, you know."
He leaned in across the picnic table, his face inches from mine. His dark brown eyes flashed mischievously.
"Ever kissed a stranger before?"
"No," I said, inching back.
"Let's get that checked off your bucket list. Kiss me and I'll tell you my name, I promise."
"No."
"Your mouth says no but your eyes say yes."
"You don't know a damned thing about my eyes."
"I know that they're beautiful."
I had to cover my nose with my hand to stifle a snort.
"You're really cringey," I said.
He reached out and curled a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me so close to his face that I could feel his breath warm on my lips. My mouth hung open in shock. I recovered quickly.
"Ever heard of personal space?"
"I don't see you pulling away."
Screw it.
"Jesus, just kiss me and get it over with already."
And that was our first kiss. Under the blazing hot sun at the buzzing farmer's market, teeth knocking for one awkward moment, smiling against each other's mouths, and then we forgot where we were. His fingers slipped into my hair, his hand warm and soft, making me lose myself until my hands left the coffee on the table and ended up in his black hair, thicker than I was expecting, finding a grip and pulling him even closer, tasting that first date coffee on his lips. He kissed me like I was air in his lungs, like he needed my lips to breathe, inhaling, groaning, running his tongue along mine the second my mouth opened.
"Oh shit," I gasped, pulling back. I'd only intended for it to be a short little kiss to make him lose interest. I'd always been a terrible kisser.
Until now. My mouth had moved so naturally with his that I could probably pass for an expert.
"Joon," he said, leaning back and running a hand through his hair to fix it.
"What?"
"My name. It's Joon. Don't ask what it's short for because it actually is kind of terrible."
I was still trying to catch my breath. I had a hand on my chest and his eyes travelled there, pausing maybe a second too long on my low-cut shirt. Being eyed by a guy like that usually disgusted me, but for some reason I was feeling flattered. God, what the fuck was wrong with me?
"That was actually my first time kissing a stranger too," he said. "Tell me your name."
"Celine."
He started humming "My Heart Will Go On".
"You're not funny."
"Far across the distance, and spaces between us. You have come to show you go on."
"I can't believe you know the lyrics to that song. I'm embarrassed for you."
"Lighten up, Dion. It's one of your greatest hits," he said, grinning. "I'm a huge fan. Will you autograph my shirt?"
"No."
"Okay, how about your number? You don't even have to autograph it. Just put it in my phone," he said, unlocking his phone and passing it to me before I could get the chance to refuse.
"I don't remember agreeing to a second date," I muttered, putting my number in his phone. I don't know why I did it. Maybe because he seemed like he'd be a fun person to send drunken 2 AM texts to. At least that was what I was telling myself. That kiss was still fresh in my mind.
"I don't remember asking for one."
I glanced up.
"Relax, I'm kidding. How's Wednesday night for you?"
"What, this week?"
"Yeah, why not?"
"Isn't that moving a little fast?"
I really hadn't intended for it to come this far. I'd just been playing around.
"We've already had our first argument. Fast is our speed, Celie."
"Ugh, don't call me that."
"Cute nickname for a cute girl. I don't see the problem."
Cute. This guy was out of this goddamn mind. I hadn't been called cute since I was a kid. I'm not being modest when I say this, but I'm not cute...I'm not anything. I'm just brown: brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, brown everything. I swear if you peeled back my skull you'd probably find brown there too. Not that brown's bad, but being brown, this brown, being brown and nothing but brown, makes me unbearably plain. And even though I have a Hispanic last name, I have none of the good attributes that come with being one. I don't have a huge ass or the confidence that comes with it. Plus, I can't even speak Spanish. It makes most Mexican ladies at the farmer's market drop their mouths in horror. Why didn't your parents teach you, mija? First of all, my parents are dead, and second of all, I don't even know you lady so fuck off.
"You're really overbearing," I said to Joon. "And pushy."
"I might've heard that once or twice in my life," he said innocently.
"Once or twice. Sure."
"Maybe a few more times than that."
You might've guessed that we were a couple of teenagers from the way we were acting, but neither of us were. He looked about my age, mid-twenties to early-thirties at most. His smile caused crinkles to form in the corners of his eyes, crows feet that really suited him in a way that suggested that he was going to age gracefully like a movie star. Some people have all the luck. It was beginning to feel weirder and weirder hanging out with a guy like him.
"I have to go," I said, getting up.
He got up too, picking up on the panicked chihuahua look in my eyes right away.
"Hey, it's okay," he said gently. "It doesn't have to be Wednesday."
"It's not that," I said, giving him a half-hearted smile. "I'm just...well, my life's a little fucked up right now."
"Mine too," he said. "We can be fucked up together."
"You really are pushy."
"So I've been told."
This guy was the very definition of persistence. I thought about the grueling workdays I had to look forward to this week at my soul-sucking job and considered that it might be nice to hang out with someone who could make me laugh. I didn't take a lot of chances in life, and I didn't really have a lot of friends either. Moving from school to school at a young age and never going to college made it really hard for me to make friends. My only friends are from work, which is pretty pathetic if you really think about it. Hanging out with this guy was starting to sound like a good idea. I was probably going to regret it later, but what the hell.
"Wednesday night. Eight o'clock. Saddleback Ranch at the Block. Don't be late."
"Saddleback Ranch?" He laughed. "You better ride the mechanical bull if you're making me go there."
My face reddened.
"It's dead on weeknights. I thought we could go somewhere dark and quiet to relax. Jeez."
"My apartment is pretty dark and quiet."
"You're pushing your luck."
"Worth a try."
"I'm gonna go now," I said, turning to leave.
For the second time that day he grabbed my bag.
"Let's end this date properly," he said, pressing his lips to mine. It was exactly like before; almost immediately I was melting into him, giving in and tasting him because god he really did taste good. My fingers closed around his shirt, brushing against his taut abs. His hands found my waist, pulling me flush against his body, trapping my hands between us. I found myself rising up on my toes to get closer because he was taller than I'd realized. He leaned down for me, easing the burden, taking my face in his hands, kissing me until I felt completely breathless.
Fuck. This was not good.
I pulled back, looking mortified.
"That bad, huh?" he said. "And all this time I thought I was a pretty decent kisser."
"You're ridiculous," I said, trying to slow my heart.
"Do I scare you?"
"A little."
"Is it my smile? Too creepy?"
"Way too creepy.”
"I'll try to smile less on Wednesday."
"No," I said, not believing what I was saying. "I like creepy."
"I can be creepy."
"You are creepy," I said, pushing him away. I took a step back, putting some distance between us. I wasn't the kind of person that lost control. I always had my shit together.
"Glad we've established that. I'll be whatever you want. Just say the word."
I sucked back a ragged sigh. I really needed to get the hell out of there.
"I'll see you Wednesday, Joon."
"Bye, Dion. Sign my shirt next time."
—
My soul-sucking job that I mentioned was hell in employment form. I would have quit years ago, but it turned out that I was really good at my job...too good. The advancement opportunities had been especially tempting since the company only hired from within. I'd started as a customer service agent at the call center of one of the largest insurance companies in the country, right at headquarters with the call center on the third floor and the CEO putting his feet up on the sixth. I'd wanted to climb up those steps, to sink my toes into that water until I wasn't drowning anymore, until I was swimming with the current rather than against it.
I worked hard. I got where I wanted to be...or as far as I could without a college degree at least. By twenty-five, I'd been a supervisor for a few years and then I was shaking hands with the board, accepting the job as site manager for the entire call center. No one knew the product line manuals as well as I did; I could practically repeat word-for-word every auto, home, umbrella, and watercraft policy amendment. I was a walking, talking textbook.
They call me the Dragon Lady at work, and not even behind my back. If you haven't picked up on it already, I'm pretty no-nonsense to the point where I'm even considered cold. I run my department with an iron fist, pushing two hundred and seventy-five agents to meet and exceed every quality service audit, customer review, and services referral quota. I sent all my supervisors to management courses, and personally interviewed every new batch of agents in the new hire process. I doubled referral incentives and numbers tripled. People really worked harder when you gave them the opportunity to earn more money.
Within three years I'd boosted efficiency and sales to such record highs that my site practically carried all of the western states. I earned vacation trips that I never took, bonuses that I never spent, and awards that I never displayed. Managers from across the country came to shadow and observe every anal perfect thing I did. A fucking nightmare. I was the only one allowed to breathe down people's necks. Dragon Lady, remember?
You'd think my job would be all about numbers, team meetings, quotas, and authorizing policy changes outside of supervisor authority, but really call center managers spend a lot of time dealing with stupid customers who don't believe complaining to an agent or their supervisor is enough. Then I was giving discounts, lowering premiums, forgiving drivers record points, and pretty much everything but sucking dick to retain all the good clients; like the ones that had a brand new Audi Q5, a vintage Ashton Martin and a sixteen year old daughter driving a Mercedes Benz all on the same policy. That's a good six thousand a year in insurance premium. Great for my bonus, terrible for my sanity.
If you live in Orange County, California long enough, I guarantee you'll know the posh places just by the cars on the streets alone. I was successful enough to be able to afford to live in one of those places now, but sometimes I wondered if being yelled at by rich people was really worth it. It especially sucked the soul out of me to take shit from people who weren't even richer than me.
But I won't quit. It's been three years since I'd accepted the position now, and the only thing that keeps me going is the fact that I got out of the system and I'd made it. I knew I was the exception, not the rule. People with backgrounds like mine weren't supposed to make it. Foster kids like me get cast out at eighteen to fend for ourselves, thrown into the world that had never wanted us in the first place. Everything had been against me from the start. The satisfaction was what really kept me here, almost like I was rubbing it into society's nose even though nobody cared.
Someday I want to be a member of the board, but maybe that's too ambitious. I'd need to have at least a bachelor's degree to climb even one step up those floors at headquarters. I'd considered going to college at least a hundred times because I'd spent so much of my life crawling out of this hole that life had put me in, clawing and scratching with my bare hands, taking every foothold that I could find, but there was no way that I could fit in school with my schedule. Most days I was lucky if I could manage getting off without at least twelve to fifteen hours logged.
Soul-fucking-sucking.
But I had a lot to prove to myself. So here I am, crawling out of one hole and digging myself into another.
—
I was on my fourth sea cream black iced coffee of the day, buried ass-deep in work when I realized that it was already 7:15 PM. It was Wednesday, the night of my 'date'.
"Shit," I hissed under my breath.
The 'Floor' is the term call centers use for where all the magic happens. Here you'll find all the cubicles with my agents, all my supervisors, and all the calls ringing one after the other to service the next policy holder. I did my final Floor walk of the day, checked in with the six evening-shift supervisors, told the senior supervisor that she was to absolutely, under no fucking circumstances call me for just this one night, gave a few encouraging words to some of the struggling agents for morale or whatever, and then I was practically running for the elevators. A real bitch in heels, let me tell you.
"Celine, Celine," said a nasally voice just as I stepped out of the main doors of the Floor.
Fuck me. I couldn't catch a break.
"Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
Trying to get as far away from you as possible.
"I have a date."
Yeah, take that, David from Underwriting. If you really need a dictionary example for a true freak then David's your guy. As if having to pick up the phone and call him at least ten times a day to expedite reinstatements, high liability increases and new home policy inspections wasn't enough, the little freak picked up the phone almost as many times to ask me about my day and see if I wanted to 'hang out'.
"Aw, have fun," he said in a tone that didn't sound like he meant it.
"Bye, David."
One of the advantages of being a boss was having a parking space right in front of the building. The authority was liberating and the money was astounding, but the parking space was the icing on the cake. I could still remember the fifteen minute walk to the parking lot across the street from my days as a lowly customer service agent. I guess that had been the bigger bitch in heels.
I flung open my car door like a madwoman, cursing myself for losing track of time. I didn't have enough time to change into the casual clothes I'd brought...an outfit that didn't scream too 'fuck me' but not boring enough to accentuate my plainness. Walking into Saddleback Ranch in a business suit was about the worst thing I could imagine, but it seemed too rude to cancel now. For all I knew he was already there.
If you know anything about Southern California freeways then you know that just after 7 PM at the 55 N and I-5 N junction, traffic clears up like a dream. I had a green fuel-efficient decal on my car that let me drive single-occupant in the carpool lane so I gunned it, driving just a little over the speed limit, but not too much because I'd been working in personal lines insurance long enough to know just how much a speeding ticket could fuck you over.
I somehow made it from Newport Beach to Orange in thirty-five minutes. Fuck if I'll ever know how I did it, but it seemed like somehow the stars were aligning for this date. I didn't really know how to feel about that. The high of those kisses had worn off fast. Why the hell would a guy like that even want to go on a date with someone like me? I'm not saying this because I lack confidence; I'm saying it because I doubt the two of us had anything in common. I felt like he was mostly just pulling my leg and enjoyed my company because I'd been able to make him laugh. I was okay with that. I enjoyed his company too.
My luck ran out at the outdoor outlet mall. Parking was an absolute nightmare. I kept driving around and around until I could swear that I was starting to get dizzy. My head ached from a sudden coffee crash, and looking at my watch to see that it was only five minutes to eight didn't help. I didn't find a spot until I was already ten minutes late. It wasn't even a great spot, at least halfway across the parking lot to the nearest building. I made the call to switch into my gym shoes, and what did I do? I fucking ran. In a business suit and Nikes. I was anal enough about punctuality that I couldn't stand running even a second later than I already was. God help me.
I was bent over clutching a stitch in my side in front of Saddleback Ranch when I heard a choked laugh.
"Looks like you're running as late as I am."
I looked up and saw Joon, breathing heavily to catch his breath, wearing hospital scrubs with an M.D. title after his name on a security badge. That really threw me off.
"What the fuck?"
"What?"
"You're a doctor."
He reached up a hand to scratch the back of his head nervously.
"Let's not talk about it," he said with a grimace.
"Kind of hard not to."
"You're in a business suit."
"Let's not talk about it."
"Kind of hard not to," he said with a smirk.
"Okay, Dr. Namjoon Kim." I said squinting at his badge.
"Shut up. You hungry or not, Gutierrez?" he asked, reading off the security badge still clipped to my blazer. I pulled it off and shoved it in my pocket.
He seemed to like my idea. He unclipped his badge and stuck it in his own pocket.
"We look so weird," I said, looking down at my clothes. Joon walked over and touched my blazer, fixing the lapel that had become crooked after I'd snatched my badge off.
"Still haven't picked up on that personal space thing, I see."
"I still don't see you pulling away."
"I'm leaving."
He laughed.
"Let's go inside. I haven't eaten in fifteen hours. I'm starving."
Outside of a bagel that I'd stuffed in my mouth on the way to work in the morning, I hadn't really had anything to eat either. Just coffee. Too much coffee. Food sounded heavenly right now.
We asked to be seated in the absolute darkest corner of the restaurant. It left a lot of options since Saddleback Ranch pretty much just turns into more of a dark bar at night anyways. The hostess eyed Joon hungrily, her eyes traveling to places that made me feel uncomfortable. It was kind of disgusting. I didn't know Joon, but I knew that he didn't deserve that.
Or maybe I was just being dramatic. I didn't need to get offended on his behalf. He was probably used to it anyways.
"You know, I thought it must've been fate when you said you wanted to meet at the Block," Joon said, sliding a menu in front of him once we'd been seated.
"I live close by," I said.
"And I work close by."
"Where? UCI Medical Center across the street?"
"I thought we agreed not to talk about it."
"So you're what, embarrassed that you're a doctor?"
He smiled that Hollywood smile. I tried not to let it affect me.
"It kind of makes me look like a nerd."
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"It's a touchy subject for me," he said, laughing. "Why don't you tell me what you do for a living? I really want to know what kind of job requires a business suit paired with running shoes."
"I put on the shoes to run here from the parking lot. I really hate being late."
"No shit," he said. "I ran here too."
"We're twins," I said without thinking.
"No, no, no," he said immediately. "I really don't want to imagine you as my sister, Dion. It ruins all the fantasies I've been having of you."
"Stop calling me that," I said. "And what the hell kind of fantasies have you been having? Pervert."
"The kind of fantasies that ruin second dates. I don't want you throwing a glass of water in my face and storming off."
"I'm considering it."
"Tell me where you work," he said. "I'm genuinely intrigued now. I wouldn't have taken you for a business suit kind of girl."
"First of all, I'm a woman, not a girl. And secondly, it's none of your business."
"The whole point of a date is to get to know each other."
"I thought we agreed not to talk about it."
"I'm curious."
"Tell me where you work then."
"CHOC. Now pay up. Where do you work?"
The Children's Hospital of Orange County? It was hard to imagine that this avocado-cradling weirdo actually treated sick children for a living. But maybe avocado-cradlers are just the kind of people best suited for a children's hospital. It kind of changed my whole perception of him, but I wasn't going to admit that to his face.
I told him the name of the insurance company I worked at.
"I have my car insurance with them," he said. "Small world."
"Not that small considering that we have 8 million policy holders in Southern California alone."
"You look really corporate."
"How perceptive of you. I work at headquarters."
"What do you do there?"
"I'm the call center site manager. I run Southern California, servicing policies everywhere beneath Bakersfield and above the border."
He let out a low whistle.
"Oh, stop it," I said, waving him off. "You're a doctor, for fuck's sake."
"Still pretty impressive for a young woman. How old are you? You still look like a teenager."
I scowled.
"Thanks for that. I'm twenty-eight. Not exactly a prepubescent teen."
"Most people take it as a compliment when they're told that they look younger than they are."
"I'm not most people."
"That's why I asked you out."
So he did come here just to pull my leg. Good. I could pull his back.
"How old are you? If you look younger than you actually are then you're probably an old pervert for asking out a woman that you mistook for a teenager."
"Thirty-one. Close to thirty-two, though."
"God, you pedophile."
He laughed.
"I didn't actually mistake you for a teenager. I just thought you looked young."
"You're a predator."
"And yet you agreed to go out with me."
"I'm starting to wonder why I did."
"Because I let you be mean to me."
"I'm mean to everyone."
"You know, I can read most people, but I can't read you at all," he said with another one of those annoyingly charming smiles.
"I'm not a book."
"How do I get you to lighten up?"
"Buy me a drink," I said, smiling despite myself. I don't know why, but I was actually kind of enjoying this. Most people were too scared of me to hold a conversation this long. He was giving as good as he got.
"Deal. You really do have to lighten up though."
"Better be a strong drink."
Jesus fucking Christ. His smile was ridiculously gorgeous. It was a goofy sort of smile, the kind that you usually reserved for children. I felt like I was one of his patients and his smile was a lollipop. Or a sticker. I don't know if they still hand out lollipops.
The waitress was a tiny thing, blonde and with a pixie face and haircut. She looked like Tinkerbell. She didn't act like the horndog hostess. I guess people who expect tips know better than to check out somebody else's date.
"Order a strong drink," Joon said. "Really strong."
"I'll have the l Mai Tai. Make it extra special. I want Bacardi."
Joon grinned.
"Same for me. I want to know what that tastes like."
"Coming right up," the waitress said, walking away.
"That's a chick drink," I pointed out.
"Didn't take you for being sexist."
"I'm not allowed to make a joke?"
"I can't believe you're making a joke at all," he said with a laugh. "You're always so serious that I didn't even catch it."
"I'm just trying to lighten up."
"So is it a defense mechanism?" he asked.
"What are you talking about?"
"This. Being mean all the time."
"Don't you try and psychoanalyze me."
"I'm not a psychiatrist. I'm just trying to figure out what made you the way you are. Not that there's anything wrong with your attitude. I just want to know why."
"I don't really have an answer for that. I've just always been this way."
"What was your childhood like?"
"You want my full family history too? Cancer in the family? Diabetes?"
He laughed.
"You're a smartass."
"I might have heard that once or twice in my life," I said, remembering our conversation from the other day.
"Once or twice. Sure."
"Maybe a few more times than that."
He held my gaze, a soft twinkling haze glowing in his dark eyes from the lights hung on the ceiling. The expression on his face was one of amusement, but I had a feeling that he wasn't amused by me per say, just by our conversation. It was off-setting.
He didn't miss it.
"Are you still creeped out by me?" he asked.
"No."
"Then tell me about your past. I'm a doctor. You can trust me."
"You're not my doctor."
"We can pretend."
"You're not going to let this go, are you?"
"Nope," he said, grinning.
"You're annoying."
"That's a new one."
"I'm sure you've heard it before."
"Once or twice."
And then I was laughing too. It wasn't that there weren't witty people out there, but I met very few that had the patience to take me on. I had a few friends that tried, but they struggled to keep up. Joon wasn't struggling. He was fighting like hell.
"Alright, I think you've earned an answer," I said. "I'm like this because I'm closed off."
"You're protecting yourself," he said. "From what?"
"I don't trust people."
"You're trusting me."
"Only because you're forcing me to."
"Keep talking. Tell me about your childhood."
I sighed.
"I mean, I just have to say three words and it'll all make sense."
"Don't tell me you love me already," he said with a smug smile. "Although I am pretty lovable so I can't blame you."
"So full of yourself," I muttered. "Foster care system. Those are the three words."
That knocked the smile right off his mouth.
"That does explain a lot. You grew up fighting the world," he said. "You still are."
His eyes had softened.
This was starting to get too heavy for me. I couldn't even recall the last time I'd told someone I'd grown up in the system. I couldn't remember the last time I'd told someone anything even remotely personal at all, for that matter.
I really needed that drink.
"Tell me about you," I said, changing the subject. "Are you a pediatrician?"
"No."
"That's it? No explanation?"
"I don't really like to talk about it."
"Why not?"
"It changes how people look at me."
"Don't tell me you're a foot doctor or something."
He laughed.
"No, podiatry's not really my thing."
"I thought the whole point of a date was getting to know each other," I said, using his own words against him. "Now spill."
"I'm licensed to practice medicine, but I haven't completed my residency. I still have a fellowship following residency before I'll be ready to sit the specialty boards."
"I didn't understand half the things you just said."
He laughed.
"Sorry, it's easy to forget. I'm usually only around medical professionals."
"You gonna explain any of that to me?"
"Sure, if you're interested."
"Obviously, or I wouldn't ask."
"Which part is it that confuses you?"
"All of it. Hit me with the basics, doc. How does one become a doctor?"
"Okay, let me try to simplify it," he said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "The M.D. title on my badge stands for Medical Doctor. I earned that title after completing medical school and acquiring my medical degree. A medical degree doesn't really mean shit, though. You can't practice medicine with a piece of paper. After you get your medical degree you have to complete a one-year internship before you're eligible to sit the board exam to get your medical license."
"So that's it? Medical school, a year of internship and then boom, you're a doctor?"
"Yes and no. A medical license is practically worthless without the residency that comes after."
"You said you're completing your residency. So this is the step you're in now?"
"Yes. Completing a residency program is how you can call yourself a member of a specific profession within medicine. You wouldn't be able to call yourself a pediatrician, podiatrist, gynecologist, psychiatrist-any specialty-without completing a residency program. Some specialties will require a fellowship after residency. Once you're done with all of that you can sit the specialty board exams to get board certified. Then you can finally call yourself a qualified doctor."
"Joon," I said. "I just realized something."
"What?"
"You've been beating around the bush this whole fucking time. You still haven't told me what your damn specialty is. Don't think I didn't catch that."
He ran a hand down his face and groaned.
"You're not going to let this go, are you?"
"It's my turn to be pushy."
"My clinical interest is in pediatric surgery."
What the hell?
"So I've been sitting across the table from a surgeon this whole time."
All he did was shrug. Jesus, it was almost like he hated his profession.
"Why don't you like telling people? Sounds pretty impressive to me."
"That's the point," he said. "I'm not just my profession."
"I thought surgeons were supposed to be really full of themselves."
"Most of them are. I'm not."
"Why not?"
"I don't tell people I'm a surgeon because then I just get written off as a surgeon and nothing else. People don't care who I am, just what I am. I hate it."
Okay, that made me feel pretty bad. I probably shouldn't have bullied it out of him, but whatever.
"I get that. I wrote you off as some creepy hot guy at first. Must be worse to just be written off as just your profession. People probably don't take the time to get to know who you are as a person."
"You think I'm hot?"
I kicked him under the table and he winced. Why did I ever let myself believe that this guy wasn't full of himself?
"Alright, I deserved that," he said. "I appreciate what you said. It's true. My hectic schedule doesn't really give me the opportunity to make many friends, and even when I do make any outside of the hospital I just always end up being treated like I'm better than I am."
"What's your schedule like?"
"Another thing I don't like to talk about."
"Why not?"
"It's pretty bad."
That actually made me laugh.
"It's your turn to lighten up. I don't care that you're a surgeon. I just want to know about your crazy life."
It was the truth. In some weird way I was starting to feel like our lives were similar. People always wrote me off too. I was pretty sick of everyone at work kissing my ass just because I was their boss.
"I've never had anyone tell me that they don't care that I'm a surgeon," he said. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
"That's pretty pathetic."
"I know," he said. "I'll tell you about my schedule if you promise to see me again."
"Are you trying to lock me down in case it scares me off?"
"Yes."
So he wasn't just pulling my leg. This guy actually liked me. What the hell?
"Must be pretty bad then," I said.
He sighed.
"You have no idea."
"Tell me about your hectic schedule. I'll see you again."
He looked so happy, like a third date was even better than an avocado. I tried not to let it affect me. I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he wanted to keep seeing me. Not that I was bad, but jeez, what the hell would he want from me anyways?
"The on-call rotation has me scheduled thirty hour on-call shifts every three to four days. I work regular workdays in between, but they're not much better because most days I usually work up to sixteen hours. I get twenty four hours off after on-call duties, but I wouldn't really call it a day off. I spend most of it sleeping or running errands."
"Thirty hour shifts?" I asked, feeling my heart still.
"Thirty hours straight."
"Is that even legal?"
"It is in residency programs. It's tradition, actually."
"Do you get time to sleep at least?"
"Not really."
"That's fucking crazy."
"I don't really mind."
"How can you not mind?"
"It's a necessary evil. I round on my patients morning, afternoon, and evening. I know everything about them. This is how I learn to assess and treat their needs quickly. Helps me learn to think on my feet. That doesn't mean that it doesn't kill me sometimes and make me wonder why the fuck I chose this profession."
"So you're okay with it because it's helping you become a better doctor?"
"Yeah."
"You sound really dedicated."
"I have to be," he said. "All of my patients are children."
My heart was swelling. It wasn't often that people earned my respect. This guy was sacrificing his sleep and his sanity to save small lives. I didn't know a single person like that. I especially wasn't like that. Everything I'd ever accomplished had been done for self-satisfaction.
Ugh. What the fuck. I didn't know what to make of this guy.
"How did you even have the time to see me tonight?" I asked, trying to keep my tone even. I was having some kind of weird-ass existential crisis or something.
"I made the time."
"You made the time to see the mean avocado lady from the farmer's market?"
"I really like that mean avocado lady from the farmer's market, so yeah, I made the time."
These were warm feelings. They swept over me, over my skin, over everything, making me feel like everything was moving in slow-motion. What the hell was happening? I hadn't prepared for this. This whole thing was supposed to be in harmless fun. Now there was this whole other third date.
At that moment my phone went off, jumping me out of my thoughts.
"Oh, shit," I said, pulling it out of my blazer pocket.
Fucking Lisa.
"Take it here if you want," Joon said. "I don't mind."
"I'm sorry. I only need a minute," I said, pressing the answer button.
"You're interrupting my dinner."
"I'm so sorry, Celine. Portal just crashed. We can't take any payments."
I sighed.
"What do we pay you for, Lisa? You should know this. Transfer to Roadside, Sales and Retention. They run on different billing systems."
"Okay. I really don't know when Portal will be back up though."
"I didn't ask you if you knew. Hang up your call with IT on the other line. I know they have you on hold. Send a supervisor down there to handle this personally."
"Okay, and what do you want me to do about Jessica? She's still goofing off between calls and distracting everybody. I've already told her to knock it off like three times tonight."
"Write her up for insubordination and send her home."
"Okay, and-"
"Stop saying 'okay'. I really don't have the time for this right now. I told you not to call me tonight. You know what to do. You're a senior supervisor for a reason. Handle this. I'm hanging up now."
"Celine, I-"
"There better be a fire if you call me back tonight."
I hung up and put my phone back in my pocket. I tried not to look too annoyed. I can't leave one evening before closing without being needed. It wasn't like Lisa didn't know all this. She's been with the company for almost as many years as I've been alive. She just lacked the confidence in her leadership and decision making. So much hand-holding. Fucking hell.
"You really are mean to everyone."
I looked up.
Joon was grinning his ears off.
"Liked that, did you?"
"It was kind of hot."
I couldn't even suppress my smile. What the hell was up with this guy? He liked the things about me that everyone else hated.
"They call me the Dragon Lady behind my back."
"You sound so proud."
I snorted.
"No one likes me."
"I like you," Joon said.
The waitress appeared with our drinks before I could think up a response. It was a good thing because I didn't know how to answer that anyways. I just did my best to compose myself enough to order my dinner. Joon had his eyes on me the whole time, briefly glancing at the waitress when she was talking to him. He wasn't rude, but shit, I didn't know what he was. Or what he was doing.
That waitress was getting a big tip. The drink was strong.
"This tastes like pure alcohol," Joon said, taking a sip of his own.
"I don't see how that's a problem."
"It's not," he said, grinning. "Just one more drink like this and I'll be drunk. You could probably take advantage of me."
"Lightweight. And I wouldn't take advantage of you. I'm not a predator."
"It's not an offense if I want it."
I rolled my eyes.
"You're sick."
"No. I just treat the sick."
"You think you're so cool just because you're a doctor."
"I think I've worked hard enough to be considered cool."
"You're just a nerd," I said, remembering what he had said earlier.
"You knew I was touchy about that. I should've never told you."
"I mean, you wore your scrubs here. You're obviously trying to show off."
He laughed.
"I had a last-minute admission. I didn't have time to go change without being later than I already was so I just sucked it up and prepared myself for all the questions."
"I already told you I don't care."
"That's probably why I'm gonna marry you."
"You really don't get out enough," I said, amused.
"I get out enough to meet cute girls at the farmer's market."
I didn't bother correcting him about calling me a girl. It had to do a lot with my childhood, about how I couldn't wait to grow up so I could get out of the system. I'd always hated being called a girl. I'd already overcome that. It brought back painful memories. But Joon's comments were all innocent. It didn't hurt when he said it so I let it go.
"How did you even manage to find the time to go?"
"To the farmer's market? It was a regular workday. I had a few hours."
"What were you doing there in the first place?"
"Residents get pretty sick of hospital food. It was my turn to pick up the goods."
"Do you all just live there?"
I wasn't being serious, but his answer was enough to make my jaw drop.
"Practically. We're provided with sleeping rooms, a reading room, a lounge and food within the hospital facilities. It doesn't really make sense to leave when sometimes you barely get eight hours between shifts."
"I do have an apartment though," he added, catching the expression of shock on my face. "I go home more often than the others. My place is only twenty minutes away."
"Your life," I said, finding my voice, "Sounds crazy."
"That's why I don't like talking about it. What's your workweek like?"
"Crazy in its own way. I usually work Monday through Saturday since Sundays aren't that busy, but sometimes I'll go in on those days too. I usually start the day with the early bird shift at eight, and then I'm lucky if I can get off before closing at ten. Some days I'm there even long after that. I work at least a hundred hours a week. I spend the few hours I have off sleeping or running errands just like you so I really understood what you meant about not actually having any time off."
"I never thought anyone outside of the medical field could have a life so similar to mine."
"You have the lives of small children in your hands. Managing a call center isn't anywhere near as demanding or stressful as that."
"It doesn't negate what you go through," he said. "Your reality is your own. In it you are overworked and stressed. Pain is subjective."
I flinched. I'd never told him I was in pain.
I'd never told him I was drowning.
"We shouldn't talk about our jobs," I said in a strained voice. "It's-It's too much."
Joon stood up and for a moment I thought he was going to leave. It made sense; we'd be lucky if we'd be able to manage the time to see each other. Both of us lived in our own constant bubbles of stress that threatened to pop and flood us any second. This would be doubling it, doubling the pain.
"Scoot over."
"Wha-"
"You heard me."
He didn't wait for me to register his words, just slid in next to me, wrapped an arm around my waist to lift me and settled me deeper in the booth. Before I could say anything, before I could even figure out what was happening, his lips were on mine, warm, tender, and slow. He kissed me, lending me something from himself, something that I couldn't quite describe-something like support, something like courage, something like comfort.
He was slowly filling my emptiness, filling my loneliness, filling everything until for the first time in my life, I felt my head rise above water.
He wasn't letting me drown.
It was almost agonizing when he drew back. I felt my breath leave my body, as if he'd taken it with him. I felt a rush of unfamiliar emotions, the kind of emotions you don't get to feel when you grow up isolated and unwanted. I thought about all the times I'd been pushed around, all the times I'd been yelled at and told I was worthlessand I remember how I overcame all that by hardening, withdrawing, becoming cold and ruthless and miserable, so miserable.
"Do it again," I whispered, feeling my eyes water.
He was watching me too closely, his gaze soft, like he was finally figuring out how to read me. He was quiet, subdued, almost like he understood, like he'd seen that I was struggling, hiding my pain...drowning. But I didn't find pity in his eyes. Only kindness.
Everything wonderful and terrible drained from my body when he kissed me this time, numbing my mind, dissolving the venom on my tongue, taking away the toxicity, filling me with yearning, with longing, with hope. I opened my mouth for him and he wasted no time, sliding his tongue along mine, tasting the alcohol, tasting the burn. There was no composure, no holding back, no control. I gave into him, surrendering.
He wasn't shy. He wasn't even the type to ask permission. He undid the two buttons of my blazer and slipped his warm hands inside, rubbing my sheer blouse over my skin, running along my hips, traveling to my back, rubbing soft, soothing circles, easing all my aches. I leaned into his touch, arching my back, whimpering because it felt good, so good.
The sounds of plates sliding against wood interrupted us. Joon didn't even turn his head, his eyes fixated on me as I gave the waitress a sheepish smile. I wasn't embarrassed for myself, I was embarrassed for her. I don't even know what kind of courage it took her to put those plates on our table. I knew we had to have made things very awkward for her.
Yeah, big tip. Definitely a big tip.
"Is there anything else I can get for you guys? Another round? Soft drinks? Water?"
"Water," I said. "Water is fine."
I didn't even know how I was going to eat my dinner. I'd been starving when I got here, but now I could barely feel anything but Joon, his hands on my back, his warmth still tingling on my lips.
"You're rude," I told him in mild amusement.
"So I'll leave her a big tip," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'm too busy right now."
"Are you?"
"Yeah."
"What are you busy with?"
"Looking at you."
God, I actually blushed. When was the last time that had happened?
"You haven't eaten in fifteen hours," I pointed out. "You must be starving."
"I am, but I don't really want food right now."
"Stop it, Joon," I laughed.
He grinned, his eyes lightening.
"We can continue this after dinner." I suspected it was the only way I was going to be able to get him to eat.
"Your place or mine?"
"Don't push your luck."
"Worth a try."
I rolled my eyes and reached for my plate. Yep, the hunger was back in full force now. The food looked so fucking good.
"Hold on, don't eat that yet," Joon said, pulling my plate towards him. He gave no explanation whatsoever, just began cutting up my steak into small, bite-sized pieces. His hands were impossibly steady, his movements sure, each cut of the knife confident, like he'd already decided exactly how he was going to do this. I could almost see what this guy would look like with a scalpel in his hand. Beyond all the shit he'd probably had to do to become a doctor, he was also expected to master a skill. He made it look easy, but I knew it took a really special kind of person to be able to do what he does. Surgeons definitely earned the right to be full of themselvesand that's what was really throwing me off; he was clearly gifted but he acted like he had no right at all.
"What are you doing?" I finally asked. I knew my eyes were probably glazed over from watching him work magic with a basic steak knife.
"It helps with digestion."
"What does?"
"Smaller bites."
"I couldn't have done it myself?"
"I don't trust you. The day we met you told me that you engorged yourself with food. I don't want you getting a stomach ache."
"How the hell do you even remember that?"
"Do I really need to answer that question?"
"You're a psycho. No one should be allowed to have that good of a memory."
"Doctors should."
"When did you know you wanted to become one?" I asked, feeling curious. Something had shifted in me, something that was pushing me in his direction, telling me to do this, telling me to go for it, to give in.
"When did you know you wanted to work in insurance?"
"I don't see how that's related."
"I have a theory. Answer the question."
"I don't know. It's just where my life led me. I didn't even know I'd be good at it."
"Knew it. Me too."
"I don't believe that."
"No, I'm serious. I was homeschooled up until I graduated at fifteen. I didn't really know what to do with my life so I took a year off to fuck around. I ended up taking some random quiz on the internet to find my ideal career as a joke one day and it told me I'd make a good doctor. I thought about it for a while and then I majored in pre-med the following fall. I realized later that I had the steady hands to make a good surgeon too. It's just where my life led me, exactly like you."
I laughed.
"A quiz from the internet? That's why you became a doctor?"
"Yup."
"You're joking."
"I'm really not. That's how I've always been. I just do whatever feels right."
"Why pediatric surgery though?"
"I feel like I'm making more of a difference. And I like kids."
The waitress brought us our waters and this time Joon thanked her and shot her such a dazzling smile that she walked away blushing. I almost wanted to roll my eyes. He definitely knew he was attractive.
"I'm surprised you're not already married," I said, forking one of my pieces of steak. The fact that it was a perfect square was so bizarre.
"Why do you say that?"
"You're a surgeon. You like kids. You're good-looking. I'm not going to keep going because you already know what I'm talking about."
"I just didn't have the time to date. That's the honest truth."
"And you do now?"
"Not really, but I'll make the time."
"Why go through all this trouble if your life is so hectic?"
"Because I like you, mean avocado lady from the farmer's market."
"I still don't get why."
"Because you're mean to me."
"That's not a reason."
"It is. You treat me like I'm human."
"You are human, Joon."
"Only to you."
It was like the pieces were all beginning to fall together, like I was slowly beginning to make out who he was. This pushy, overbearing guy was just like me. He was lonely.
"Well, fuck everyone," I found myself saying. "You're a person, not a medical degree."
"And this is why I made the time, mean avocado lady."
"Shut up."
He grinned...ugh. It made my heart stop. I couldn't remember why I'd been fighting him so hard. He'd shown his interest over and over again. Why hadn't I believed him? I was a confident person, but for whatever reason I'd convinced myself that a guy like him couldn't possibly want me. It was insulting. I'd insulted myself.
"You gonna break my heart, Dion?"
"Keep calling me that and I will."
"At least I have a whole promised third date to convince you otherwise. Speaking of which, when are you free?"
"When are you free? I'm a manager. I don't answer to anyone regarding my schedule."
"Let me think, hold on," Joon said. His thinking face was actually pretty cute.
"Tomorrow I'm relieving the on-call team after evening rounds and taking over so that, let's see... should get me off by Friday night. I'll have most of Saturday off so does that work for you?"
"I can figure it out. But won't you be tired?"
"I can figure it out," he said with a grin.
"Shut up and eat your dinner."
"Yes, ma'am."
Our elbows touched while we ate. We kept glancing at each other, talking in between bites about everything and nothing, learning the little things slowly, leaving the bigger things for another time. I still gave him a lot of shit and picked on him, but a part of me had also softened. I tried to look past the innocent feigned arrogance, and it was surprising how close his real personality was to the surface. He was a total fucking goofball.
Joon made me laugh so much that I almost cried, just medical jokes that each sounded stupider than the last.
"Okay, okay. Last one," he said, smiling as I took a sip of water to clear my throat after his last joke. My cheeks were actually hurting from smiling and laughing too hard. I don't think that's ever even happened to me before.
"What STD are you in danger of catching from phone sex?"
I rolled my eyes. This was going to be dumb.
"Hearing AIDS. Get it?"
"These are terrible," I said, but I was fucking laughing anyways because 'terrible' was apparently keyword for 'hilarious' these days.
"You look so beautiful when you laugh. I can't help it."
I almost choked on my water.
"You don't have to do that."
"Do what?"
"Call me beautiful."
He made a face.
"What the hell? Why not? You are."
"Joon," I said, giving him a serious look. "You really don't have to."
"You don't think you are," he said slowly. "That's stupid."
"You're stupid."
"You are," he said. "Unbelievable. Why the hell wouldn't you think you're beautiful?"
"Oh come on," I said. "I'm really plain. I don't care. I don't want to be known for something as superficial as my looks."
"I get that," he said. "But you're still beautiful. I haven't been able to take my eyes off you. Doesn't that tell you anything?"
"It tells me that you're not shallow."
"I don't know how you convinced yourself that you're 'plain'. You're probably just so isolated that you never hear it."
I didn't say anything. I was isolated but that didn't make his words true. I'd heard people compliment my looks before.
"If that's not it then what is it?" he asked, reading my expression.
"Joon."
"I'm going to tell you everyday."
"Stop it."
"No."
"It makes me uncomfortable."
"Why? Because you're not used to it? Well, tough shit."
It made me uncomfortable because I was plain and I actually went out of my way to make sure that I remained this way. I'm not ugly, but I've never been interested in making myself out to be more than I was. I didn't want to be beautiful. I didn't want the attention. I didn't want to be known for how I looked. I wanted to be known for who I was. I thought Joon would've understood that. He wanted to be known as himself, not a surgeon.
Joon put down his fork and knife and turned to face me.
"Listen to me," he said. "You're allowed to be multidimensional. Being beautiful doesn't take away from who you are."
"Joon-"
"You really don't want to see what I'm like when I'm angry. Don't ever say that again."
He brooded for a while and I let him. I didn't expect him to understand. Most people didn't. I grew up being sexually harassed by the people I should have been able to trust. Being plain was my shield. It was my protection. I didn't like anyone taking that away from me.
"So," I said after the waitress had cleared our plates. "You gonna act like a baby for the rest of the night?"
"I'll stop if you give me permission to call you beautiful."
"What does permission have to do with it? You're practically shoving it down my throat already."
"Because you don't like to hear it. I'm not going to make you tell me why. That's your business to share if and when you want to. I need permission because I want to make sure I'm not hurting you by telling you something that's supposed to make you feel good."
"It doesn't make me feel good, Joon."
"Let me try."
"Try what?"
"To show you that it's okay to be beautiful."
"So pushy," I muttered.
"Give me the green light, Celine."
"Fine. But don't go overboard. I don't want you making me out to be better than I am. Just remember how it feels when people write you off as a surgeon."
"I know. I won't forget," he said. "Anyways, let's change the subject before you bite my head off. What do you want to do Saturday?"
"I honestly think you'll be too tired. Don't downplay that. Thirty hours. Fucking hell."
"Is this your way of asking to come over to my apartment and keeping me company?"
"What the fuck, Joon. How the hell did you even come to that conclusion from what I just said? No."
"Well, you should."
"That's way too fast."
"What'd I tell you the other day, Celie? Fast is our speed."
"Don't call me that."
"We don't have to do what you're thinking," he said.
"I don't trust you. You're pushy."
"The odds of me harming you are zero to none. I thought you would know that by now."
"I'm not saying you'd hurt me, jeez."
"Oh," he said with a grin. "You don't think you'll be able to resist me."
"You really are full of yourself."
"Come over anyways."
"No."
"Come on."
"No."
"I'll get avocados. As many as you want."
I tried not to smile, but I'm pretty sure I didn't succeed.
"You think I can be tempted over to your apartment with avocados?"
"I'm about to find out."
"You really are going to be tired," I said thoughtfully.
"Go on."
"So I'll see you some other time."
He let out a frustrated groan.
"Your suggestion better be good. You shot down my idea so it's up to you now to think of something better than a quiet relaxing day in my apartment. I just wanted to hang out. Cook for you, watch movies, talk. I don't know."
Well, fuck. Why hadn't he put it that way in the first place? I might not have shot it down. He'd suggested it like a creep.
Joon was smirking. Little bastard knew every thought that was going through my head.
"Knock that look off your face before I do."
"Kiss me. It'll knock it right off."
"Ugh."
At that moment the waitress appeared with the bill. Joon and I both reached for it.
"Don't," Joon said, snatching it off the table.
"Why do you always insist on doing this? It's sexist."
"Relax, Susan B. Anthony. It's not a matter of money."
"What's it a matter of?"
"It's a matter of shut the hell up."
I laughed even though I didn't want to.
"We could go dutch."
"Or we could go have sex. There's so much we could go do."
"Joon."
"I'm kidding. I've got this. Don't worry about it. You already got me an avocado and a coffee."
"Right, because this is so comparable."
"It is to me," he said, sliding his credit card in the pocket of the waiter wallet.
The waitress looked amused. She'd been waiting to pick up the check, watching us fighting like a couple of teenagers. Joon really turned up the charm, thanking her, smiling that stupid Hollywood smile, praising her for taking such good care of us. The poor girl didn't stand a chance. He turned her legs to jelly.
"Stop it," I hissed when she walked away.
"Stop what?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
"Oh, that? Why, you jealous?"
"I don't get jealous. I just meant stop teasing women. It's cruel."
"You seem to like it when I do it to you."
"I hate you."
Stubborn. This guy was so fucking stubborn. And weird. And pushy. And overbearing.
And yet I was starting to like all those things about him. God help me.
"So, what's the plan tonight?" he asked, putting an arm around my waist. "Your place or mine?"
"Go to hell."
He let out a deep chuckle, and god...why did that make my entire stomach flop? This was my body's way of telling my brain to fuck off and accept what was happening. Joon had pulled me out of the water with a fucking kiss. A kiss. What else was he capable of?
Joon did end up leaving that waitress a generous tip. So generous that she ran out of the restaurant to thank Joon and almost cried. I'd never seen anything like that before. I always left at least twenty percent and I'd never gotten a reaction like that. I couldn't imagine what kind of tip he'd left her, but it had to have been a lot. You could usually tell a lot about a person by how they treat their servers. What Joon had done said a lot about him. He was annoying and arrogant and pushy, but he was also a good person. I'd never doubted knowing that about him, but I'd also never faced it head-on.
"Did you have a nice time?" Joon asked. He reached for my hand and I let him take it.
"No."
"You're breaking my heart, Celine."
I tugged him by the hand down the empty outdoor outlet mall. All the stores were closed with only the neon glow from the AMC movie theater guiding my way. The cold breeze rustled my clothes, making my hair ripple. The only warm thing left was what tethered me to the world: Joon.
We might've looked weird, a doctor in his hospital scrubs and a woman in her business suit, but there was an image of us in my mind and in it, nothing mattered because I was giving in. He was an enigma, and maybe I was one to him, but I wanted to crack him, wanted to know how he worked, wanted to know what made him tick...and I knew he felt the same about me. So yes, I gave in.
We walked together, his skin that golden tan, and mine the color of deep caramel, two hands of two different shades, blending together until I swear I could see the colors bleeding, until there was nothing that was him that wasn't me, and nothing that was me that wasn't him.
"I don't want this to end," I said breathlessly, smiling like I had never before in my entire life.
Joon had a tender look in his eyes, watching me, his hand in mine tightening, his warmth transferring, sending me heat, sending me everything he was feeling as I sent it back. There weren't sparks between us, maybe there had been at first, but these were embers, coming alive as we just drank each other in, holding hands, looking at each other like everything else had become a blur. It was a slow fire, not the kind that could burn you, but the kind you could sit around on a cold winter night until your very heart was snug in the center of your chest.
"Dance with me," he said, pulling me to him. He guided my arms around his neck and wrapped his arms around my waist.
"There's no music."
"So we'll make some," he said. "Close your eyes."
I did.
And then he was humming "My Heart Will Go On" and began to sway with me in the wide open space in front of the movie theater.
"Joon!" I laughed, almost pulling away, but he wouldn't let me. He leaned down and kissed me beneath my jaw, nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck. I felt shivers go through me, my knees almost buckling.
"I've got you," he said, tightening his hold around my waist. "Let go."
And I did.
The sky was purple, wisps of clouds drifting, the moon a bright sliver in the distance. I had my head tipped back, feeling completely weightless because I'd trusted him, had taken that trust fall, and now I was letting someone hold me up while I looked up at the stars, seeing the world through new eyes, seeing it without any fear, without having to protect myself.
Because he was there.
"You're beautiful," he said softly.
I lifted my head, smiling, my eyes glistening. I was floating, my skin glowing like his, and I let my arms drop, let him support me, let him look down at me with those beautiful dark eyes, the color of the deepest browns of autumn, watching me like nothing else in this entire world existed. The iciness in my chest melted, rushing like water through my veins, but it didn't flood me, it didn't drown me.
title: halcyon days (m)
pairing: knj x reader(f)
rating/genre: m (18+) ; smut ; canon idol! au , age-gap au (reader is 26, namjoon is 31); idol & art enthusiast! namjoon x art curator!reader au
summary: halcyon days – described as a past period that was happy, peaceful, and prosperous, often viewed with nostalgia. this may be a story of such a time. you, an art curator grounded in these seoul gallery walls, meet RM, an idol of top group BTS, whose world moves to an entirely different rhythm. Two lives on diverging paths. But when those paths somehow cross in the arts, something unexpected begins. love that unfolds slowly, like brushstrokes on canvas, brief and fleeting.
note: this is part two of a one shot initially 34k words! happy birthday namjoon!
warnings: language, dialogue heavy, art talk, decision to leave movie spoilers, a lot of smut in many positions (explicit and anecdotal), drinking, smoking, posessive namjoon, protected s*x, cunn*lingus, finger*ng, blowj*b, b*ckshots, riding of course, sasaengs, grotesque harassment, heavy angst, some canon and noncanon events
drop date: September 11th, 2025, 8:00am pst
word count: 14.7k
part 1 | spotify fic playlist | crossposted on ao3 here
It’s been a week since the event. A week since Namjoon called you across a rooftop and took you home like he couldn’t wait another second. Since then, he’s been texting you every day–sometimes with a photo of his lunch, sometimes a tired selfie in the studio, sometimes just a “thinking of you.” It’s not excessive. It’s intentional. And it makes you smile every time.
He doesn’t have to do that since you understand his situation, but it’s cute to see him trying to make amends for his lack of communication just because he loves you… a lot.
You finally wrap up a major exhibition project at Kukje for Frieze Seoul, freeing up your schedule just enough to carve out a day for him. He’d invited you to the HYBE building–casually, but not carelessly–and now you stand across the street from the towering glass facade in Yongsan, adjusting your oversized blue oxford shirt over your white camisole and wide-legged jeans. Clean, understated. Not a fashion statement, not anonymous either. Just you.
You cross the street, dodging a cluster of girls and women loitering near the park next to the building, eyes glued to the entrance like something might emerge from its depths at any moment. Some hold cameras with telescopic lenses. A few glance your way with bored disinterest, but one–Korean, in her twenties…thirties maybe–squints her eyes at you, scanning you head to toe like she’s trying to figure something out about you.
You don’t linger. You don’t meet her stare. You’ve worked in public-facing industries long enough to know better than to provoke idle curiosity.
Inside, the lobby is sleek and expansive, echoing footsteps bouncing off polished floors. You approach the reception desk with a quiet confidence, pushing your ID across the counter.
“I’m here to visit RM… for an art concept discussion. For his next solo album,” you say, tone even.
The woman at the desk nods, typing something into the system. It’s not a total lie. You had discussed his next album–how he’s thinking about intimacy, isolation, and urban nature as themes–and you’d even thrown out a few visual references. Whether it becomes anything official is unknown. But it’s enough to get you a guest pass.
“4th floor, practice wing,” she says politely in Korean, sliding the laminated badge toward you.
You thank her and make your way to the elevator, scanning your pass to access the upper levels. The building feels clinical and high-tech, a strange fusion of corporate order and creative energy. The kind of place where you know legends are made behind closed doors.
You glance at your phone. A message from Namjoon:
[joonie 🐨] Already here? The members and I just took a practice break. Just walk in when you get here. Practice Room B.
Muted bass echoes faintly from down the corridor. You follow the sound past gray walls, training rooms, and framed abstract prints–some you recognize from Namjoon’s Instagram, likely pieces he personally curated–until you reach a matte black door labeled Practice Room B.
You gently push it open.
The room is dim but spacious, with high ceilings and black walls that absorb the light pouring from recessed LEDs along the upper trim. At the far end, the mirrored wall reflects a mix of movement and stillness–six men scattered across the glossy floor, catching their breath, sipping water, checking their phones.
Then, a seventh figure turns. Namjoon.
“There she is,” he says, voice warm as he walks toward you.
The others follow his gaze. Jungkook, seated on the floor with a water bottle in hand, perks up. Jimin’s eyes widen slightly before he grins. Hoseok leans back on his hands, eyebrows raised with interest. Yoongi stands by the sound system, watching quietly. Taehyung lounges near the mirrored wall, head tilted. Jin, by the door with a towel over his shoulder, is the first to speak.
“Oh! You brought someone?” he asks Namjoon, arching a playful brow. “And she’s not a delivery person?”
Namjoon chuckles. “Nope. She’s definitely not that.”
You try to smile, suddenly hyper-aware of the way seven of the most famous men in the world are watching you. Your palms feel clammy. You smooth them on your jeans.
“Hi,” you say, voice a little breathless. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Wow, he’s pretty,” Jimin says outright, nudging Jungkook with a grin.
Taehyung hums. “Very on-brand for you, hyung.”
Jungkook doesn’t say much at first. He eyes you thoughtfully, like he’s trying to read your intentions in real-time.
“I heard you two met at a museum,” he finally says, tone musing, but there’s a weight behind the way he looks at you–analytical, not unfriendly. He’s been very nice, but he’s just cautious. Like he’s making sure you’re a good fit for someone he respects deeply. You’re sure the other members are the same.
Namjoon nods, then glances at you before turning back to the group.
“Well,” he says, slow but steady, “since you’re all already speculating…”
He reaches for your hand. You blink, surprised, but let him take it.
“I wanted you to meet her because she’s important to me,” he says. “We’re… seeing each other.”
Silence ripples through the room like a dropped pebble.
“Seriously?” Jin says first, eyes darting between the two of you.
Namjoon gives a quiet smile. “Yeah.”
Yoongi snorts lightly but it’s not unkind. “Damn. So you’re actually admitting it…after swerving some of our suspicions, huh?”
“I wasn’t trying to hide her,” Namjoon says. “Just wanted to be sure before I brought her into this part of my life.”
The vibe seems a bit tense, and kind of scary.
Taehyung is the first to move. He walks over and extends his hand to you, gaze softer than before.
“Welcome, noona,” he says with a small smile. “If hyung’s serious about you, then we are too.”
The noona honorific is a bit dramatic since you’re definitely younger than him, but you’ll ignore it for now.
Jimin cheers dramatically. “Our Namjoonie’s in love~”
Namjoon rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I’m happy for you,” Hoseok says genuinely, grinning. “It’s good to see you glowing again, bro.”
Jungkook rises and walks closer, expression now more open. “I get it now,” he murmurs to Namjoon. Then to you, “You seem cool. And grounded. He needs that!”
Yoongi just nods in your direction. “Don’t break his heart,” he says. “He acts tough but he’s not.”
Your chest warms at the way the tension lifts, the way the group shifts from guarded to accepting.
Namjoon squeezes your hand. “Thanks, guys.”
As the moment relaxes into scattered banter and practice resumes in the background, he leans down toward you and whispers, “You okay?”
You smile, finally able to breathe. “Yeah. More than okay.”
You take a seat near the mirrored wall, legs crossed, trying not to look too stiff as the boys start gathering around again during their break.
“So, you’re from the States?” Jimin asks, plopping down across from you with a bottle of water pressed to his cheek.
“Yeah, California,” you say. “Grew up in San Francisco.”
“Ohhh~” Taehyung stretches the vowel out like it’s a fancy French wine. “We were staying in LA not too long ago for our song camp. But San Francisco… isn’t it foggy there?”
You laugh. “Most of the time, yeah.”
“Your Korean is really good,” Jungkook notes, now sitting next to Taehyung and leaning forward with curiosity. “Did you study formally, or…?”
You nod. “I started in college. But I think watching K-dramas without subtitles kind of helped. Eventually I did an exchange semester in Seoul and forced myself to keep improving. Still make mistakes though.”
“You sound almost fluent,” Jin chimes in, eyes narrowing. “So you’re either naturally good at languages or just really stubborn.”
You grin. “Little of both, maybe.”
Yoongi raises a brow. “What did you major in?”
“Art history,” you answer, then gesture to Namjoon with a small smile. “So you can probably see how we ended up crossing paths.”
“I knew it!” Hoseok says, pointing at you like he’s just won a bet. “You have that calm, gallery curator energy.”
“Really?” you blink.
He nods. “Like the kind of person who talks about color palettes and philosophical metaphors in front of a painting that somehow makes you cry.”
The whole room laughs.
They’re funny, you think, but also so much more grounded than people give them credit for. The conversation flows easily now–less like an interview, more like you're slowly being folded into something soft, warm, and loud.
Soon, Namjoon rejoins the circle briefly to grab a towel, cheeks slightly pink from exertion.
“Alright,” he says, “we should wrap this break. Back to rehearsal.”
You lean back against the wall as they move back into position and start running the choreo again–intense, intricate, exhausting. You watch as they slip into that hyper-focused mode, barely glancing at one another yet moving with perfect synchronicity. Each step is sharp, the momentum breathtaking. Even when sweat drips, even when someone stumbles and lets out a soft “fuck” under their breath, they keep going.
You feel a genuine awe bloom in your chest.
No wonder Namjoon gets so in his head sometimes. The pressure. The eyes. The standard. And still–there's joy here. And god, he looks so good right now. Hair damp, brows furrowed, shirt sticking to the curve of his back. You’re trying not to stare, but it’s impossible not to.
Eventually, Namjoon slows the track and wipes his face again, catching your eyes in the mirror’s reflection.
He walks over, breath still heavy. “I’m heading to the showers, then up to the studio,” he tells you quietly. “You should go ahead. The door’ll be open. There’s tea in the cabinet if you want to unwind.”
You nod. “You okay?”
He smiles softly. “Now I am.”
Then, with a shift in tone, he takes your hand. And before you can register it, he lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
It’s subtle. Gentle.
But loud enough.
“Oooohhh~” Jin sings from across the room, followed by a mock-gasp from Jimin.
Taehyung clutches his chest dramatically. “Ahhh! This is straight out of a sageuk drama.”
Namjoon groans as the teasing grows louder.
“What a big simp he’s being,” Yoongi mutters with a smirk.
Namjoon just shakes his head. “Y’all are ridiculous.”
You can’t help but laugh as you back toward the door.
“See you upstairs,” you say, feeling the echo of his lips still warm on your skin.
And as the door clicks shut behind you, you feel like you’re floating a little–lifted by more than just the elevator heading up sixteen floors.
Namjoon's studio is a quiet world of its own. Dim but cozy, filled with soft ambient lighting, it smells faintly of cedarwood, leather, and something herbal–like his favorite tea. Books line the shelves, stacked in uneven towers, and vinyls sit half-pulled from their sleeves near his record player. The sofa in the corner is slightly worn in, hugged by a warm throw blanket and a floor lamp that casts a gentle glow over your open book.
You sit curled up at one end, legs tucked under you as your eyes move over the page of 정확한 사랑의 실험 (The Exact Experiment of Love), a book Namjoon recommended a few days ago. It’s cerebral, thoughtful, and layered with questions you hadn’t asked yourself before: Is love really just action, or is it shaped by the stories we’ve been told? Can we even love someone without unknowingly copying what we’ve seen in movies?
You pause on a highlighted sentence near the bottom of the page:
“To love precisely is not to control–it is to witness, again and again, the evolution of a person, and still remain.”
It makes your heart beat a little harder.
The door to the studio opens quietly behind you.
Namjoon steps in, fresh out of the shower, his hair slightly damp and pushed back casually with his fingers. A black oversized shirt hangs loosely over his frame, tucked lazily into grey joggers. His skin glows under the warm studio lighting, and there's something disarming about seeing him like this–unpolished but impossibly grounded, exactly where he belongs.
“You’re reading it,” he says with a soft smile, toweling the back of his head as he approaches.
You nod, closing the book partway. “It’s making me think too much. In a good way.”
“That’s why I liked it.” He bends slightly, brushing his lips against your temple. “It doesn’t tell you how to love. Just… shows you all the messy ways we try.”
You hum, the corner of your lips tugging up.
He walks over to his desk setup and taps the screen to life–colorful audio waveforms lighting up. He scrolls through a few files, then glances over his shoulder at you, a hint of shyness in his voice.
“Come sit with me. On my lap,” he adds, eyes flicking up to yours, more boyish now. “Wanna work through a few things, and I want your feedback.”
You raise a brow, playfully skeptical. “You sure I won’t distract you?”
He scoffs under his breath, but he’s already holding out his hand for you. “You will. But I’m willing to take that risk.”
You laugh softly and set the book aside, making your way over. He pulls you gently onto his lap, one arm looping around your waist securely while the other hovers over the keyboard. His thighs are solid beneath you, his body warm against your back. He rests his chin on your shoulder for a moment, exhaling like this is exactly what he needed.
“I’ve been working on something for the new project,” he murmurs, fingers dragging a few files into the DAW. “Nothing final, just similar to sketches.”
Namjoon queues up a rough sketch for his new project, melancholy piano layered over soft percussion, his voice low and raw, like it was recorded in a single breath. You sit still, letting it wash over you. The lyrics speak of wanting to be seen fully, even while uncertain of how you're perceived. When it ends, you tell him it feels honest, vulnerable without begging to be understood. He smiles against your shoulder, murmuring that you always say what he can't.
His hand, still wrapped around your waist, slips under the hem of your shirt–resting against the skin of your stomach, thumb moving slowly in gentle strokes. Not sexual, just grounding. Intimate. Safe.
“I like having you here,” he says quietly.
“I like being here,” you reply.
You glance over at the book still open on the sofa. Another line you'd focused on earlier comes back to you:
“To be precisely loved is to not need translation.”
Namjoon doesn’t say it out loud. But in the way he holds you, listens to you, lets you into his world–even when it’s fragile–you know. He’s learning how to love precisely. And he’s letting you do the same.
After spending a few warm, quiet hours at HYBE, you finally decide it’s time to leave and head home. As much as you’d love to stay wrapped in Namjoon’s presence a little longer, you’ve got work to do. Kukje Gallery is preparing for several seasonal showcases, and one of the projects you’re spearheading involves incorporating private collection pieces into a curated exhibition. Namjoon’s collection has come up more than once in your research, and the idea of showcasing select works–perhaps ones he’s lent anonymously in the past–feels like the perfect creative bridge between your world and his. There are meetings to prepare for, wall texts to draft, and provenance documents to organize. It’s the kind of work that consumes you quietly, the way art always has.
As you step out of the HYBE building and into the quiet gray of late afternoon, you instantly spot the group of girls you saw earlier. Five or six girls huddled near the edge of the lot, dressed in head-to-toe black–bucket hats pulled low, black face masks hiding most of their faces, save for the eyes. They say nothing at first. But you can feel their stares.
You lower your gaze and keep walking, heart steady. You’re not new to this. You’ve read the posts, the cautionary threads online. You know exactly what this group is. Sasaengs. And attention–literally any attention–is the one thing they don’t deserve.
One of them steps forward.
“I know you…” she says softly in Korean.
You pretend not to hear her. Keep walking.
“You were at the Frieze Seoul afterparty,” she continues, just a touch louder now. “With Namjoon.”
You stop. Just for a second. It's involuntary.
Her voice sharpens. “I knew it was you. L/N F/N, you’re a big foreign art curator living in Seoul.”
Oh, holy shit…
You turn your head slightly, jaw tense. Don’t respond. Keep your mouth shut. She doesn’t get to provoke you. But she already has.
"But why are you at the HYBE building?"
Her tone is full of false innocence, the kind that masks something far uglier beneath.
You inhale deeply through your nose, your fingers curling tightly inside your coat sleeves. Let’s semi-lie about this. It’s the only way you can hope to get them off your back.
“I’m collaborating with HYBE’s visual concept team on a project,” you say coolly, refusing to look her in the eye. “It’s internal. That’s all I can say.”
You turn to leave.
Another voice calls after you–another girl from the group. “I don’t believe that.”
You bite the inside of your cheek.
“I saw you both that night,” the first girl adds, stepping in closer. “You and Namjoon. At the rooftop. Talking to each other like no one could see you. But I did.”
You clench your jaw.
“Are you seriously going to pretend something isn’t going on?” a third girl snaps. “That dress you wore? The way he looked at you?”
They’re circling now. You can feel it. Like you’re prey being slowly surrounded.
“Don’t tell me you're dating,” someone scoffs. “That’s actually so funny!”
You glance up. That girl looks like she’s smirking from underneath her mask. Another one has pulled out her phone. Your stomach flips.
“I mean, come on,” the first one says. “You really think someone like you belongs next to someone like him?”
Another steps forward, her voice venomous beneath her mask. “Stay the fuck away from Namjoon oppa and the other members. Seriously. You’re going to ruin the group if you continue to lurk around him, you disgusting witch!”
That’s it.
You stop walking and turn on your heel.
“What’s disgusting,” you say in a low, steady voice, “is stalking people and creating fantasies about strangers. You don’t know me. You don’t know him. And twisting facts to fit your delusions? That’s not fan behavior. That’s dangerous.”
There’s a silence. Even their breathing seems to stop.
“And since you clearly care so much about Namjoon’s image,” you add, “maybe you should brush up on South Korean defamation laws. False rumors, public harassment? That’s enough to ruin your own future.”
The lead girl shifts on her feet. You meet her eyes through the shadow of her cap.
You hold the silence just long enough, then turn around and walk away.
The burn in your chest doesn’t fade for blocks. You can’t tell if it’s adrenaline or fear or rage. Maybe all of it.
But you know now that something has shifted. They know you. They saw you. They’re watching.
And this isn’t the last time you’ll see her face.
Another cycle of jam-packed schedules has Namjoon and the rest of BTS deeply immersed in preparations for a new group album and the upcoming world tour. You’ve kept your distance, careful not to distract him. You know how much it matters to him–this comeback, this tour after so many years. But that hasn’t stopped the two of you from keeping in touch. Your KakaoTalk thread is filled with sweet check-ins, candid selfies, and late-night voice calls just to hear each other breathe. On the rare nights when stars aligned, you found yourself either curled up in his arms at his place or sitting side-by-side at a tiny pojangmacha stall, downing soju shots and sharing plates of anju under the flicker of fluorescent lights.
Despite many chances you were with Namjoon, you never told him what happened that day at HYBE.
You didn’t want to burden him. Not when things were already so heavy. Years of experience navigating life in crowded cities–and even more chaotic industries–have taught you how to handle people like that. Unstable. Entitled. You chalked it up to nothing more than noise. Besides, you hadn’t seen them since that day… until now.
It started normally enough. You were at work, deep in conversation with a pair of museum partners collaborating on the upcoming exhibition featuring Namjoon’s collection. You were focused, flipping through condition reports and finalizing acquisition notes when Jiwon came rushing over.
“Y/N, there's a food delivery for you at reception.”
Your brow furrows. “What? I didn’t order anything.”
Jiwon shrugs, handing you the bag. “Maybe one of the artists or museum reps you’ve worked with before? A thank-you gift, maybe?”
That’s plausible. But something in your gut stirs differently. You want to believe it’s a kind gesture, maybe even from Namjoon. He has surprised you with a few meals before, knowing how often you forget to eat when you’re working. And he did ask if you ate earlier, to which you said, you hadn’t.
You shake off the unease and follow her to the front reception desk.
A brown paper bag sits there, neat and unmarked, folded closed with a tidy knot of string. There’s no logo, no note, no receipt. You hesitate for a beat before untying it and pulling out the food container inside. The wrapping is elegant, too elegant. It looks... staged.
Your pulse stutters.
Still, you open it.
The stench hits you like a slap.
Putrid. Sour. Rancid. Your hands fumble, and the container crashes against the desk with a grotesque splatter. You stagger back as your throat convulses.
You shake and try not to gag from the horrible smell.
“Y/N?! What’s wrong?!” Jiwon’s voice rises in panic as she and several staff members rush to you.
Your eyes are locked on the grotesque contents: a mess of maggot-infested kimchi fried rice and spoiled meat, decayed and slathered in something dark. And then you see it.
Written in thick, blood-red gochujang across the inner lid–
“꺼져.”
Leave.
Your throat clenches. A ringing in your ears drowns out the voices around you. You blink, trying to make sense of it. Trying to understand how someone could be this insane.
Your hands shake, your breath ragged.
This time… this time it wasn't just some girl with a petty glare outside a building. This was a message.
A threat.
And someone knew exactly where to send it.
The staff crowds around you, horrified, their voices overlapping.
“Was this delivered by mistake?” Jiwon said.
“Could it be an artist upset over not being selected for the next show?” Another staff inquired.
“Maybe a horrible prank? Some people get off on shocking others.” Another staff followed.
You nod silently, eyes wide, face pale. You mumble something about it probably being a disturbed museumgoer. A coincidence. A sick joke. You’re convincing them, but not yourself.
Because deep down, you know.
Behind closed doors, they don’t know you’ve been fucking one of the museum’s most high-profile donors. They don’t know that you’ve spent nights tangled in the sheets with that same man who’s known to millions by three letters: RM of BTS. They don’t know his sasaengs have caught wind of something they were never supposed to see.
You excuse yourself before they can press further.
Shoving the food into the bag, you step quickly out of the gallery into the humid afternoon. The alley where the compost bins are kept is tucked just off the main road. You kneel and lift the lid, trying not to gag at the stench now leaking through the bag. You throw it in.
But something flutters.
A soft rustling sound.
You glance down.
A small notecard flutters to the ground. It must’ve been taped to the bottom of the bag. You reach down with trembling fingers and turn it over.
You wish you hadn’t.
Pasted dead center is a butterfly–its body intact, but its wings torn off and glued on either side like some grotesque collage. The symbolism makes your stomach turn. The wings–ripped from something delicate and beautiful–feel personal. Like a threat wrapped in mock poetry.
Scrawled across the card in thick, black Korean script:
“We warned you once. But you didn’t listen.”
“He doesn't need a witch like you. He only needs us.”
“Things will get worse. For you. And for him. If this arrangement doesn’t end.”
Your throat tightens. The corners of the card are stained, a waxy red smudged across the bottom. Blood? Paint? Sauce?
You don’t care.
Your first instinct is to rip it apart, throw it away, pretend it never existed.
But your fingers won’t move.
Because now, it’s not just about you.
It’s about Namjoon.
And if they’re threatening him, even indirectly…
Your heart races as you fold the note and slip it into your bag. You take one final glance over your shoulder, then rush back inside the building with your face composed, your steps steady.
But inside, you're spiraling.
And whether Namjoon knows it yet or not, this just became his problem too.
A week after the incident at the gallery, things start escalating.
You first notice her, a woman in a black cap, standing across the street from your building. At first, you think it's a coincidence. Maybe she's just waiting for a ride. But then she shows up again. And again. Sometimes she’s standing completely still for hours. Sometimes she pretends to scroll on her phone. Always watching. You try not to let it get to you, but the weight of her gaze burrows into your spine.
Then the flowers arrive.
Seven funeral wreaths are delivered to the gallery one morning. They’re massive, overbearing, and reek of rotting lilies. There’s no sender listed, no note. Just ribbon banners draped across each one like death sentences: Quit your job, Leave the country, You’re ruining his life, Burn the witch. Your coworkers stare. The gallery director demands answers you can’t give. You lie, continue to say it must be a mistake, a weird prank, but your stomach twists into knots the entire day.
The knocks start next.
Loud, angry banging on your apartment door. Always after midnight. Always followed by silence. You rush to the peephole each time, heart in your throat, but no one’s ever there. The building’s security cameras catch only a blurry figure disappearing down the stairwell. This happens eight times.
Then, the messages.
A DM from a burner account lands in your inbox. It’s a grainy photo of you and Namjoon entering Nine One Hannam late at night. No caption. No threat. But the intent is clear.
Your sleep suffers. You keep the lights on now, even during naps. You check the locks twice, sometimes three times. You change your commute. You stop sharing your location with friends. You start looking over your shoulder every time you walk outside.
And through it all, one thought loops in your mind like static:
How much worse could this get?And what would it cost to make it stop?
Would it mean giving him up?
You don’t want to answer that.
Not yet.
Another week passes after that, and you're at his place again, sitting upright at the dining table with your laptop open and a half-drunk cup of barley tea beside you. The glow from the screen casts tired shadows beneath your eyes. You’re finalizing the last details for the exhibition, confirming wall labels, editing the press release one last time, and reviewing the VIP guest list that Kukje’s comms team needs from you tonight.
Namjoon’s private collection–his pride, his soul laid bare–is about to be unveiled to the public for the first time. And you’ve done everything to make sure it’s perfect. Because you love him. Because you believe in the message behind his collection. Because he once said, “I want art to feel less like a velvet rope, more like a door someone left cracked open.” That stuck with you. You’ve carried that quote like a mantra, letting it guide every decision. Every label. Every image selection.
But God, you’re so tired.
Your shoulders ache. Your eyes burn. The harassment hasn’t stopped–it’s evolved. You still see the woman sometimes, posted by the bus stop outside your building like she belongs there. You’ve stopped answering unknown DMs. Your inbox is full of spam, and lately you've started receiving calls from international numbers you don’t recognize. Last night someone knocked on your window. You live on the third floor.
You haven’t told Namjoon about that either. What good would it do?
You keep telling yourself it’s manageable. You can push through it. You’re almost there. A few more days, maybe a week more of this chaos, and then it’ll settle down. The show will open. The gallery will shift their attention to the crowd. Maybe then you’ll disappear from focus. Maybe they'll get bored.
The front door clicks open.
You look up as Namjoon steps in, phone in hand, dressed in a black hoodie and cargo pants. He toes off his shoes, hangs up his keys, sets his phone facedown. His expression is unreadable–tired, maybe. You don’t ask. You’re not sure you want to know what kind of day he’s had. Something about his silence makes your stomach tighten, like you’re both pretending not to be burnt out for the other’s sake.
He approaches quietly, rounding the couch.
“Hey baby,” he says softly, hands reaching out for your shoulders.
You flinch–just for a second–but then exhale when you realize it’s him. You lean into his touch, the warmth of his palms grounding you.
“You good?” he asks. His thumbs move gently across the muscle where your neck meets your shoulders. “I see you’re working.”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Just trying to make the exhibition of your owned pieces successful. The world needs to know how much you love art–and how much you care about making it accessible.”
His eyes light up at that. That same quote from Art Basel–you’ve remembered it. You’ve made it a mission. His dimple shows when he smiles, arms sliding slowly around your middle.
“I fucking love you,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “And how hardworking you are.”
You sigh softly, melting just a little.
Then his hands trail lower, brushing the hem of your skirt.
“Do you…” he starts, voice dipping, “want to do anything tonight?”
The suggestion is obvious. His tone warm, a little playful. His lips grazing your neck now. You’d love to say yes. You’d love for him to erase the stress in your chest with his mouth and hands and all the love he’s too afraid to say out loud too often.
But deadlines still loom. You need to follow up with an installation technician, send one more message to the AV rental team, review the caption edits from the translator.
“I have to work, my love,” you say, turning slightly, hand cupping his cheek. He looks at you–still smiling, still soft.
“That’s not a problem,” he says.
And before you can ask what he means, he sinks to his knees.
Your brows lift in disbelief as he ducks under the table, settling between your legs like it’s the most natural place to be. His body large and slightly hunched beneath the small desk, knees spreading as he positions himself between your calves.
You laugh a little, incredulous. “Namjoon–what are you doing?”
But he doesn’t answer right away. Just runs his hands up your thighs, bunching the tight fabric of your pencil skirt up inch by inch. His fingers slide beneath the edge of your pantyhose, then your panties, tugging both down in one fluid motion. Your breath catches.
He looks up at you from between your knees, gaze warm and a little mischievous. “You’re working so hard, baby. Let me take care of you for a bit.”
And in that moment, all the noise–the harassment, the exhaustion, the weight of responsibility–pauses. Fades. The only thing that exists is the man kneeling beneath your desk like a prayer, ready to worship every inch of you.
And maybe, for tonight, you let him.
"Okay, babe. I'll keep on working," you say, though even as the words leave your mouth, you already know it’s going to be impossible.
Your voice is unsteady, breath catching at the end. Your thighs are parted under the table, pantyhose and panties tangled loosely around one ankle, your skirt hiked indecently high. And yet somehow, your fingers remain on the keyboard, trembling slightly as you attempt to finish a sentence about exhibition flow logistics.
The glow of the screen casts soft light over your flushed face.
Namjoon doesn’t rush. He kisses the inside of your knee first, soft and deliberate, then trails slow, reverent presses of his mouth up the sensitive skin of your thigh. You feel the gentle scrape of his stubble, the heat of his breath.
He’s not trying to distract you–he’s trying to worship you. And it’s honestly what you need right about now with all these things driving you nuts.
You blink hard at your screen, trying to keep typing. You tap out the next two words with stiff precision. His hands anchor your hips to the chair, thumbs rubbing light circles into the base of your thighs. Then he tilts his head and brings his mouth to you–warm, open, and utterly patient.
Your breath stutters.
His tongue parts you, slow and deliberate, and you’re gone. Your hands pause on the keyboard, hovering over the keys, back arching just slightly as your thighs flex around him.
“Fucking h-hell..,” you whisper, barely audible, more air than voice.
He hums softly against you, the vibration pulsing straight through your core.
Still, you try. You type two more words, then three, but your legs are trembling now, your focus shattered. Every swirl of his tongue pulls you deeper from the present, deeper from the demands of work and the exhaustion of being someone strong for everyone.
Namjoon groans low and moves his mouth more purposefully, tongue circling in rhythm, lips pulling gently, tenderly. His hands never leave you. One grips your knee, the other slides around to cradle your hip.
“Joon–” your voice breaks, pleading.
Above the table, the cursor blinks in the middle of an unfinished sentence.
Below it, he pulls you closer to the edge of the chair with a firm tug, never once breaking rhythm. You reach blindly for the edge of the table, gripping it for balance, for something to hold onto while he undoes you inch by inch. You can feel his breath, feel how achingly focused he is, how much he means this.
He doesn't care that you're trying to be composed. He knows how much you carry. He knows you're holding the entire show together–your career, his exhibition, the weight of his reputation–and he just wants to give you something in return. Even if it's just this.
Your head drops back. “I’m not gonna be able to finish this,” you whisper.
From beneath the table, his voice is dark with affection, almost teasing. “Then don’t.”
And for once, you don’t. You stop typing. You close your eyes.
And you let yourself feel everything.
But just as you start to think you might lose all control, Namjoon shifts slightly, his fingers finding a new, impossibly sensitive spot. The heat of his mouth intensifies, tongue flicking expertly, coaxing a breathless gasp from deep in your chest.
Your back arches without thought, hips pressing downward, desperate for more contact, more of the way he makes you feel–seen, wanted, alive.
Then, suddenly, that subtle, deliberate pressure–the one you didn’t even know you were holding out for–comes.
It’s enough to shatter your restraint.
“F-Fuck me..!”
Your jaw clenches hard as a shudder crashes through you. One hand shoots up, pushing against the side of his head, trying to slow the whirlwind he’s set loose.
Namjoon chuckles, “I will after we move to another spot.”
“F-Fine, let’s do that and I’ll get to this later t-then,” you manage between ragged breaths, voice shaking with the effort to keep control.
You slam the laptop shut with a sharp snap, the sudden silence almost as electric as his touch.
Forgetting everything else–the emails, the guest lists, the harassment, the exhaustion–you revel in the moment.
The man beneath you, kneeling like a worshipper, eyes dark and steady, hands ready to hold you through every tremor.
You don’t want this to end.
It doesn’t take long before your body betrays you completely.
“N-Namjoon!” Warm waves pulse through your core as you come undone, breath hitching, fingers curling into the edge of the table to steady yourself.
You make a mess, and you don’t care. And neither does he.
You’re a huffing, trembling mess, breath shallow and uneven as Namjoon’s lips finally lift away, his tongue retreating but not before he eagerly consumes every drop of your release. He looks up at you, eyes dark and gleaming with that familiar, wicked smirk.
Your mind’s a jumble, but one clear thought surfaces and loops–bed or couch? The couch. It feels more spontaneous, less planned, like it matches the wildness of this night. Namjoon’s expression shifts, as if he’s reading your thoughts.
With a slow, deliberate push, he nudges the chair forward to slip out from beneath the table. Standing now, he towers over you, a striking contrast of height and warmth. His hands reach out, cupping your hips with gentle authority. Before you can say anything, he lifts you up effortlessly.
The walk to the couch is a blur of fluttering heartbeats and tingling skin. He lays you down carefully, eyes never leaving yours as if memorizing every inch.
Then his hands move to your crisp white collared shirt, fingers deft and confident, unbuttoning it with a patience that makes your skin itch in anticipation. The fabric slips away, revealing the curve of your bra beneath. His hands trail lower, sliding the straps off your shoulders, peeling it away like it’s something sacred.
Namjoon’s lips descend eagerly, no longer gentle but claiming–pressing hard enough to leave dark, unmistakable marks against your bare skin. One hickey blooms just below your collarbone, then another trails lower, tracing a fiery path along your chest. His mouth works with purpose, each bite and suck leaving a bruise full of desire.
You gasp, breath catching as his hands slide around your sides, pulling you closer. Without breaking contact, he shifts his weight, moving on top of you, the heat of his body pressing down. Your heart hammers in your chest as the weight of him anchors you–both comforting and overwhelming.
Namjoon pauses briefly, eyes dark and burning as he looks up at you. His breath fans over your skin, warm and intoxicating.
“Do you know how much I want you right now?” he murmurs, voice low and husky.
“Not as much as I want you, that for sure,” You laugh, but your body trembles under his weight and touch.
And god, does he love that response.
His hands roam up to cup your breasts firmly. Without hesitation, his mouth descends on one nipple, sucking and nibbling on it with slow, deliberate pressure that sends sharp jolts of pleasure through you. You swear you’re levitating from his actions. Then he switches, teasing and swirling his tongue around the other, leaving a wet, bruising trail. You’re going to be in a lot of pain later on.
In this position, with him on top sucking your tits, you feel every ounce of power and desire between you. It’s raw, magnetic. You’re completely exposed, utterly claimed, and it ignites something fierce and thrilling deep inside you.
Namjoon groans softly against your skin, his breath hot where his mouth leaves a final mark just above your heart. Then he lifts his head, eyes locking with yours–full of intensity and reverence all at once. His hands slide down your sides, deliberate, grounding. He shifts slightly, pushing up from the couch just enough to reach for the button of his cargo pants. The faint sound of the zipper lowering sends a fresh wave of anticipation through you.
Without a word, he helps turn you gently onto your side, one hand curling under your waist while the other lifts your left leg just enough to hook it over his shoulder. The angle feels natural, close, connected. His chest brushes your back as he leans in, his hand steadying your thigh. Then he pauses, lowering his head to press a kiss just below your ear.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers.
“It’s not,” you breathe, already aching for more. “Please, Namjoon…”
“Don’t need to beg me for more, baby. I got you.”
You feel him guide himself slowly, carefully, easing in with a patience that nearly undoes you. The stretch is deep, measured–and it makes your body hum. A full-body kind of euphoria rushes over you, like the world outside this moment has gone completely silent. Your fingers grip the edge of the couch, breath stuttering as he fills you gradually.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut.
He lets out a low, strained breath near your shoulder. “You always feel incredible…”
And then he stills for a second, both of you soaking in the heat, the pressure, the dizzying intimacy of it all. He presses his hand over yours, grounding you again before pulling back–slow, deep–and pushing in again with a rhythm that already has your head spinning.
His rhythm is steady, intentional. Each motion slow and full, like he’s trying to memorize how you feel around him. You clutch the armrest of the couch with one hand, the other pressed against his forearm where it wraps around your waist. He holds you close, his mouth brushing your shoulder between soft, breathless grunts.
And yet, through the haze of pleasure, something stirs low in your chest. A flicker of dread, quiet but sharp. You don’t know why, but a sense of finality presses against your ribs like a warning. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion, the way life’s been spinning lately, but it clings to you–makes you want to hold on tighter.
You glance over your shoulder at him, heart squeezing at the way he’s looking at you–like you’re the only thing that makes sense.
You want to remember this. Every breath, every sound, every brush of his skin against yours. If this is all temporary, if somehow the world decides to rip it away… you want to know you gave him everything.
“Joon,” you whisper, voice trembling. “P-Put me on top.”
His eyes darken slightly, lips parting. “Yeah. Yeah, come here.”
With his help, you shift until Namjoon is lying fully back against the cushions, legs slightly parted, eyes on you like you’re something sacred. You swing one leg over and straddle him, facing away from his chest, your back to him. A thrill runs down your spine at the change in perspective. The reverse angle gives you power, control, and just enough distance to revel in the delicious tension.
You sink down onto him slowly, savoring the stretch, the heat of him filling you again. He groans beneath you, hands gripping your hips firmly, guiding your descent. You move gently at first, testing the angle, then begin to roll your hips in slow, deliberate circles.
“Oh–fuck,” he breathes behind you, and it shoots straight through your core.
Then, carefully, you begin to lean back. Your spine curves, shoulders easing into his chest, until the back of your head rests near his collarbone. The moment your bodies align, something settles. His arms snake around your waist, holding you tightly to him, and now you’re both locked in–completely fused.
The new position is overwhelming in the best way. Every shift of your hips grinds you against him deeply, while his hands roam across your thighs, your stomach, your breasts–like he can’t decide where to touch first. His lips brush your temple, then your jaw, leaving small kisses as he whispers, “This angle is driving me nut. You’re so goddamn perfect, Y/N.”
You breathe out shakily, overwhelmed by the emotion threading between each thrust. Your palms grip his forearms for grounding. He cradles you like you’re something to be cherished, even as your movements grow needier.
Your thoughts spin as you ride the edge–how strange it is to feel so full, so adored, and yet still shadowed by something intangible. That ache in your chest is back, not from pain but from knowing this moment feels too beautiful, too fragile.
If everything crashes tomorrow… let him have this tonight. Let yourself give everything.
You reach back, fingers threading into his hair, turning your face just enough to find his lips. The kiss is twisted, sideways, messy, and perfect.
“Don’t let go yet,” you whisper, breath catching.
“Never,” he murmurs into your skin, and his hips lift to meet yours, deep and slow, again and again.
You let your eyes flutter closed, breath mixing with his, hips grinding down in a rhythm that builds and builds.
Namjoon's hands move deliberately now, sliding up from your waist to your chest, cupping you fully in both palms. You arch into his touch instinctively, still leaning against him in that perfect, vulnerable curve. His fingers tease and knead, thumbs brushing over your nipples in lazy, confident strokes. Each pass sends another wave of heat spiraling through you, your body straining with every controlled movement of your hips.
“You’re everything,” he murmurs into your neck, voice low and hoarse. “So beautiful like this.”
Your breath stutters in your throat as his hand slides lower again, past your stomach, fingers finding the spot that’s already aching for more. The moment he starts to circle your clit, your hips falter–only slightly–but enough for him to notice.
“There it is,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple.
It’s all too much and yet not enough. Your chest is heaving, your whole body drawn taut as he continues that steady rhythm from below and above, deep thrusts meeting your slow grind, one hand playing with your breast, the other coaxing that final unraveling from your core.
You clutch at his arms, head lolling back onto his shoulder, a soft moan escaping your lips as the pleasure crests inside you. Your vision blurs at the edges, your body trembling with release, the feeling blooming deep and full and all-consuming. And through it all, Namjoon is holding you, watching you fall apart in his arms, like this is all he’s ever wanted.
As the waves fade, you stay there, chest rising and falling in time with his, both of you quiet, grounded in each other. He doesn’t let go. Just runs his hand over your ribs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, like he’s committing this moment to memory.
And for tonight, you let yourself do the same.
Afterward, the room is thick with the scent of sweat and skin, the sheets tangled loosely around your legs. You’re tucked against Namjoon’s side in that familiar spooning shape, his arm heavy over your waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing to yours. His fingertips trace faint, lazy circles into your hipbone, not trying to start anything–just staying close.
But the warmth between you doesn’t last. After a while, he shifts behind you, carefully untangling himself. You feel the bed dip as he slides off, padding silently across the room. He grabs the lighter from his nightstand and slides open the balcony door.
You don’t follow. You never do. He always takes his breaks in solitude, especially when he’s brooding. But tonight… something in your chest aches.
Through the thin veil of the curtains, you see him step into the moonlight, the soft city breeze tousling his hair. He’s shirtless, sweat cooling on his skin, loose drawstring pants sitting low on his hips. His back is to you–broad, strong, etched with faint muscle lines. The rise and fall of his shoulders is slow, contemplative. You’ve seen that attractive silhouette dozens of times, always with a cigarette pinched between his fingers, always after something heavy.
The flame flickers in his palm. A brief glow. Then he lifts it to his lips, inhales. His spine stretches with the movement, neck tilted slightly up as he exhales a plume of smoke into the dark.
You lie there watching, arms wrapped around yourself. And for the first time, the sight of him like that doesn’t comfort you.
It makes your chest hurt.
You don’t know why exactly. Maybe it’s the heaviness in his posture. Or the way the moon catches on his profile, making him look farther away than he is. Or maybe it’s because no matter how close you are–no matter how many times he’s inside you, beside you–there’s a storm circling both of you that no amount of love can shield.
You sit up slowly, sheets rustling. “What’s on your mind?”
He doesn’t turn around at first. Just exhales again, cigarette held loosely between two fingers. “It’s nothing.”
You wait. He knows you want an answer. He doesn’t want to worry you either, but it’ll cause more trouble if he doesn’t tell you.
So finally, he sighs, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. “I went to the Leeum Museum event today. That Samsung Frame campaign thing I’m doing.” He pauses. “Someone heckled me on the way out.”
Your stomach drops.
“Heckled?” you repeat.
He nods. “A woman. Probably a sasaeng. She told me I should demand a refund for donating to Kukje. Said the gallery doesn’t deserve my money. And then…” He hesitates. “She said if I keep being involved with them, they won’t stand by idly.”
Your mouth goes dry. “What?”
“I didn’t react. Just kept walking. Everyone else freaked out, but I didn’t want to give it oxygen.”
You press your hand to your chest, steadying your breath. This isn’t the first sign. But it’s the first time they’ve gotten close to him. The first time their threats sounded…real.
He finally glances over his shoulder, catching your expression.
“Do you think someone knows about–”
“No,” you cut in too fast. “I don’t think that’s it.”
A lie. You say it anyway.
Namjoon stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray beside the door and slides it shut behind him. He steps into the room again, the chill of the outside still clinging to his skin.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” you say softly, forcing calm into your voice. “People like that… they don’t think rationally. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You continue to offer him gentle, reassuring words. Telling him that you’re glad nothing else happened to him, but you don’t say what you’re really thinking.
That this might be your fault.
That if you hadn’t spoken back, if you hadn’t gone to HYBE that day, if you hadn’t disappeared with him at the after party... if you hadn’t fallen for him, if you hadn’t met him that night at the museum…this might not have escalated.
If you hadn’t let yourself fall into this thing–whatever this is–you wouldn’t be endangering the very person you love.
You blink fast, pushing down the tightness in your throat.
“I should get up,” you murmur, already moving.
Namjoon frowns. “Where are you going?”
You keep your back to him as you step into the bathroom. "I just remembered I need to send a few emails for the exhibition. Some last-minute logistics with the gallery team. The show opens tomorrow, so I should get on that. I’ll shower and then work again in the kitchen."
There’s a quiet stillness between you two as you disappear from his sight. A pause weighing with the things you’re not saying.
His eyes follow you with quiet uncertainty, but he doesn’t stop you.
And you wish he would.
The rest of the evening unfolds in a tense hush. He sits on the sofa with a book, the pages moving more slowly than usual. You sit at the dining table, focused on your laptop. You both steal glances but say little.
Later, it's time to go. Namjoon insists his manager pick you up from the underground garage at Nine One. You accept the offer, graciously.
As you walk toward the elevator, he grabs your hand, pulling you gently toward him. His fingers playfully tease the curve of your palm.
"You’re really not staying?" His voice is low, teasing, and his smirk–along with that deep, amused chuckle–sends a shiver down your spine.
You smile, trying not to melt. "Wish I could. But duty calls for a big day ahead!"
He sighs, nodding. "I feel you. I’ve got a music show pre-recording tomorrow. First time the fans will see all seven of us together again."
You had forgotten he told you this is all happening the same day. The exhibition and their first group comeback after 4 years. The lack of sleep has been getting to you, and you sincerely hope he hasn’t noticed.
Your expression softens. "You’ll be amazing. I can’t wait to hear all about it."
He kisses you goodbye, a little longer than necessary, as if trying to memorize the shape of your lips before you cease to exist for a moment in time. You promise to see each other this weekend, when he’ll come by your new exhibition.
He steps back, and you step out of the door, heart heavy and hopeful all at once.
When you finally arrive home, there’s a single piece of paper folded neatly and tucked into the gap between your apartment door and frame. You pause, eyes narrowing. No stamps, no envelopes–just plain white paper, like a cruel little invitation. Something about it bubbles unease up from your gut.
You glance over your shoulder.
Nothing. No footsteps. No shadows. No camera clicks. Nothing… and yet, the hallway feels colder.
You pick up the note, fingers trembling slightly as you open it. And then, without warning…
Your stomach drops.
“BTS will be having their first comeback in a long time tomorrow. That is when I will finally act.
There are two things I’ve planned to do.
There will be a hi-touch session before the prerecording. I will hurt him there.
I have knives.
I know staff who will help me follow through.
He needs to know how disrespectful his actions are to his fans by dating. He needs to understand the pain we feel–the pain all ARMYS will feel if you two ever go public.
It will destroy the group. It will ruin their careers.
You need to cut contact and disappear somewhere he can’t find you.
You have 12 hours.
If you tell the police or Namjoon, I will know.
And I won’t hesitate to go to Nine One and finish it myself. Maybe even get a truck to do it.”
There’s more. You almost don’t want to look.
But you do.
A small plastic bag is attached to the bottom of the note. Inside: a lock of hair. Streaked in red. Blood. Who’s hair? Who fucking knows…
Your vision blurs. The letter slips from your hands and flutters to the floor like something out of a horror film.
You collapse to your knees.
Your heart is racing, head pounding, breath caught in your throat. You can’t even scream–there’s no voice, only disbelief. Terror. Rage. Grief.
This is madness. Namjoon is a 31-year-old grown man. You’re 26. You’re both adults–two consenting people who found connection in a chaotic world. Since when did love become something punishable by death threats?
Tears spill hot and fast down your cheeks.
You think about earlier tonight. His arms around you. The way he kissed you with so much passion and desire to consume you. The heaviness in his sighs as he took drags from his cigarette. The confession about being heckled at a museum. And now… this.
Now it’s not just about you. Not just about your privacy or your safety.
This is about Namjoon.
And someone wants to hurt him to prove a point.
And if anything ever happened to Namjoon…
If anything happened to him because of you…
You don’t finish the thought. You can’t.
Your whole body trembles. You clutch your chest, trying to force your lungs to expand again, but the sobs come hard. You curl in on yourself on the floor, your vision blurred from tears, your thoughts collapsing into chaos.
This is the dread your intuition was warning you about earlier. As if your heart already knew that time would be the last.
You want to scream. You want to throw something. You want to burn the note, flush it, pretend it was never real. But your shaking hands won’t even let you stand up.
You don’t know how long you stay like that. But when your tears finally slow, your hands feel steadier.
You pick up the note with shaking fingers, fold it carefully, and press it flat against your knee.
You don’t know what to do yet. But you do know one thing:
You have to protect him.
Even if that means… he can’t know.
Even if it means walking away.
Even if it shatters both of you.
You will need to do this.
Now.
It’s for the best.
Namjoon wakes up the next morning in a cold sweat, chest rising with shallow breaths. He blinks against the soft gray light seeping through the curtains, skin clammy beneath the sheets. For a moment, he doesn’t know what jolted him out of sleep–only that it lingers.
A heaviness in his ribs. A pull in his gut.
Maybe it was the whiskey. A glass before bed, neat, to calm his nerves as he sensed something he couldn’t explain. Probably a bad idea, considering the packed schedule he has today. Morning meetings, hi-touch, the pre-recordings, press obligations in the afternoon. He doesn’t have time to be sluggish. Doesn’t have time for these dreams that vanish the second he wakes but leave behind that familiar weight. That something-isn’t-right kind of feeling.
He sits up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, then glances at his phone on the nightstand. No missed calls. No notifications.
Still, he types out a few messages to you anyway–short, sweet bursts of affection.
[Namjoon]good morning baby.i hope you slept okay.today’s the big day. you’ve got this.also pls eat something. no surviving on barley tea again.
He even adds a goofy selfie of himself brushing his teeth, toothpaste foam in the corner of his mouth. A peace sign. A soft-eyed grin.
Then he sets the phone down and gets up to start his day.
Hours pass.
And the messages remain unread.
Unanswered.
He tells himself it’s fine. You're probably busy. Maybe the gallery Wi-Fi is spotty. Or maybe you're buried under last-minute logistics and emails and don't have the energy to reply. He knows how dedicated you are–how much this show means to you. To both of you.
But that odd feeling from last night doesn’t quite leave him. It curls tighter in his chest with every minute of silence.
Still, he checks his phone more times than usual.
Yeah, you’re just busy, he thinks. There’s nothing else to it.
He heads to the Music Bank recording location with the rest of the members, waving at the crowd of fans gathered outside. The hi-touch event passes smoothly, the performance even more so. Everyone’s in good spirits. There’s laughter, backstage banter, a strong sense of being back. Afterward, they head over to Inkigayo for the next show. Another round of fans, flashing lights, energy.
Namjoon goes through all of it like clockwork. Business as usual, after all.
By the time the group wraps up and they’re packed back into separate vans to head home, Namjoon is quiet. Jimin, sitting beside him, glances over.
“Why do you keep refreshing your apps like that?” Jimin asks, raising an eyebrow.
Namjoon exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I messaged her this morning. Still nothing.”
Jimin shrugs lightly. “She’s probably just slammed. From the moment I met her, I knew she was your type–hardworking, a little chaotic upstairs,” he teases, tapping his temple. “But smart. Exactly like you.”
Namjoon huffs a small laugh. He appreciates the joke. He agrees, too. You’re probably overwhelmed with work. That has to be it.
But as they near their apartment building, his phone screen is still empty. No reply. Not even a read receipt.
He sends you another message before bed that night. He says he hopes the first day of the exhibition went well. That he’s proud of you. That he wants to stop by tomorrow evening if his schedule opens up.
He adds a small note about the tour. It’s getting close–just one more week before they leave for the US. There’s excitement, of course. It’s the first global tour in years. But it also means he won’t see you for a while. He’s seriously considering finding a way for you to travel with them under the pretense of researching museums or writing about art in different cities. He’d tag along with you on off-days, visit exhibitions together, hold your hand in cities where no one would bat an eye.
It’s a dream he’s been thinking about more and more lately.
But when he finally turns off the lights and closes his eyes, his chest is tight. He hasn’t felt this kind of restlessness in months.
Not since before you.
He flips over, checks his phone again.
Still nothing.
The sun rises, and the silence remains.
By the next afternoon, Namjoon is running through final rehearsal in HYBE’s practice room with the rest of the group before heading out to film a performance video for Studio CHOOM. The music blares, bodies move in sync, sweat glistens on their brows–but even in the middle of the choreography, Namjoon’s mind drifts.
The second the song ends, he leans over to grab his water bottle and wipes his face with a towel. His brows are furrowed.
“You okay, hyung?” Taehyung asks.
Namjoon nods slowly. “Haven’t heard from Y/N in two days.”
Jin raises a brow. “Did you guys fight?”
“No. Nothing like that,” Namjoon says, voice low. “Everything was fine when we saw each other. She came over. Did things. Talked.”
Yoongi, sitting on the bench behind them, crosses his arms. “You sure she’s not just busy?”
Namjoon hesitates.
That’s what he’d been telling himself. But something’s gnawing at him. Something he can’t shake.
He thinks back to when he was spooning you. The way you were quiet. When he went out for a smoke. The moment you got up abruptly, saying you had to shower. The way you didn’t meet his eyes as you sat at the kitchen table and focused too hard on your laptop screen. It wasn’t like you. Not fully.
And then, he remembers the conversation.
The heckler at the museum.
That woman.
The one who confronted him during the Samsung event earlier in the week, saying he should request a refund for his donations to Kukje Gallery. Telling him the museum didn’t deserve his support. Pleading for him to stop affiliating himself with it or else “they” wouldn’t stand by idle.
At the time, he’d brushed it off. A sasaeng, probably. Someone delusional. But he hadn’t missed the flicker in your eyes when he told you. You said it probably wasn’t about you two. You’d dismissed it immediately.
Too immediately.
“That has to be it,” Namjoon mutters under his breath, dropping his towel.
“What?” Jungkook asks.
Namjoon looks at the group. “The heckler. I think she’s connected to those sasaengs who have been stalking the HYBE building lately. I wonder if Y/N ran into them when she came by that one time, but she would’ve told me about it.”
Silence falls over the room.
Jungkook frowns. “Hyung… if that happened, then maybe this could be serious.”
“Simply mentioning those sasaengs, you already know it’s not good,” Yoongi mutters. “You’ve seen what those people are capable of.”
“They’ve driven out other girlfriends before,” Hoseok adds quietly. “Maknae line, especially.”
“In my case, my ex was the insane one..” Jimin said, “Though I know Y/N is not like that at all, especially from the times I saw her.”
“Right!” Jungkook further supported.
Namjoon sits on the bench, phone clutched tightly in his hand.
You would have told him if that happened though. He knows you would’ve… wouldn’t you?
Unless you were trying to protect him.
Unless you didn’t want to burden this on him knowing he’s busy.
Unless you thought disappearing was the best thing you could do to keep him focused on his goals.
The idea hits him hard.
He gets up suddenly. His chest aches, breath shallow, panic blooming in the back of his mind.
“Hyung?” Taehyung asks.
Namjoon doesn’t answer. He unlocks his phone and tries again.
Another message might be good to send, right?
This time, a voice memo.
“Y/N… it’s me. I don’t know what’s going on, but please–please just text me. Call me. Anything. I don’t care if you’re busy. I don’t care if you’re mad about something. I just need to know you’re okay.”
He hits send.
Then lowers his hand, staring at the blank screen once more. His members surround him, comforting him and worried about you.
For the first time ever, he’s pleasing to God, hoping you’re okay.
Namjoon pushes himself through the chaos of the day, back-to-back rehearsals, press interviews, stylists pulling him every which way, clinging to one thing: the hope that he’ll see you at the exhibition tonight.
That maybe you'll be standing there, tucked behind some gallery wall with a clipboard in hand, greeting guests with that soft, collected voice of yours. Maybe you’d catch his eye, give him that tiny smile like you always do when you spot him in a crowd. Maybe you'd finally explain everything.
He’s still telling himself it’s just stress. Just distance. Just temporary.
Wearing a mask, baseball cap, a Stussy 8-ball oversized white T-shirt and loose black pants, Namjoon slips through the doors of the Kukje Gallery quietly. Like he always does when he wants to remain invisible.
At the reception table, he gently approaches the staff.
“Hi… I’m looking for the art curator, L/N Y/N,” he says politely, trying to sound professional. “I’m here about a concept discussion. It’s in regard to one of the pieces in the exhibition.”
The staff member blinks, recognition flickering in their eyes, but something shifts. Their smile falters. And Namjoon sees it.
The moment something’s wrong.
“She’s not here,” the receptionist says carefully.
He straightens. “What do you mean? Is she out for a bit or–?”
“No… she’s no longer with us.”
Namjoon’s heart stutters. No longer… with us? What the hell does that mean?
He tries to breathe. “I’m sorry. Could you clarify? Did something happen to her?”
Please don’t say it.
Don’t say it like she’s dead. Don’t say something happened, that you were found somewhere, lifeless. That the last time he kissed you goodbye would be the final time. Because if that’s true, if something happened to you, Namjoon knows–he will never stop hunting down for the person responsible. He’ll burn the world down if he has to.
“There’s no need to worry.” A voice breaks through. Chairwoman Hyun-Sook Lee steps up beside him, graceful and calm as ever. “Mr. Kim Namjoon, yes? Let’s speak in my office.”
Namjoon follows her wordlessly, the whole gallery feeling too quiet, too hollow, like something vital has already left the space.
Inside the office, she closes the door gently behind them and they sit down in the chairs.
“She came in yesterday morning,” she says, motioning for him to sit. “She looked… shaken. Said she needed to resign.”
“Resign?” Namjoon repeats, voice hoarse. “On the day of the exhibition?”
“Yes. I asked her how she could just walk away, especially when this show was partially built on her vision. She hesitated for a while but eventually said there was a family emergency and she had to leave the country immediately.”
Namjoon clenches his jaw.
Lies. He can hear it in every word. You wouldn’t do this–not without telling him. Not unless something serious, something threatening, forced your hand.
“She didn’t tell me where,” the Chairwoman continues, sighing. “But she looked… resolved. Sad, but sure. I told her if she ever finds her way back, Kukje would welcome her with open arms. Not every institution would offer that. But I mean it. It would be devastating to lose a voice like hers forever.”
Namjoon nods, swallowing back the ache building in his throat.
“It really would.”
Namjoon manages a polite thank-you before getting up from his chair, but his chest is burning.
This isn’t just a disappearance. It’s an erasure.
Where did you go?
Chairwoman Hyun-Sook Lee gives Namjoon a moment to gather himself before softly gesturing toward the hallway just beyond her office.
“You should see it, Namjoon-ssi. Before you leave. The exhibition. She… she hoped you’d come. Told me that just yesterday. Said she wanted you to like it.”
His breath catches.
So even when she was preparing to vanish, you were still thinking about him. About this.
He walks the gallery slowly, shoulders hunched, his cap pulled low as he slips into the first showroom. It’s early still, before the official opening hours. There’s no press, no clinking glasses, no polite applause echoing in the halls. Just the art. Quiet, reverent.
And all of it, unmistakably touched by your vision.
Roni Horn’s Untitled (But the boomerang that returns is not the same one I threw) glows from within its translucent glass body. A massive, glacial cylinder that looks cold to the eye but pulses with something warmer beneath the surface. Namjoon stands before it, remembering how he once stared at this piece for nearly an hour after a bad press cycle. You’d whispered the title aloud once while referencing circularity in memory. He hadn’t forgotten.
He moves on to Joel Shapiro’s geometric sculpture–its jagged posture feels like a body caught in motion, or collapse. He lingers at Felix Gonzalez-Torres’ soft-lit portrait, a piece made of nothing but absence and longing. Lee Bae’s thick charcoal textures rise from the canvas with quiet defiance. Yoo Yongkuk’s brilliant, controlled color burns behind his eyes even after he steps away.
Room by room, it becomes more unbearable.
These were his pieces. His personal collection. But somehow they feel changed. Transformed. They’re no longer just objects. They’re reflections of him curated by you–by someone who understood what each one meant. Someone who translated his silence into language.
Then he enters the final room.
It’s small, intimate, the lighting dimmed to a softer hue.
And there it is.
His first real acquisition. The painting that marked the beginning of his journey as a collector. He remembers staring at it in the corner of an old Seoul gallery years ago, overwhelmed by its simplicity–just brush, pigment, and space–and feeling like it had cracked something open in his chest.
Beside it, a wall label.
It’s longer than the others, a curatorial note. He steps closer.
"‘Burnt Umber & Ultramarine’ by Yun Hyong-keun resonates with the tension between discipline and surrender. The vertical strokes, layered in deep umber and ultramarine, evoke doors, windows–passages. This particular piece was the first acquired by Kim Namjoon, who believes that art should be accessible to all–bridging it to anyone who finds joy in it, because art, at its core, makes people happy. It remains the cornerstone of his collection. To him, it is not just pigment on canvas, it is a quiet reckoning. A reminder that even in restraint, something expansive can emerge. That surrender, when chosen, is its own kind of strength. And that love, real love, often lives in the spaces where we let go, not hold on.
Namjoon swears he hears your voice as he reads it. Like you’re there beside him, whispering every word through the gallery air.
His throat tightens. He tries to swallow, but it doesn’t go down.
You wrote this for him.
And somewhere between the lines–between “his collection”, “surrender” and “real love”–you’ve left something else. Something unspoken. Something tender and afraid and impossibly real.
You loved him.
Do you still do now?
His eyes begin to sting, and he exhales shakily, turning slightly away from the painting. He lifts his cap, dragging a hand over his face.
So this is what’s left.
A ghost of your voice on the wall, fragments of who you were scattered among the frames. And a man who still wants to believe that none of this is over.
But it feels like an ending.
Like everything golden is beginning to fade into ash.
He leaves the gallery with the evening light casting long shadows down the alley, footsteps quickening. His head buzzes with thoughts.
You mentioned many times that you lived in Myeongdong. But he never visited. It was too hard given his status and the bustling location. You also said your social circle in Korea was small, mostly work-related. Few close friends. No family in the country.
Where else could you be?
A hotel?
Abroad?
You mentioned growing up in San Francisco, California. Though is that still a place you call home? Or is it elsewhere?
Maybe social media would be able to tell.
He pulls out his phone, fingers shaking slightly, and opens Instagram.
He searches your username: @belleame
Nothing.
Did you change it?
He searches now with your name.
Again, nothing.
He refreshes. Checks the spelling. Tries again.
He checks his DMs that you had with him.
“This account no longer exists.”
His stomach flips. No.
He checks your Twitter. Facebook. Pinterest. Tiktok.
Gone. Every account. Deleted. Erased.
Panic crashes through him like a wave.
You’re gone. Not just physically. You’ve wiped yourself clean from the internet. From him.
No. No, no, no.
He opens his photo gallery, frantically scrolling. There: you, laughing with a cocktail at some bar in Seongsu. You, blurry in motion on an early Han River walk. You, lying beside him, tangled in bedsheets, your skin glowing in golden morning light. You in front of a Moon Jar at the Gallery Hyundai. You in front of a painting at the Leeum Museum. You looking directly at him, smiling like you already knew he was going to fall for you.
You existed.
You do exist.
But now?
Namjoon sinks onto a bench near his apartment, breath shallow. He thinks about what could have scared you off like this. Something happened. Something bad. Something you’re trying to shield him from. And yet, he can’t help but think:
Was I too careless? Was it the conversation we had that night? The exhibition? The way I kissed her hand in front of the members like I didn’t care who saw?
His thoughts spiral.
He briefly considers hiring a private investigator. But he has no address. No names. No leads. And everything public about you is gone.
You didn’t just leave.
You vanished.
Later that night, he sits at his kitchen counter in silence, cracking open a cold beer with trembling fingers–not for pleasure, but to shut off the racing thoughts in his mind. The liquid goes down bitter and empty.
He doesn’t remember sending the message to the group chat. Just that Jimin and Yoongi are suddenly at his door thirty minutes later.
Yoongi brings soju. Jimin brings food.
They don’t say much. Don’t push. Just keep him grounded.
Namjoon’s hands clench around the bottle. “She’s gone.”
“Did she tell you? She didn’t leave a message, did she?” Jimin asks.
Namjoon shakes his head.
“She deleted her social media,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Even her exhibition contacts. She left the country. Or at least said she did. I don’t know what’s real.”
Yoongi watches him quietly. “And you really think this has something to do with the sasaengs?”
Namjoon nods. “She wouldn’t run unless something scared her off. I can feel it.”
Silence stretches between them.
“I think she tried to protect you, hyung,” Jimin murmurs.
That lands like a punch.
Because deep down, Namjoon knows it’s true.
You vanished not because you didn’t care.
You vanished because you cared too much.
“We’re leaving for the States next week, you know. Promotions, interviews, late night shows, all that crap–and then straight into the tour.” He pauses. “Are you really gonna let this derail everything?”
Jimin shoots him a sharp look from where he sits curled up on the couch. “Yoongi-hyung.”
“What?” Yoongi shrugs. “I’m not saying it to be cold. But someone needs to say it. He’s the group leader after all and we need his guidance more than ever right now.”
Namjoon stays silent, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down his beer bottle.
Yoongi crosses his arms. “Look. I know this is hell. I can’t even imagine how I’d be holding it together if I were you. But the reality is, we’ve got shit to do. Fans are watching. Staff are watching. And God knows if those sasaengs are too.”
He looks meaningfully at Namjoon. “You can’t let them catch wind that something’s off. You think they’re dangerous now? Imagine if they start connecting dots, if they sniff out what really happened. This could get worse. You need to keep your head on straight. For your safety, and for hers. Especially if what she did was a sacrifice to protect you.”
Namjoon swallows hard.
He hates how right Yoongi is.
Because as much as his heart is breaking, as much as the thought of you out there, alone and scared, twists his gut–it’s true. He has a duty. To his members. To ARMY. To you.
His feelings, messy and raw, have to wait.
But still, it hurts.
Like a pair of jeans worn too thin at the knees, stretched to their limits. Torn.
But he can stitch it back together.
He has to.
Jimin gets up and walks over, placing a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder.
“Hyung,” he says gently. “I know it feels impossible right now. But maybe… maybe this is a weird kind of fate.”
Namjoon looks up at him.
“You’re going on a world tour,” Jimin continues. “Think about it. You’ll be in every major city. Maybe she’s in one of them. You’ll get to check every corner of the globe without making it suspicious.”
Namjoon lets out a shaky breath. “I’ve been thinking about hiring someone.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow.
“A private investigator,” Namjoon clarifies. “Or someone discreet. Maybe pull in some of our trusted staff too. No one who would leak anything, obviously.”
Jimin brightens. “See? That’s a good plan. That’s something solid to work with. It’ll be okay, hyung. We’ll figure this out.”
Namjoon offers him a faint smile. “If I find her… then it’s meant to be. I’ll bring her home.”
Yoongi, quiet now, gives a single nod.
Namjoon’s voice drops to a whisper. “But if I don’t… maybe that’s the universe telling me to stop.”
Jimin frowns. “Don’t say that.”
“No, I’m serious,” Namjoon replies. “Maybe I’m just not meant to have that kind of love. Maybe it’s not part of my path.”
He stares down at the rim of his bottle.
“But I’ll search. I’ll keep trying… until the very end of this tour.”
The kitchen is quiet for a beat.
And then Yoongi murmurs, almost too quietly to hear, “Then let’s hope this tour leads you back to her.”
Namjoon nods.
Please, he thinks.
Let it lead me back to her.
The following week in Mid-March, BTS boarded a flight to Los Angeles. It was the official kickoff of their long-awaited world tour. City after city. Stadiums were filled to the brim, sold out shows lined their schedules, and everyone welcomed them with a ferocity that reminded them just how deeply they were loved.
Namjoon performed with practiced precision–his body moved, his voice roared through the mic, his verses hit with power–but somewhere behind his stage face, a fog lingered.
Every city they touched down in, he made time for himself in the day. Museums were his escape, his solace, his ritual.
At the Getty Center in LA, he wandered the tranquil gardens and stood silently in front of Van Gogh’s Irises, wondering what you would’ve said about the brushwork.
In San Francisco, he slipped into the SFMOMA early one morning, gazing at Rothko’s haunting blocks of color and thinking of your theories on tension and void.
In Chicago, he stood in front of the Thorne Miniature Rooms at the Art Institute, remembering how you once said small things contain the biggest truths.
But there was no sign of you.
A month passed.
They flew across the ocean to begin the Europe leg of the tour. Namjoon’s mind still wandered during car rides and long dressing room waits.
He spent quiet mornings at the Tate Modern in London, admiring the striking architecture and letting the works of Jenny Holzer and Anselm Kiefer soak into him.
In Berlin, he stood outside the Hamburger Bahnhof in the rain for twenty minutes before going in, something about the chill keeping him grounded.
At the Musée d'Orsay in Paris, he looked at sculptures that reminded him of your back, your voice, your sighs in bed.
Still nothing. Not a trace of you.
Two months slipped by. The Asia leg began.
Cities felt too close to home now. He kept hoping you might be there. Just around the corner. In a crowd. Behind sunglasses.
Tokyo, Taipei, Bangkok.
He went to museums in all of them. Small ones. Big ones. Hidden ones.
Every time he entered a gallery, he scanned the room with anticipation lodged like a stone in his throat.
But again, you weren’t there.
In the liminal weeks between Asia and their Latin American leg, the group returned to Korea. Namjoon, driven by a stubborn ache, went to the Kukje Gallery the very next day.
The same receptionist. The same polished halls. The same stillness.
He hoped–just maybe–you’d be drawn there again, like a phantom returning to familiar soil.
But you weren’t there either.
He retraced his steps. The coffee shop in Seongsu. The Han River path you both liked. The museum where you first held his hand in public.
He even sat at the bench outside his apartment building where you once waited for him with tteokbokki at 1AM.
No sign. No shadow. Not even a whisper.
Then came Brazil. Chile. Argentina.
Three months had passed now, and exhaustion pressed hard into his bones.
At every show, Namjoon’s eyes wandered the crowd as he rapped, looking for you. As if he might spot you swaying, glowing, watching him like you once did.
But the illusion always faded with the lights.
Maybe you didn’t want to be found.
Maybe you’d moved on.
Maybe you were with someone else now–laughing with them, sharing art with them, kissing them, touching them.
Maybe you were planning a life together.
Maybe the “no kids” talk you used to be so firm about was just another thing you could change.
Maybe the version of you that loved him was locked in a past life, and the real you had already closed that chapter.
These thoughts consumed him, haunted him.
He smiled on stage. But at night, he wrote.
And when the year turned, everything felt different.
Twelve months had passed.
So much had changed. And yet, in his heart, you still lingered.
Namjoon poured everything into his fifth solo album. He wrote about aging, longing, about distance, about miscommunication, about that final night in the bath with your back against his chest.
He wrote about regret. He wrote about love.
He wrote about the ache of an incomplete ending.
One song in particular, the one no one would hear but him, ended with a question he never dared ask out loud:
Why didn’t you say goodbye properly?
The company suggested he go on a solo tour. Namjoon accepted. It’ll happen 2 months from now.
He thought it might help him move on.
Work. More work.
It was all he could cling to.
Then one rainy afternoon, the knock came.
He was in his studio, deep into reworking a track when the door creaked open.
Jimin stepped inside.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said.
Namjoon blinked. “What is it?”
Jimin handed him an envelope. No markings. No stamp. Just a single postcard inside.
Namjoon looked at the front image: the Guggenheim Museum in New York City.
A spiral of white and glass. A place he had visited before. A place you both once talked about wanting to visit together.
He frowned. “What’s this?”
“Flip it over.”
Namjoon turned it.
A message.
“To be loved accurately and to love accurately. I’m probably the one who knows least about how accurately my love reaches you. I don't think it'll ever reach anymore. But there's a place I want to go to. Could you meet me there if your heart still wavers?”
Namjoon’s breath left him in a single, unsteady exhale. His eyes scanned to the bottom.
Your signature.
Your writing.
His heart exploded in his chest.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “I went when we were on tour and never saw her there.”
Jimin shrugged softly. “I’ve been checking our fan mail every day with my manager. Just in case something ever showed up. For a whole year.”
Namjoon stared at him. “Jimin…”
“It came in this morning,” Jimin said. “There’s no return address. Just that.”
Namjoon looked back at the image.
He didn’t need anything else. The address was the image.
“I’m going,” he said, already grabbing his phone.
“Do it, hyung.”
And with the powerhouse of HYBE behind him, he made it happen.
A red-eye flight. A discreet hotel booking.
It would leak eventually, knowing sasaengs. But HYBE would spin it as “mv shooting time” in New York if the media ever asked.
He packed clothes. A sketchbook. A notebook. His camera. One of the poems you liked.
He didn't sleep on the plane. He replayed questions he wanted to ask you in his head over and over.
Will you really be there?Will you remember me?Have you changed?Do you still love me?
And then the final thought:
What if you don’t show up at all?
But he had to go.
He had to.
He touched down, barely took time to check into his hotel, and then made his way to the Guggenheim.
The moment he entered the spiraled gallery halls, he felt breathless.
The white curve of the walls. The stillness of art around him. The quiet hum of strangers’ conversations.
And then–
There you were.
Your back exposed in a flowing blue sundress. Hair pinned up. Shoulders soft.
Standing still before a painting.
Namjoon’s heart seized.
He took a step forward and stood next to you.
And you turned.
“Did I keep you waiting long?” you asked, voice soft, eyes gleaming. It’s obviously been too long. You decided to come live with your old friend, and go work where the dream started. You needed to lay low for awhile. Being too close to him would’ve been too hard.
He let out a breath that felt like it carried a year’s worth of pain.
“Are you kidding me?” he said, chuckling through the wetness already forming in his eyes. “I went through hell because of you.”
You likely did too, he thought. Probably even more than him.
“I know,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry, like really. There was just so much–”
“No,” he interrupts, stepping closer, gaze fixed on yours. “Don’t be. Without you, my life felt empty, but I rationalized why you did it.”
Your heart skipped. Maybe it even stopped.
“I felt the same way,” you said, voice cracking. “So, would you… would you be willing to give me some of your time again? In exchange, I’ll give you some of my sleep.”
Namjoon reached for your hand.
“The answer is always, yes. As long as you come home with me.”
“I will,”
And this time, he didn’t let go.
the end.
a/n: hi guys!! how did you like this fic? i really wanted to do a canon/idolverse fic for the longest time, but the issue was... i needed it to be as canon as possible just for immersion sake and reference a lot of things the members mention (in this case, namjoon). whenever i've read fics of this AU, i immediately get pulled out of the world once theres references or mentions of things the members never say or do or OCs. haha so this was my take on it. this may be my last fic in a long time due to work having me busy as well as life. i hope you enjoy this story, and happy birthday namjoon. i hope this fic never finds you haha, but if it does, please do not judge me at all i begggg
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title: halcyon days (m)
pairing: knj x reader(f)
rating/genre: m (18+) ; smut ; canon idol! au , age-gap au (reader is 26, namjoon is 31); idol & art enthusiast! namjoon x art curator!reader au
summary: halcyon days – described as a past period that was happy, peaceful, and prosperous, often viewed with nostalgia. this may be a story of such a time. you, an art curator grounded in these seoul gallery walls, meet RM, an idol of top group BTS, whose world moves to an entirely different rhythm. Two lives on diverging paths. But when those paths somehow cross in the arts, something unexpected begins. love that unfolds slowly, like brushstrokes on canvas, brief and fleeting.
note: i would like to think this fic is like my love letter to namjoon. i did way too much research on his purchased art, films, hobbies, living space, art museums, etc. for this and i hope maybe you enjoy this silly writing. i initially wrote 34k words so i have to split it up unfortunately but please stick around for part 2
warnings: language, dialogue heavy, art talk, decision to leave movie spoilers, a lot of smut in many positions (explicit and anecdotal), drinking, posessive namjoon, protected s*x, cunn*lingus, finger*ng, blowj*b, b*ckshots, riding of course, sasaengs, grotesque harassment, heavy angst, some canon and noncanon events
drop date: September 5th, 2025, 5:00pm pst
word count: 20.2k
part 2 | spotify fic playlist | crossposted on ao3 here
—
So many paths that will never cross–this is a thought you constantly have as you stare at the museum and gallerygoers wandering through the exhibition hall, their footsteps muffled by the polished wood beneath them, their gazes fixed on frames capturing bodies, brushstrokes, and meaning.
You often find yourself watching people as much as you watch the art.
Maybe it’s habit. Or maybe it’s the same flicker of wonder you felt the first time you ever walked into the Guggenheim Museum in New York. You’d gone to help a close friend move into the Columbia University dorms to start her first year as an architecture major, and she took you there on a whim. You didn’t expect to fall in love–not with a person, but with the silence between walls, with the hush of reverence, and with the people who stopped in their tracks, struck by something they couldn’t name. Art pieces obscure and beautiful of all shapes and sizes.
That feeling never left you. You chased it all the way to Seoul, through your grad school years at Seoul National University and working at their Museum of Art, through internships at Gana Art Center, and temporary roles at Gallery Hyundai and the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Seoul. You finally landed here at Kukje Gallery about eight months ago. First as an archivist. Now, you're curator.
And yet, for all the ways you study art, you’ve always studied people too.
You can’t help it. The way your mind drifts when you see a stranger paused in front of a sculpture or squinting at a canvas. The thoughts creep in.
Who are they?
What brought them here today?
What are they carrying that you’ll never know?
Moments of sonder, you’ve always called it. Realizing every person is living a life as vivid and complex as yours. Yet you pass each other without ever intersecting.
You’ve carried that thought with you ever since.
Still, you never acted on it. Not until one quiet afternoon, in late August, when your body moved before your mind could catch up.
He was tall. Broad shoulders, muscular frame. Thick thighs that tapered into lean legs. Thick-rimmed glasses, sometimes paired with a mask and a ball cap, sometimes not. His outfits rotated from pressed button-downs and slacks to oversized hoodies and shorts. Casual. Low-key. Purposefully anonymous.
He came often, yet never drew attention. Quiet. Observant. Always lingering in front of each painting for longer than most, as if he were dissecting every brushstroke, every nuance.
And despite the hundreds of visitors who passed through the gallery, there was something about him that made your eyes follow him every time.
One day, you left your desk to retrieve documents from the archive room across the hall. As you returned, you spotted him again. He was standing in front of Kim Heungsoo’s Untitled (Two Nudes) and Une Pose. There was something about his expression this time–creased brows, a slight frown. Frustration?
Your curiosity got the better of you.
“Something wrong?” you asked, in Korean.
His head jerked slightly, startled. “Huh?”
His eyes flicked to your chest–your name tag. L/N, F/N. Recognition flickered behind his lenses. Foreign name. He thinks he’s seen you here before, working. Somehow, that small confirmation calmed him.
You noticed the way his stance eased. Still quiet, still a little guarded, but less… rattled.
“Oh, uh,” you continued, “you looked like you were looking at the paintings and thinking really hard, so I was curious to see if you were okay.”
Should you not have asked? Maybe he thinks you’re weird. You’re not sure why after all this time of observing people at museums looking at paintings, that you decided to finally interact with one of them in their most pensive moment.
He just nodded, weighing his next words. For a second, you thought he might brush you off. You wouldn’t blame him for it. But instead, he followed it up with a question.
“Um, do you know who wrote these artwork label descriptions?”
“Oh, these?” You glanced at the placards and then back at him. “That would be me, the art curator of this gallery. Why?”
He glanced at you, and then back at the art, lost in thought.
“I’m gonna be honest,” he began, his gaze returning to the paintings. “I know art is subjective and open to interpretation, but…” He paused, then looked back at you. “I think you’re missing something in your interpretation of Untitled (Two Nudes) and Une Pose. Especially in terms of Kim Heungsoo’s perspective on form and desire. It’s not just about appreciation of the body. It’s about the subtle tension between abstraction and eroticism. Your labels don’t really touch on that.”
Your mouth opened, stunned. You weren’t used to being challenged–at least not like this.
“Uh, what do you mean? I studied these pieces,” you said, defensively. “I curated this exhibition. I spent months researching the cultural context, the artist’s interviews, the stylistic evolution–”
He gave a small shrug, then responded in English, shocking you completely.
“I still think you’re overlooking something important. But I’ll agree to disagree. Thanks.”
And with that, he turned and walked ahead. Just like that.
Leaving you standing in the quiet gallery, blinking at the space he left behind.
He turned and walked away, disappearing further down the hall.
You stood frozen, utterly thrown off, appalled.
What was that?
Did he just… mansplain a label you wrote? Who the hell is this guy? You doubt he’d have any understanding on erotic modern art pieces like you do. This is your forte after all. You learned about all of this through blood, sweat and tears. What does he know?
Ugh. It left you feeling like after eating a sour hard candy,
You wanted to say something back. Something witty, cutting, professional yet scathing. But you held your tongue. You had a job to do.
So you sighed, going back to the office as there were some remaining things you had to do before you head home.
Still… seriously? Who does he think he is?
A few weeks pass.
It’s a slow Tuesday evening in the late summer–still a bit warm, golden light stretching through the tall glass windows, shadows melting across the polished floor. Foot traffic is light. Most people don’t visit galleries on weeknights unless there’s a special event, and tonight, it’s just a few quiet souls drifting through the current nude modernist exhibition.
You’re at the front desk, going through the evening checklist, when a familiar figure enters.
The same figure that lit a flame in you not too long ago.
This time, he isn’t wearing a mask. His black baseball cap casts a soft shadow over his face, but you see him clearly–hoodie, matching gray 5-inch shorts. Still effortlessly tall. And frustratingly… attractive.
No surprise to be completely honest. There’s handsome men like him who frequent museums in Seoul just to feel something or to feel nothing, just performative for their social media or social rich circle.
You’re still mildly irritated with this guy as you see him approach a painting at the entrance, lost in his own thoughts.
You shouldn’t play with fire, but something about him doesn’t let you just ignore him. So you stand behind him and pounce on the moment.
“Are you here to look at an exhibition and tell me I’m bad at my job again?” you ask dryly in English, remembering how this man went on a whole rant in Korean only to end it in perfect passive-aggressive English.
A small chuckle escapes him as he settles into your language. “Hey, no, I’m actually here to sign a few papers. I was just looking at the painting while waiting to see if one of the people I know here would come out, but even the front desk is vacant.” His head gestures to the empty front desk.
You assume he wanted to see the chairwoman, who left to go to a small event earlier. Sekyung’s not even here to help because she went to grab dinner with a friend. So much for a quiet night.
“Oh, I see.” You quirk a brow. “Well, what papers did you need?”
Once again, a hint of hesitation that you catch in seconds because it becomes nonchalance.
“I don’t really like to mention this because I hate bragging,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck, “but… I donated a bit of money to the gallery. Just to keep supporting research and future exhibitions. I like coming here, and I want to keep coming.”
You pause.
Wait, what. Who the hell is he, even?
Donating money for the arts? No way… but this would make so much sense as to why he was being so critical when you first met him.
Your tone softens, caught between guilt and surprise from your previous thoughts about him. “Oh? That’s actually really kind of you. I can pull up the paperwork for you. What’s your name?”
And again! The hesitation. A flicker in his eyes as he speaks before it goes away.
“…Kim Namjoon.”
Okay?
“Ah. Okay. Mr. Kim Namjoon.” You type it into the system, and sure enough, his name pops up. “I see you here and the pending paperwork. I’ll get the documents printed out.”
He watches you, his gaze studying your face with care. Still no flicker of recognition from you, he thinks.
Do you really not know who he is?
He doesn’t want to be obnoxious, but… he’s Kim Namjoon. BTS. Global phenomenon. Cultural ambassador. A foreigner like you must know who he is, right?
He waits for a double-take at any moment. Even a pause for you to say something about him.
But nothing.
“Oh,” you add, scrolling through the screen, “there’s also a form here about submitting your own pieces for a future exhibition? You collect art?”
His earlier thoughts dissolve. “Oh, uh–yeah. I do.”
“Well.” You flash him a tight-lipped smile. “That explains why you were so critical of my work. You’re a collector after all.”
Another petty remark you throw out. Why are you like this? You’re going to get yourself fired if he reports you to the execs.
He winces a little, chuckling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you the other day, Y/N.”
You freeze.
Your name.
You aren’t wearing your name tag today–you forgot it at home.
Your eyes slowly lift from the screen to meet his. Your heart thumps once, heavy in your chest.
“How did you…” you start, but your voice fades.
He looks back at you, unreadable behind his glasses and cap, and continues before you can press further. “I apologize about the other day. I was too deep in my thoughts and said something rude without thinking. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”
I’m sorry, what?
Your fingers hover above the keyboard. Your pulse thunders in your ears.
Is this… an apology? From him? Mr. know-it-all?
You clear your throat, trying to steady yourself. “You don’t have to do anything. Really. It’s part of the industry. I’ve seen it happen to others when critics walk in–I just didn’t expect it to happen so suddenly. At least… not like that.”
He nods slowly, turning each of your words over in his mind. “I get that,” he murmurs. “I’m not a critic or anything, but I care too much about art sometimes. Especially when it moves me.”
“I can see that, but you’ve already given back to the gallery,” you reply, your voice softening. “That’s more than enough to show you care.”
“But I want to make it up to you, Y/N.”
You blink, caught off guard by his insistence. You hesitate.
Maybe this could help smooth over the tension between you two. He’s a donor. Maintaining good relations is in the gallery’s best interest–your best interest. For your research. Your exhibitions. Your job.
Yes. That’s a good reason.
“…Maybe,” you say slowly, eyes dropping. “Buy me a coffee?”
You bend down to retrieve the printed forms from the tray beside the desk. “Sign here on this page, and then again on the back.”
You place the papers in front of him and hand over a pen. Your fingers brush, just briefly, but it’s enough to send a flush creeping up your neck.
He signs quickly, glancing up afterward.
“How about dinner instead?” he asks. “I know a laid-back spot that has great food. No pressure–just… a peace offering.”
You look at him, a little amused, a little surprised.
“So this is how you bribe people you offend?” you tease.
His lips curve faintly. “Not exactly. Maybe I just want more than five minutes to talk about art… and to hear your point of view.”
You smile, slower this time, your gaze lingering.
“Then sure,” you say softly. “I’d like to hear more about your thoughts, too.”
“Alrighty.” He picks up one of the business cards in the acrylic holder on your desk, flips it over, and writes neatly–his number and KakaoTalk ID.
Namjoon slides the card across the counter. “I’ll message you. Does Friday evening work?”
You nod, tucking the card away into your blazer pocket. “Yeah. That works.”
He bows slightly before heading to the exit, the warm evening light catching the back of his hoodie as the glass doors slide open.
For a long moment, you just stare at the space he leaves behind.
You’re not sure what just happened.
Only that it leaves your heart beating faster than it should.
That night, after your shift, you return to your small studio apartment, kick off your shoes, and curl up on the couch with your phone still in hand.
A part of you hesitates. Should you message first? Will he really follow through?
[You]
Hey! Just wanted to confirm for Friday. What’s the name of the place we’re meeting?
A moment passes. Then another.
You tap out of the conversation, scroll through Instagram aimlessly, then tap back in.
Still nothing.
Then–a reply. A few minutes later.
[Namjoon]Yetnal Guksi in Yongsan. 8pm. Let me know if you have trouble finding it.
You pause, staring at the profile photo he uses–some anime character in profile, hair tousled, playing a saxophone. His display name isn’t even his real name. It’s a casual, half-joke Korean nickname. It doesn’t match the polished, reserved guy you met at the gallery at all.
But you don’t question it.
You type back:
You: Got it. Thanks. See you then.
And then, without overthinking it, you set your phone aside and go to bed.
You leave work earlier than usual. Your coworkers agree to cover the last two hours of special guest tours, and you’re quietly grateful.
Still, the journey is long. You take the subway from Anguk Station, transferring at the stop connected to Lotte Department Store. Weaving through corridors of glowing cosmetic ads and the rush-hour crowd, you switch lines again until you finally arrive at Noksapyeong Station.
From there, it’s a ten-minute uphill walk. The evening is starting to cool; your hair sticks slightly to the back of your neck as you pass small bars, cafés, and the slow hum of a residential neighborhood waking for dinner.
Almost an hour in total. Maybe you should have asked him to pick you up. But maybe he’s busy before this. Maybe that’s why he didn’t offer. You hope that’s the reason. And not that he’s some prick after all.
You finally arrive at Yetnal Guksi (옛날국시), a modest, old-school noodle joint with handwritten menus taped to the window and the steady clatter of bowls from inside. Nothing fancy, but comforting. You like that, honestly.
You check your watch.
7:53 p.m.
He isn’t there yet.
You stand just off to the side of the entrance, pretending to browse your phone. Minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.
No Namjoon.
Your chest tightens. Anxiety blooms slowly beneath your ribs. You pride yourself on punctuality–getting somewhere early helps you stay calm. But it also means sitting in that discomfort longer when the other person doesn’t show.
At exactly 8:15pm, you send him a message.
You: “Hey, I’m here. Where are you?”
No reply.
A part of you starts to spiras. Maybe meeting him outside of work is a mistake. Did he seriously stand you up? Why bother giving you a time, a place?
You’re not sure where he lives. Not like you bothered looking at any of his personal info in his file, but you can’t imagine he’d get here any time soon. It took you awhile to even get here yourself after all.
You suddenly feel eyes on you. An ajumma from the restaurant steps out, drying her hands on her apron.
“Are you coming in to eat, miss? Or…?” Her tone carries the unspoken question: Or are you just going to be loitering suspiciously outside this establishment?
“I’m waiting for someone,” you explain with a forced smile. “But he hasn’t arrived yet.”
Just as you finish, a soft gust of wind lifts your hair–and then a low voice behind you, in Korean:
“I’m here.”
You turn.
Namjoon stands there, slightly breathless, baseball cap pulled low, a thin sheen of sweat on his neck. His hoodie clings to him like he jogged the last few blocks.
“I’m sorry,” he says gently, back in English. “I should’ve texted. Got caught in traffic.”
Irritation that was flickering inside you fades into relief.
He really came after all.
The ajumma nods at you both and waves you inside.
You follow Namjoon into the narrow space–walls slightly yellowed from time and oil, the clinking of metal chopsticks and bowls playing beneath the low hum of a TV in the corner.
Most diners are older–old people sharing soju, middle-aged couples eating quietly, a few solo regulars bent over their bowls. No one pays you any mind, which feels strangely comforting compared to other places out in Seoul.
Namjoon slides into a booth near the back, tucked by a wooden window cracked open for the breeze. You settle across from him, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as he pulls a laminated menu toward him.
“Want me to order for us?” he asks, glancing up.
“Please do. You said you’ve been here before, right?”
He nods. “Yeah. I come whenever I want something simple and quiet. Their bibimguksu is solid. And we’ll get a small plate of gomabap, too. Mini gimbap rolls.”
“Sounds perfect.”
He flags down the ajumma with a warm, familiar tone–nothing overly polite or stiff, but respectful, like he’s done this many times before.
Soon, two steel cups of barley tea are placed in front of you. You lean back slightly, watching him.
“You come here alone?” you ask.
“Uh, yeah, usually,” he says. “Sometimes with a friend or two, but mostly on my own. It’s pretty peaceful. Away from the crowd.”
You see why. Despite the lack of frills, the place has a worn charm. The light is yellow and soft. The air smells like sesame oil and chili paste. No one’s here to impress anyone.
When the food arrives, the scent makes your stomach flutter. The bibimguksu glistens red with sauce, sliced cucumbers and boiled egg resting on top, noodles glossy and tangled. The gomabap rolls sit neatly beside a small bowl of soy sauce.
You pick up your chopsticks, twist a bit of bibimguksu around them, and take a bite.
Your eyes widen instantly.
“It’s really good!”
Namjoon smiles at your reaction. “I’m glad you like it too.”
“It’s… sweet, spicy, cold…mmm–it has so many layers. I wasn’t expecting this level of flavor.”
“Right? The sauce is just the right kind of fermented. And they don’t cheap out on the gochujang.”
You try a piece of gomabap with soft rice, crisp vegetables, a hint of sesame. Clean and light. Perfect alongside the fire of the noodles.
“I have to admit,” you say, grinning between bites, “I was kind of dreading it being bland. But this might be better than some trendy restaurants I’ve been to lately.”
“That’s the thing,” he replies, leaning on one elbow. “Places like this… they don’t try hard. They just know what they’re doing.”
You nod thoughtfully, then look up.
“So what’s your usual order here?” you ask, half-teasing. “Or is this it?”
“Sometimes kalguksu if I’m tired. But usually this.” He pauses, eyes scanning your face. “I didn’t want somewhere fancy. Figured this would be better.”
“It is,” you say sincerely. “Thank you for bringing me.”
He looks down for a moment, hiding how his smile pulls wider.
You fall into a comfortable rhythm–eating, talking, trading casual stories about art. You tell him about how you once dropped an entire tea tray at your old gallery job and cried in the archive room for twenty minutes. He tells you about buying a sculpture he thought was two feet tall but turned out taller than him. He hesitates to say where he ended up putting it, scared it might reveal too much.
But despite all of his efforts to put up a wall to prevent you from learning too much about him. There’s a part of him that wants to tell you.
He has a feeling. A good feeling. A feeling that you’re a safe person he can confide this with.
And once you ask him this question, it truly has battling with opening up himself to you, to his world.
“So what do you do for work outside the art world, Namjoon?”
Caught off guard, he wonders what to say. Should he really tell you he’s an idol? The fact you haven’t recognized him still surprises him. What would you say if he told you? Judge him? Freak out?
He reminds himself again that he doesn’t know you well, and the thought scares him to share too much given what he’s seen in the past. To him, to his members.
But he decides to be genuine. Lying feels worse. Plus, the feeling he has about you is something he’s never felt about someone before.
He sets down his chopsticks gently, wiping his hands on a napkin, stalling a moment.
“I’m… actually a musician,” he says carefully, watching your reaction.
You blink, chopsticks hovering.
“Oh, really? Like… producing? Or do you perform too?”
He hesitates. “Both.”
You tilt your head, lips quirking. “That’s cool. What kind of music?”
He laughs softly, almost in disbelief. You still don’t know after all these hints, he thinks.
“Mostly hip hop and pop. I’m… in a group. We’ve been around for a while.” A while is twelve years, he thinks.
Your brow furrows. “A group? Like a band?”
“Not exactly.” He leans in quietly, readying for the grand reveal. “BTS.”
A beat of silence.
You stare. For a moment, your brain lags behind your ears.
You run his words over–BTS–and something clicks. The glasses, the quiet composure, the careful words, the way he observes art like air. You knew about BTS–your close friend back home was obsessed with K-pop in her teen years, trying to rope you in with playlists and videos, especially featuring their “leader,” Rap Monster… or RM.
You’d listened here and there, curious, but fangirling over K-pop always felt a little unrealistic. A little too delusional Life was hectic, so the interest faded.
You’d heard headlines about Kim Namjoon in the art world, maybe seen a photo or two online, but none of it mattered much–until now.
Now you’re here, eating dinner with him.
Your chopsticks lower slowly, words whispering out in the quietest voice, “Wait. Like… the BTS?”
He nods, almost sheepishly. “Yeah.”
You laugh, stunned, sitting back. “Wow. I… I didn’t recognize you at all. That’s insane.”
His eyes flick to yours, searching for a change in tone. But there isn’t one. You’re not freaking out. Not grabbing your phone. Just surprised. Maybe a little amused. A bit of disbelief too.
“I thought you looked familiar,” you admit. “But I didn’t want to assume. You didn’t act like… you know. Someone that famous. So i shrugged it off,”
“I try not to,” he murmurs. “It gets tiring.”
“I can imagine.”
You pause, looking down at your nearly-empty bowl, gathering thoughts.
“So that’s why you knew so much about those pieces. You’ve probably been studying art a long time.”
“I try. It started as just going to a museum while on tour years ago. Purely a hobby, just collecting, but now it’s… part of my life. Something I love.”
You nod slowly, still a little floored but smiling. “Well, you’re were still kind of rude about my curated labels.”
That makes him laugh, low and genuine, warming your cheeks.
“Yeah. I deserved that.”
You sip barley tea, shaking off the surreal feeling of sitting across from a global icon who just asked you to dinner at a tiny, greasy spoon. But he’s still the same man who stands in front of paintings, deeply, frustratingly thoughtful.
He doesn’t ask for special treatment, and you won’t give it.
You lean your chin into your palm, eyes softening across the table.
“I’m glad you told me.”
His gaze meets yours, grateful behind his glasses. “Me too.”
You both linger over the last bites, the plates mostly cleared, spice tingling pleasantly on your tongue. The restaurant has thinned out, leaving only a few older couples finishing in silence. The air is warm and still, laced with sesame oil and the clink of silver chopsticks against ceramic.
Namjoon sets down his spoon, wiping his hands with a napkin. “That was nice,” he says quietly, the moment calling for softness.
“It was,” you agree, smiling. “I’m glad you didn’t stand me up.”
His hand comes up, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was close, apparently.”
You both laugh.
“I should probably head back,” you say, glancing at your phone. “It’s getting late.”
“I can take you home,” he offers immediately.
You shake your head gently, already anticipating. “That’s sweet, but I live a bit far. The train’s faster.”
A flicker of hesitation passes his face.
“But,” you add, standing, light in your voice, “if you’re not in a rush… I wouldn’t mind you walking me to the station. Just ten more minutes.”
That makes him smile–the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to grin. “Yeah. I can do ten minutes.”
Outside, the night greets you with a soft breeze. Namjoon quietly pulls a black face mask from his pocket and tugs it over his nose and mouth. You notice but don’t comment. It makes sense.
“You don’t have to worry,” you say after a few steps, voice light but sincere. “I won’t tell anyone… about you. I’ve worked with private clients before. I know how to keep things quiet. If you want, I’ll sign something.”
He chuckles, low and warm beneath the mask. “I’m not going to make you sign anything. Honestly, I get a sense about people. And I don’t think you’d do that.”
You glance at him as you walk. “Thanks for trusting me.”
He shrugs, hands in pockets. “It’s not just that. I… don’t have many female friends to talk art with. Mostly my younger sister, my mom or older gallery owners and retired curators who send me handwritten notes.”
You smile at the image. “I feel honored to be in such company.”
He laughs quietly. “No, I’m honored to have you spend time with me. I’d like to see you again. If you’re up for it.”
“I’d like that,” you say, meaning it.
You continue toward the station in a quiet, easy rhythm. Just two people sharing a corner of the night.
This is the nice boundary to keep.
He escorts you to the front entrance of Noksapyeong Station, the traffic humming low in the background, headlights glinting off passing cars. You come to a stop just before the stairs lead down.
“I’ll text you,” he says, his voice muffled slightly behind the mask but still warm.
“That sounds good. See you around, maybe, Namjoon?” You give him a polite bow, hands folded in front of you. It feels a little too formal for what tonight was, but you don’t know what else to do. When you rise, you catch the flicker of something in his eyes–like he wants to say more, maybe even lean in and hug you, but holds himself back.
Silly Namjoon, he thinks to himself. He can’t afford to be careless in public. Not here. Not with who he is. Any passerby could snap a photo, leak a name, turn a small moment into a scandal. And the last thing he’d want is to inconvenience you with something like that.
You’re a kind and smart woman, he thinks. A bit feisty, but he find that endearing. Even just by the conversations he had today, his heart began feeling something, which is rare for him.
Despite all his thoughts about you, he settles on a soft, almost wistful smile. “Will see you sometime in the future. Good night, Y/N.”
“Good night,” you say, your voice quiet as you disappear down the stairs, heading home.
Two weeks pass. No messages.
You don’t dwell on it. Not really. You get it. This is RM. Kim Namjoon. BTS. You’d be naïve not to assume his days are consumed by meetings, recording, traveling, photoshoots, whatever comes with being who he is. You heard he was recently discharged from the military. It makes sense he’s adjusting, returning to a rhythm that doesn’t leave much room for casual texts or catching up with the art gallery girl.
So, on a quiet Saturday afternoon, you throw on an old tee and decide to do a deep clean of your loft in Myeongdong. The space is small but cozy, perched above a cosmetics shop with a big bay window that lets in too much sun during the afternoon. You don’t mind. It’s not like you’re home that often anyway.
You’re wiping down your kitchen shelf, halfway through reorganizing your spices, when your phone buzzes on the counter.
[namjoon]
hey y/n. i apologize, i've been busy so i haven't had the time to message you. how have you been?
You stare at the screen for a beat, lips quirking before you even realize it.
And just like that, the long, continuous, conversation begins. Slowly at first. Then steadily. Messages weaving in and out across days, with gaps and time zones and all the signs of two people trying to find a bubble of time in the chaos of their lives.
He asks about your favorite artists. You ask what exhibitions he’s excited for. The conversation flows easily over the course of days–sometimes a few texts a day, sometimes long pauses between messages–but neither of you seems to mind. You send him photos of art pieces that leave you breathless, and he sends back voice notes when he doesn’t feel like typing.
You both fall into rhythm talking about painters and sculptors and entire exhibitions you wish you could relive. Namjoon talks about his admiration for Yun Hyong-Keun–how the earth tones and minimalist brushwork feel deeply meditative to him–and how Kim Whan-Ki’s dot paintings remind him of memory fragments and starlight. He brings up Roni Horn too, her approach to identity and landscape through sculpture and photography. And Thibaud Hérem, with those intricate architectural drawings. “There’s a weird comfort in the details,” he texts. “It’s obsessive, but beautiful.”
You tell him you’ve always been drawn to the emotional tension in Rothko’s color fields, the sense of vast stillness in Agnes Martin’s grids, and the chaotic sensuality in Cecily Brown’s layered canvases. You mention you once stood in front of Girl on a Swing for twenty minutes, not even realizing you’d been holding your breath. He sends a voice message: “I totally get that. Brown’s stuff is like... the aftermath of a dream.”
Namjoon replies late one night with:
You pause, rereading that line. There’s something deeply sincere in the way he talks about art–as if it’s a language he’s been speaking longer than he’s known himself.
[you]Woah, I’ve always wanted to go. Rothko makes me feel both grounded and like I’m floating. It’s weird but calming.
The next morning, he sends a photo of his bookshelf–several monographs, poetry collections, and a thick exhibition catalog from a Kim Whan-Ki retrospective.
You send a picture of your coffee table covered in old gallery pamphlets and the Cecily Brown zine you picked up in London.
You ask what exhibitions in Seoul he’s excited for. You send him photos of art pieces that leave you breathless, and he sends back voice notes when he doesn’t feel like typing.
Later on he asks about your favorite music artists. You talk about what brought you to Korea, the music you listen to–The Marías, Emotional Oranges, Frank Ocean, Wave to Earth, Se So Neon.
He likes them too. You exchange playlists. Listen to new music you’ve never listened to before.
You tell him you paint in your free time. For fun, not for any hope of becoming famous. He says he admires that, because he only painted something once and thought it’s not his thing after all.
Gardening comes up. He says it calms his mind. You have several plants as well though, you accidentally forget to give them water and have killed a few in the past. He tells you he’ll help you pick the right ones that will be easier to care for next time. You say, next time?
You even get into film. One night, the thread leads to Park Chan-wook’s Decision to Leave.
“It’s one of my favorites,” he texts. “I love how it plays with longing and detachment.”
You admit you haven’t seen it.
A pause, then:
[namjoon]do you want to watch it together?
Your thumbs hesitate above the screen.
[you]uhh, how is that gonna work? is it showing in theaters again?
His reply is instant:
[namjoon]lmao no. it came out a few years ago. we can stream it.
You bite your lip, grinning.
[you]so… you’re inviting me over to your place?
Seen.
Typing…
[namjoon]only if you’re okay with that. no pressure.
Typing…
[namjoon]i’ll even make you tea. or wine. or beer. or ramen. whatever works.
You stare at the message. Then you smile to yourself, heart beating just a little faster.
[you]only if it’s good ramen.
[namjoon]
challenge accepted.
October 11th.
It’s another Saturday, exactly three weeks since Namjoon messaged you again after that dinner, and now you’re standing at the entrance to Nine One Hannam.
The building looms ahead, all sleek lines and understated opulence, tucked behind tall stone walls and trimmed hedges. A sign gleams beside the entrance gate. You’ve heard whispers about this place before. A-listers, diplomats, generational wealth. The kind of neighborhood with valet spots for Teslas and private elevators.
And apparently, this is where he lives. Kim Namjoon.
You pause a few feet away, adjusting your long cardigan as your nerves start to hum. Are you seriously going in there? Is this outfit appropriate for a casual hang out with you, art mutual?
These thoughts linger as you look down to your outfit: a navy blue oversized cardigan, a white spaghetti tank top, a denim mini skirt, white converse sneakers.
You spot the small booth outside the pedestrian gate, a security officer already eyeing you as you walk up. The air feels strangely still, as if even the trees here breathe quieter.
You clear your throat. “Hi, I’m here to visit Unit 244A.”
The officer–middle-aged, buzz cut, clearly alert–looks you over with polite suspicion. A foreigner, he likely notes. He reaches for a clipboard and pulls up the visitor log.
“Name?”
“Y/N L/N.” You hand him your ID without hesitation, just like Namjoon told you to do.
He checks the list, confirming. A subtle nod. “Alright. Go on in.”
You give him a quick thank you, stepping past the gate. The building ahead is massive, its exterior modern but quiet in that rich-people-don’t-need-to-try-hard kind of way. Your sneakers feel too loud on the pavement. And now that you’re in–how the hell are you supposed to find his unit?
“Hey.”
You practically leap out of your skin.
He’s there. Namjoon, leaning casually against the wall, dressed down in a forest green Tyler, The Creator Chromakopia Tour hoodie, the hood pulled halfway over his face. His black shorts barely hit his knees, and his long legs look even taller without trying. He’s got his phone in hand, smiling as if this whole thing is the most normal Saturday hangout in the world.
“God, you scared me!” you exclaim, laughing in relief.
He chuckles, easy and deep. “It’s hard to explain directions to a place like this in English, so I figured I’d just come down and walk you up.”
“Well, thank you for the rescue,” you say, nudging his arm lightly.
“You’re welcome,” he grins. “Let’s go. I got food delivered for this occasion, instead of ramen.”
“No ramen?” You say sarcastically. “Might just go home then.”
“Oh, come on. I got something better,” He gently tugs at your shoulders with both hands, before pulling away. He had a moment of realization that maybe he was being a bit touchy when he hasn’t been like this to you before. He’s been like this with his members ever since they all came back from enlistment, but never with anyone else. He doesn’t want you to think he’s weird, like some of these other men out in this city.
The walk to his building is quiet, save for the crunch of gravel and distant birdsong. Inside, the elevator glides up without a sound, and he makes some small talk–but it doesn’t feel awkward. There’s a calm between you two that neither of you feels the need to fill.
When you step into his unit, you blink in surprise.
It’s spacious–more spacious than you thought any Seoul apartment could be. A clean hallway leads into an open-concept living room, where daylight pours through sheer curtains. Stacks of books sit against the walls, climbing toward the ceiling like curated towers. A soft grey couch stretches along the far end, low to the ground, lived-in but elegant. Potted plants fill corners. Sculptures and minimalist furniture round out the space.
But the art. The art.
“Whoa,” you whisper. “This place is… beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Namjoon says, sliding off his slippers. “Took a while to make it feel like home. Got some pieces I really care about, too.”
Your eyes sweep over the walls and freeze immediately on one familiar work.
“Oh my god–” you gasp, walking closer without even thinking. “You have Roni Horn’s ‘But the Boomerang That Returns is Not the Same One I Threw’ artwork? That’s so cool!”
He grins at your recognition, clearly pleased. “Oh yeah! That one hits me hard the first time I see it. I keep thinking about how memory isn’t linear and how we come back to people and places and ideas changed. I have to get it.”
You step closer, looking at the piece with reverence. “You know, I referenced this once in a thesis. It’s about the circularity of memory in contemporary installation art. This line stays with me.”
Namjoon smiles, brushing his knuckles over the side of his hoodie. “See? I knew you’re the right person to talk about this stuff with.”
You turn to him, arching a brow. “Are you saying you lured me here with art and food?”
“Maybe a little,” he laughs. “But mostly for the company.”
You flush slightly, feeling the easy warmth between you again. He motions toward the couch. “Come over, let’s eat before it gets cold.”
You sit on the soft, clean-lined sofa while Namjoon brings over the food–a spread of tteokbokki, fried mandu, japchae, and a couple of dishes you don’t recognize. “You weren’t kidding when you said food was already here.”
“I wanted to impress you,” he says as he sits next to you, cracking open a couple of sparkling waters.
Impress you? There really is no need for that. If anything, you should be the one trying to impress him, the client of the art museum you work for.
The two of you begin eating. Between bites, you look around the curated chaos of his apartment–organized piles of art books, records stacked near a turntable, a small bonsai on the windowsill, and paintings and prints on nearly every wall. There’s a calm sense of order to it all, but nothing sterile. It feels lived in, thoughtful. Like him.
“Do you ever get overwhelmed living here?” you ask softly, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of sweet potato japchae.
“Yeah,” he admits, “sometimes it feels too big. I’m used to small spaces. But I’ve learned to make it feel... grounding. Plants help. Books help. Art helps.”
You nod. “I get that. Your place doesn’t feel like a celebrity’s house. It feels like a collector’s sanctuary.”
He smiles at that, modest but proud. “That’s kind of what I want.”
After you finish eating, he clears the plates while telling you to scroll through streaming apps looking for Decision to Leave.
“It’s on here,” you call out. “Should I start it?”
“Go for it,” he replies from the kitchen, rinsing off a bowl. “You want beer? I’ll get some out from the fridge after I’m done?”
“Oh yes, please.”
By the time he comes over and dims the lights, the film has begun. He settles in beside you on the couch again, this time a little closer. Your elbows nearly touch.
The opening scenes of Decision to Leave unfold quietly. Detective Haejun, a murder mystery, his insomnia, his marriage already dissolving at the seams. A routine case turning seductive, falling for a strange foreigner, his restraint slowly breaking.
You watch in silence, fingertips loosely wrapped around the sweating bottle of beer, but your focus begins to drift–not from the film, but from the proximity. The way Namjoon’s arm lightly brushes yours when he shifts. How his thigh rests just close enough to yours that you have to force yourself not to notice.
You try to focus on the film, but from the corner of your eye, you see the way his arms fold, the slope of his shoulders, the flickering light catching on the sharp cut of his jawline.
Ten minutes in, a sex scene fills the screen. Slow, quiet, achingly intimate but very awkward.
You shift slightly, suddenly aware of your own breathing. Of Namjoon’s proximity. His scent, clean, soft, like cedar and something faintly citrusy, fills your lungs.
You clear your throat.
He doesn’t look at you, but he smirks. “It’s... definitely not a movie to watch on a first hangout,” he murmurs, chuckling as his eyes stay on the screen.
“You didn’t mention that,” you pout, sinking lower into your seat.
“I forgot, I swear!”
You let out a breathy laugh and try to focus.
Every now and then, you glance at Namjoon, who watches with furrowed brows, like he’s mentally cataloging everything. It’s kind of attractive.
“I’ve always loved how Park Chanwook balances contradiction,” Namjoon murmurs during a lull in the dialogue. “Like that line–‘grief as an envelope or slowly spreading ink.’ It’s brutal, but elegant.”
You turn to him, the glow of the screen painting your profile. “That one gets me too. The metaphors in this film are so carefully placed. It’s not just a love story at all.”
He nods. “Yeah. Like when the detective lies to his wife about sushi, but brings the best for Seo-rae. His values contradict, but love bends people that way.”
“Oh! You’re so right!”
You realize he’s such a yapper; now you’re really hanging out with him in the comfort of his home.
“You like Yun Hyong-Keun, right?” he asks at one point during a slow moment. “That scene with the fog rolling through the mountains? It reminds me of his palette. That kind of smoky grief.”
You nod. “I see the vision, filled with the same exact emotions.”
He turns his head to look at you. “You really know how to talk about art.”
You smile, a little shy. “It’s kind of my job.”
Later, when Haejun mentions he has insomnia, Namjoon stirs beside you. “That part hits close.”
You turn to him, brows drawn. “You have insomnia?”
He gives a half-shrug. “Since I was in the military. Something about the routine… or the lack of it. Stress, maybe. Sometimes I think it’s just residual from everything–work, my members, the future. Not knowing what will happen while I’m in there and when we get out.”
There’s a heaviness in the way he says “we.”
You want to say something comforting, but then Seo-rae whispers: “I wish I could give you a piece of my sleep. Just like a battery.”
That’s it.
You both fall quiet.
Neither of you speak for a while after the credits roll. The silence that follows isn’t awkward–it’s full. A current of thoughts stretching out beneath the stillness, taut and invisible.
You finally speak. “You know… when Haejun tells her to throw away the phone, he’s basically telling her to hide the murder, right? But to me, that’s the closest he ever gets to saying ‘I love you.’ Because if he didn’t, he’d let her get caught.”
Namjoon exhales through his nose, slow. “Yeah, it’s tragic. But it’s also… pure, in a way. Like loving someone means making a choice that could destroy you.”
Loving someone… it’s been too long since you’ve done that. Why bother thinking about this now?
You turn toward Namjoon now, fully. The room is dark but you can still see him, his brows drawn in quiet thought, the subtle tension in his jaw, the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes.
After a pause, he sets his empty beer bottle down, the soft clink echoing in the quiet. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“It’s getting late,” he says. “But I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. It’s gonna take a few hours, but that’s life.”
You hesitate for a second, then lean in just a little, close enough to really look at him.
“Might be silly, but I wish I could give you my sleep,” you say softly. “So you could rest. So you didn’t have to carry so much, all the time. Living the life of an idol. Plus, I don’t really need mine anyway.”
Namjoon turns his head toward you, his expression faltering for a moment. Like your words knock the wind out of him a little. There’s something startled in his eyes, almost boyish. But then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. Small. Disbelieving. Touched.
He laughs once…quiet, breathy. Not teasing. Not dismissive. Just... moved. Like maybe he hasn’t heard something so gentle in a while.
But you think otherwise, “Sorry! It’s late and I’m just yapping away. I don’t know–”
“Is that your way of telling me you like me?”
The question lands like a spark in your chest.
Your eyes go wide. “H-Huh?”
Your heart stumbles. Trips. Nearly crashes. The beer bottle in your hand feels like an anchor now–too cold, too slippery. You suddenly feel very aware of everything: the slope of his knees beside yours, the faint warmth radiating from where your thighs nearly touch, the low hum of the movie credits still rolling.
“I–I mean–not like that,” you blurt out. “Not like Seorae or anything, I think I’m just a bit tipsy so the words just–”
Namjoon lifts his hand in mock defense, grinning now, though not unkindly. “I’m kidding,” he says, the words slow and gentle. “Just teasing.”
But the glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. And neither does the silence that follows.
You take a breath, trying to ease your pulse. “Don’t play around like that, Namjoon,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching downward. “Don’t you have someone you’re with?”
The words fall out before you can stop them.
Regret pricks at you the moment they hang in the air. because it sounds invasive. And maybe it is.
You’ve established this simple friendship through your love for art and other miscellaneous things, but questions about anything else–his members, his deeper relationships, his family–certainly feel off-limits.
You shift your gaze down to the neck of your bottle, feigning casualness, even though your mind is screaming. God, he’s thirty-one. He’s too attractive. Too grounded. There’s no way he’s not seeing someone. Even if it's not public. It’s not like you keep up with tabloids, but every friend you’ve had who followed Western bands swore up and down about many secret flings and long-term hidden lovers. Why would Namjoon be any different?
Why wouldn’t he?
But then he answers.
“No,” he says simply. Calmly.
Your eyes snap back up to his face.
He meets your gaze without hesitation, his posture still relaxed. But there’s a weight behind his words that makes them feel true. Not performative. Not for effect. Just honest.
“I’m not,” he repeats. “I haven’t dated in a long time. There was someone over four years ago. And someone else… maybe seven years before that.” There were others he was seeing for a bit, but it never evolved into anything. And usually always, he seemed to be the root cause of that. Not really worth mentioning that, he thought.
He shrugs one shoulder slightly, as if brushing it off, but the quiet undercurrent in his tone betrays him.
“They didn’t last. Not because they weren’t good people. They just–” He pauses. “There wasn’t really time before. Not real time. Not the kind where you could actually… show up for someone.”
You stare at him now. Not just his face, but his whole being. The slope of his shoulders. The tension in his jaw. The lines around his eyes that you now recognize not as age but weariness. You wonder how many pieces of himself he’s had to give away. How much of him is left for himself. For this version of him now–barefoot on a couch in sweats, sipping beer with you at midnight.
You’re about to respond when he shifts, looking over at you again.
“What about you?” he asks, and there’s something shy behind it. Hesitant. Like maybe your answer matters more than it should.
You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the floor.
“Me? I haven’t dated in a while either,” you admit. “College was… busy. Two or three flings that never really turned into anything. I always chose work, my projects. I guess I just figured there wasn’t room for both.”
Namjoon listens intently, eyes on you, head slightly tilted.
You swallow, voice softer now. “And at some point… I think I just stopped believing I was the kind of person people waited for. I settled just to not date.”
The room falls quiet.
He looks at you–not just looks, but it feels as if he sees you. Like you opening up about your love life rearranged something in him. His brow softens. He sits up a little straighter, knees brushing yours.
“That’s not true,” he says, voice low and sure. “You’re... someone people definitely remember.”
His hand reaches out, tentative, searching. His fingers graze the side of your face, knuckles brushing your cheek in a slow, reverent touch. You freeze under it, heart in your throat.
He leans in a little closer. Not rushing, not assuming. Just closing the distance like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you don’t move. You’re eagerly waiting for the next move.
And your voice wavers. “Namjoon…”
“I’m not trying to complicate anything,” he says, his forehead nearly touching yours now. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about you… and I don’t want to pretend like I don’t want to know you beyond art.”
Your eyes flutter shut.
And in the next moment, you both move–together, unsure of who initiates–but it doesn’t matter. Your lips meet in a kiss that’s hesitant at first, barely a brush. Then again, longer. Surer. Warmer.
Namjoon feels the shape of your mouth, the curve of your breath, the way you sigh into him like you’ve wanted this too.
God, he thinks. She tastes like an escape. A great escape. From all his stress. From sleepless nights. From this whole life he chose to live many years ago.
You both pause, pulling back a fraction, breath mingling. The room pulses with something unspoken.
Then you dive in again. This time slower. Deepening. Exploring. His hand cups your face more fully, thumb stroking your cheekbone as if to memorize the curve of it.
You kiss again and again, and somewhere in the middle of it, you shift forward, knees brushing his. He pulls you in gently, and before you know it, you're climbing into his lap. Straddling him.
Your knees are planted on the cushions below, your hands resting on his shoulders as you settle against him, close enough to feel his heartbeat hammering through the thin cotton of his hoodie.
Namjoon lets out a low breath, stunned at first. Then his hands move instinctively to your hips, steadying you, holding you there like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real.
You’re facing him now, fully, and the sight of you this close, your flushed cheeks, your kiss-bitten lips, the wide, searching look in your eyes, undoes him.
You feel his breath against your neck, his hands warm through the fabric of your tank top. He tilts his forehead to rest against yours, the closeness unbearable in the best way.
“Fuck…I’ve thought about this,” he admits, voice roughened with restraint. “A lot.”
Your heart slams against your ribcage.
“You have?” you whisper.
Namjoon nods. His eyes flick between your own. “Since that evening I saw you at the museum. Since you sent me instagram reels that reminded you of things i’ve mentioned.” He grins, but it fades fast into something more serious. “Since you told me what you loved about Yun Hyong-Keun. Since I’ve seen you wear these sexy, yet simple, casual outfits,”
Your breath hitches.
“I’ve tried not to think about it too much,” he continues. “Tried to stay in control. Be good. Remember that you’re a curator probably just trying to maintain a good relationship with me, your client. But that wasn’t just it for me. You’re just not easy to forget.”
Neither are you, you think. In the last few weeks, you’ve grown to wait for his messages, and hear about his thoughts and his feelings. You’ve enjoyed him sending you selfies. You’ve thought about him late at night.
But the words don’t come out to let him know.
Instead, you lean in again. And this time, there’s nothing tentative about it.
And underneath it all, you have no idea how long he’s wanted this.
To touch you. To consume you.
It might’ve even been from the moment he met you. Reading your labels, opening up a new world to him that amused and frustrated him at the same time.
His hands grip your hips more firmly now, thumbs pressing into the rough fabric of your denim skirt as your mouths crash together again–deeper, messier. You're no longer holding back. The second your hips rock forward, you both inhale sharply. It’s instinct, friction, need–years of restraint unraveling between stolen breaths. You want to feel him, no, need to feel him.
Namjoon groans softly against your mouth, like the pressure against his cock beneath his shorts surprises him. His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you feel how hard he is beneath you–thick and straining against the cotton of his shorts. Your breath stutters. You grind down again.
“Shit,” he whispers, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he sucks in air. “You can’t… you can’t move like that unless you mean it.”
“I do,” you breathe, the words barely formed. “I mean it.”
Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, pulling him in as your hips start a slow, grinding rhythm against his. There’s nothing frantic about it. Just drawn-out, indulgent friction. Dry, but heady. Heated. Real.
Namjoon kisses your throat now, lips warm and reverent, dragging along your skin like he’s desperate to memorize the taste of you. You tilt your head back to give him more, gasping when his tongue darts out to soothe where his teeth grazed. His hands remove your cardigan and slip under your tank, splaying wide against your back, dragging up slowly until his thumbs brush just under your breasts.
You arch into him. He pulls back slightly, searching your face.
“Okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, trembling with restraint.
You nod. “Yes. Please.”
And then his hands find your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your blue lace bra. Your back curves with the sensation, thighs tightening around him, as a low moan escapes you. He watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and reverent.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fuck.”
Your hips grind down harder, and the sound that escapes him is almost guttural. He grabs your waist with both hands, guiding your movements now, slow and deep, grinding the shape of his cock against your clothed center.
Every motion sends sparks along your spine.
When Namjoon’s fingers slip under the hem of your tank. He doesn’t rush. He just pauses there, his thumbs brushing soft circles against your skin. Then he tugs, gently, not forceful, not demanding. Just a question, wordless but clear.
Your breath catches. The haze in your head lifts slightly, the thrum of arousal edged now with hesitation.
You pull back a little, just enough to meet his gaze. “Wait…” you say softly, fingers curling around his wrist to still him. “Can I tell you something first?”
Namjoon’s eyes are immediately alert, open. “Of course.”
You take a breath. Then another.
“I’m not really… confident about my body,” you admit, trying to keep your voice steady. But it honestly just sounds like word vomit. “Especially not with my chest. My boobs are kind of… weird? They’re not perky. They droop, but not in that cute teardrop way people talk about online or show in porn. They’ve always been like that. Just… heavy. Uneven. And I guess I always worried that guys wouldn’t know what to do with them. Or worse, would see them and just… lose interest.”
God, he’s going to think you’re ridiculous, isn’t he?
However, Namjoon just stares at you for a moment, and then he smiles. So soft, so full of something almost like wonder. A giggle slips from him, not mocking but sweet and earnest.
You blink. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because,” he says, resting his forehead briefly against yours, “You’re talking to someone who once spent an hour staring at Koo Bon-woong’s Nabu at the MMCA, completely mesmerized by the lines of a woman’s back and the uneven curve of her breasts.” His hand strokes slowly over your side, not daring to go further yet. “Or Lee Kwae-dae’s 기대어 앉은 나부 1940년대. Have you seen it? One breast is visibly fuller than the other. Her arms look a little too long. It’s imperfect. But it’s alive. It stays with you.”
You swallow, something cracking open in your chest.
God, you really picked a intelligent man.
“Art doesn’t care about symmetry,” Namjoon continues gently. “It cares about presence. About the truth of something. And you…” His voice drops, reverent now. “You’d be a masterpiece. No matter how you look.”
Your eyes sting suddenly. You don’t know what to say.
Namjoon leans in, kissing your cheek, your jaw. “I want to see you,” he murmurs. “Only if you want me to. But I promise, there’s nothing here that could scare me off.”
You hesitate one last second. Then you nod.
And when he lifts your tank off, slow and careful, his eyes don’t drift. They stay locked on yours, until the fabric slips away and your skin meets the air between you.
Namjoon exhales. A soft, almost awestruck sound.
His hands glide up your sides, reverent, and he murmurs something in Korean under his breath you don’t quite catch. But you can feel the meaning in the way he holds you. Tender. Certain. Present.
Like you were never anything less than art.
And then his mouth is on you again, kissing a path down your collarbone, over the swell of your breast. His hand comes up to cup you while his lips close around your nipple, tongue swirling, sucking gently. New sensations storming through you with these actions.
“Namjoon–” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair.
“They’re beautiful, just as i thought.”
He moans against your skin, one hand lifting up your skirt to rub at your clit covered by your blue panties. It only pushed Namjoon further seeing that you matched your lingerie just to come hang out with him.
You rock into his touch, needy, grinding down onto his hand and the firm press of his cock beneath you. The pressure is maddening. Delicious. Not enough.
You both move like you’re chasing something–chasing release, connection, the safety of each other’s hands. His thumb rubs slow circles where you’re aching, and your whole body shudders. You’re soaking through your underwear, can feel the wet heat smeared against the curve of him through all the layers between you.
Namjoon’s head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as your hips roll harder, faster. “Fuck, if we keep going–”
“I know,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “But I want to.”
He kisses you again–desperate now. Bruising. Starved. You rut against each other in sync, messy and quiet, until both of you are trembling.
Your breath hitches. Your stomach coils tight. You’re so close.
“I–” you start, but your voice breaks. He hears it anyway. Feels it in the way your body tenses.
“Come for me,” he whispers, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Just like this. I’ve got you.”
You do. With a broken cry muffled against his shoulder, you shake in his arms as your orgasm hits. It rips through you, drawn out by the relentless friction and the heat of his voice in your ear.
Namjoon curses low, grinding up into you a few more times before his hips stutter beneath you. He buries his face in your neck, breath shattering as he comes hard, cock twitching in his shorts against the soaked heat of your center. His grip on you tightens, then softens.
The silence after is thick. Heavy with breath. With everything that just passed between you.
Eventually, you both go still. Your forehead rests against his, your chest still heaving.
Namjoon chuckles softly, breathless. “Shit, so much for taking it slow.”
“Agh, I’m actually embarrassed.” You laugh weakly, arms still wrapped around him. “We didn’t even make it off the couch.”
He chuckles, “Don’t be embarrassed. I don’t regret this at all,” he murmurs, voice low and tender.
You kiss the corner of his mouth, smile against his cheek.
“Neither do I, though now i can’t go home like this.” you groan, carefully getting off of him not trying to stain his likely very expensive grey couch.
“Just throw your ruined clothes in the washer,” he says, nodding toward the laundry area. “Stay the night.”
“Stay the night?” You blink, caught off guard.
He reaches for your hand and threads his fingers through yours. “It’s late anyway. I don’t want you out there with all the drunkards on a Saturday night. I’ll get you one of my shirts…”
Wearing one of his oversized shirts does sound dangerously comfortable, but then he adds with a smirk:
“After we move to the bed and finish what we started.”
Oh my god.
“Kim Namjoon?!” you gasp, then lower your voice with a sharp whisper. “Did you plan this all along? Are you really that deprived of sex as an idol–?”
“Yes. God, yes,” he giggles, dimples flashing. “But hey–I didn’t know you’d actually feel the same way. You played into it too, so we’re in this together.”
You roll your eyes, heart thudding wildly. You had thought about it, of course. But the risk, the reality of getting involved with someone like him always held you back. And yet, he’s the one making the moves. Making it real. And harder to resist.
“I was perfectly content being art buddies,” you mutter, teasing.
“But now we’re doing more than just talking about art. Doing art,” he grins.
“Clearly.”
“Starting again…right now,” he declares before scooping you up into his arms. You yelp in surprise.
“W–Woah! Hey!”
He mutters something under his breath–probably praying he doesn’t drop you–and somehow makes it to the bed in one piece. He sets you down gently, brushing your hair back from your face.
“I have condoms,” he says, already reaching for the drawer in his nightstand.
“Good to know,” you reply, then cock an eyebrow. “But… you’re not gonna make me sign an NDA or anything? This is kind of a big risk, no?”
Namjoon looks at you seriously, hand pausing on the packet. “I already told you. I trust you. There’s no need for all that.”
“I admire that,” you say softly. “And I’d never dream of telling anyone. Not even my K-pop-loving friends from back home. They’d combust on the spot and probably crucify me.”
“Glad to hear it,” he murmurs, then leans in to kiss you again.
The kiss deepens quickly, all tongue and hunger. He lifts your knees gently, unbuttoning your skirt, fingers hooking onto your underwear and skirt and sliding them down with care. You shiver when the cool air hits your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by his touch–his fingers slipping between your thighs, finding your slick heat.
He strokes you slowly at first, kissing you through each quiet moan, then teasing your entrance with one careful finger, then two. When he feels how wet you are, he pulls back from your lips and shifts lower, eyes full of dark, focused hunger.
You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel his mouth on you–warm, insistent, devoted. His tongue slips inside you and your head falls back with a strangled cry. He groans against you like he’s starving for it, like the taste of you is something he’s imagined far too many times.
You buck your hips against his mouth, chasing the wave rising in your core–but just as you’re about to tip over the edge, he pulls away.
“Wait–what–”
Immediate sexual frustration hits you.
But then he flips you gently onto your stomach, his hand sliding under your hips to raise them. You hear the soft rustle of clothes being shed, followed by the rip of a foil packet.
“I’m going to put it in, that okay?” His voice is hoarse with restraint.
You nod into the pillow, voice a breathy whisper. “Y–yeah–ah!”
He presses into you slowly, the stretch making your eyes fly open.
“Oh fuck–” you choke out, nails gripping the sheets. “Couldn’t even wait, damn..”
“I’ve been waiting a bit too long, baby.”
Oh, baby…
You haven’t even seen his dick–but you can feel how big he is. Each inch pushes deeper, and your body trembles around him, overwhelmed.
Is it even possible to fit it inside you? You’ve been thoroughly prepped, but still! You haven’t done this in a few years.
Namjoon lets out a low groan behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You feel–fucking amazing…”
Namjoon’s thrusts start slow–but deep. Each drag of his hips feels like he’s trying to memorize the way your body fits around him, how you twitch and squeeze at every pullback. But it doesn’t take long for him to build rhythm, and then he’s pounding into you like he can’t help himself.
“F-fuck, Namjoon–!” you cry out, forehead pressed to the sheets, grabbing the same said sheets for dear life.
He grunts in response, fingers digging into your hips as he drives himself in again and again, filling you completely every time. You’re reeling–your body not used to this kind of stimulation. No one has ever stimulated you this way. No one has ever wanted to make it known how much they wanted you. Or how badly they wanted to ruin you.
You’re definitely soaking him and these sheets. The sounds between you two are obscene, and it only turns you on more.
Your mind spins. How did this happen so fast? You’re usually so cautious, so calculated when it comes to sex. But he has you unraveling. There’s something about the way he takes you–how open and vocal he is, how tender and filthy all at once. It makes your pulse pound with something deeper than just lust.
Another orgasm sneaks up on you before you can even brace for it.
You clench hard around him with a gasp, your whole body seizing with pleasure. “Shit–shit–I’m cumming again–!”
Namjoon groans loud into your neck, the sound vibrating through your spine. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”
Your arms give out under you, and you collapse against the bed, panting into the sheets. He slows for a moment, breathing heavy, eyes searching your face.
“You okay?”
You’re flushed and pissed–and not at him.
“No,” you snap weakly, breathless. “I’m fucking mad.”
He freezes. “Wait–what?”
“I lost myself too quickly,” you groan, turning your face to look at him. “I told myself I’d take it slow, and now I’m already cumming twice like I’m in some kind of fever dream.”
Namjoon’s lips twitch in a smile, clearly amused.
“Don’t laugh,” you warn. “I can go for more.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
“I want to make you cum this time,” you declare, sitting up and pushing your messy hair from your face. “Let me ride you.”
That wipes the grin clean off his face, replaced by something darker.
“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. He is gonna fucking love this.
“I’m sure.”
He smirks, impressed. “Alright then. Let’s see what you can do, baby girl.”
You roll your eyes, move quickly, both of you shifting positions. Namjoon lies back, head propped against his pillows, arms resting behind him in a slow, cocky sprawl. His eyes track your every move, and now that you have space to look at him fully–fuck.
You finally see him.
Your gaze drops–and your breath catches.
Holy shit.
His cock, slick and flushed and painfully hard, looks even bigger now that you’re seeing it properly. Veiny, thick, girthy in a way that makes you second-guess every confident thing you just said.
You’re about to put that inside you again? You’ve officially lost your mind, L/N F/N.
Still, you climb over him, hands trembling slightly as you wrap your fingers around the base.
“You good, baby?” he murmurs, watching your expression with quiet concern.
Constantly calling you baby… God…he will be the death of you. This man feels the same too, though you don’t know that.
“Y-Yeah, just processing your... situation,” you mutter.
He laughs, husky and low. “Take your time.”
You hover over him, grip tightening as you angle him toward your entrance. Slowly–so slowly–you lower yourself down.
The stretch makes you groan instantly, your thighs trembling from the effort.
Namjoon’s eyes flutter closed, brows furrowing in pleasure. “Fuck, you feel good.”
You inch down further, and further–until you’re seated fully in his lap, completely filled. Your nails dig into his abs for support.
“God,” you pant, adjusting your hips. “How are you fucking real?”
He gently rubs circles into your back with his palm. “You’re doing amazing, baby. Just go at your pace.”
You nod, focused, letting your body settle before testing the motion–shifting your hips in a slow, grinding roll.
Namjoon opens his eyes to look at you–and the moment your rhythm picks up, his mouth parts in awe.
She’s beautiful, he thinks. Completely unfiltered. The way your brows pinch in concentration, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, the way your chest bounces slightly with every motion–he’s fucking obsessed.
He swore he’d let you take the lead. He swore he’d hold back.
But that restraint doesn’t last long.
Your pace quickens, and the look on your face–the pleasure, the determination, the way you ride him like you own him–it breaks him.
“Shit–” he groans, hands flying to your hips. “Sorry, baby–I need to–”
He slams up into you with force, taking control again, driving himself deeper as you gasp out his name.
“Namjoon–!”
He pounds into you from below, hands guiding your hips down to meet each brutal thrust.
You can barely breathe, let alone think. All you can do is ride the wave of it–the rhythm of his cock stretching you open again and again, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls.
You’re both already close–so close–and the heat between you builds to another breaking point–
You ride him hard, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing in rhythm with your quickening breath. Namjoon’s grip tightens on your hips, grounding you through the rapid push and pull of pleasure mounting on both ends.
He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling sharply beneath you. You’re barely holding on–thighs trembling, eyes fluttering shut as another orgasm builds low in your belly. And then it crests, stealing the air from your lungs as you cry out, clenching hard around him as your body shudders from the release.
Namjoon gasps under you, brows furrowed deep, his voice cracking in that final second as he comes too–hips jerking up as his cock twitches and empties inside the condom, thick and warm, filling it far more than you expected.
He groans, head tipping back, completely undone. “Shit…”
You collapse forward a little, hands splaying out on the solid plane of his chest, using him to steady yourself. He’s warm, his heart thudding against your palms, the faint sheen of sweat across his skin glowing soft in the low light.
You're spent. Or at least, your body should be. But your mind is still racing. You want more. Want to see him fall asleep completely relaxed–without tension in his jaw or worry in his eyes. You want him to feel cared for, too, in a way you’ve never really offered to anyone else.
Carefully, you lift yourself off of him with a whimper at the sensitivity, reaching between your bodies to gently roll the condom off his softening cock. It’s heavy with his release, warm in your hand.
Namjoon lets out a slow, almost incredulous breath as he watches you. “Already eager to keep going?” he asks, a lazy smirk curling on his lips.
“Of course,” you murmur, tossing the condom aside and shifting your body again. You crawl up between his legs, knees pressing to either side of his thighs, hands sliding along his skin. “Now doing this…”
You lower your head and give the underside of his cock a soft, lingering lick–kittenish and slow. His body jolts faintly, oversensitive but already responding. You glance up at him, eyes wide, a faux innocence in your expression that makes his throat bob with a swallow.
You let your tongue trail up from the base to the tip, deliberately teasing, holding eye contact the whole time. His cock twitches against your tongue, not yet fully hard but already awakening under your gentle attention.
“Fuck, Y/N…” he rasps, watching you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.
You press a kiss to his tip and then lick again, this time with a firmer stroke. “Wanna help you sleep like a king tonight,” you whisper against his skin. “No tension. No stress. Just melt into the pillows and let me take care of you.”
He exhales shakily, his hand lifting to brush your hair back from your cheek. “You’re so dangerous,” he mutters, but the way his fingers linger says he likes that about you.
You giggle softly and wrap your lips around the head of his cock, coaxing him back to life with every warm, wet suck. One hand cups his balls gently while the other strokes the base of his shaft, your mouth working in slow, tantalizing pulls. You can already feel him growing hard again under your care–eager, despite just having cum.
Namjoon groans, one hand clenching the sheet beneath him. “You’re seriously gonna make me fall for you deeper by doing shit like this.”
You hum around him–intentionally letting the vibration tease him deeper–and keep going.
You suck him slowly, deliberately, coaxing him into full hardness again with your mouth, your tongue teasing every ridge and sensitive vein along his length. Namjoon’s hands slip into your hair, not forcing, just grounding himself in the sheer pleasure of your lips around him. His breath grows ragged, eyes fluttering as he tries–really tries–to hold back.
But then your tongue swirls around the head of his cock and you moan just a little, like you enjoy the taste of him, the feel of him stretching your lips. That’s all it takes.
“Fuck–baby, I’m gonna–”
He chokes on the rest of the warning as he comes hard, cock twitching in your mouth, hot spurts of cum hitting your tongue–and more. A thick, sudden spill lands warm on your cheek. You close your eyes and take it all in stride, swallowing every last drop with ease.
It tastes…surprisingly good. Slightly sweet, salty, clean. He really must eat well. Idol diet and all.
You finally pull off with a soft pop, licking your lips, and wipe your cheek with the back of your hand as you glance up at him. Namjoon looks absolutely wrecked–mouth parted, chest heaving, the remnants of disbelief in his eyes.
“Damn…” he exhales, voice hoarse.
His head tips back against the pillows, muscles twitching with aftershocks. He wants to go again–you can see it in the way his eyes trail over you, hungry and dazed–but this time, his exhaustion catches up to him first. For the first time in a long while, his eyelids actually start to flutter shut on their own.
“That…was so fucking hot,” he mumbles, still breathless. “But we need to take a hot shower before we sleep. I also need to change the sheets…”
You glance at the state of the bed and smile lazily. “If we go in together, we could finish faster and head to sleep?” you tease.
Namjoon laughs and instantly reaches for you, sweeping you into his arms again. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.”
He carries you–again, praying he doesn’t trip over his own feet (he’s a bit clumsy) and brings you into the bathroom just to the left of his room. It’s massive. Double sinks, a wide soaking tub set in dark marble, and a luxurious glass-enclosed shower with rainfall and handheld settings.
You both step in, the hot water already running and filling the space with gentle steam.
Namjoon pulls you under the spray and wordlessly reaches for the body wash. His touch is gentle as he lathers his hands, then begins softly washing your arms, your shoulders, your back. His fingers linger, not overtly sexual, but reverent. Almost too reverent. It makes your insides twist with tenderness.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice husky and close to your ear.
You nod, but your voice is small. “Yeah. Just…sensitive.”
He leans in and kisses your temple. “I know. You don’t have to push yourself for now.”
You shake your head, eyes closed as his hands gently trace suds over your waist. “It’s not that. It’s just–this feels really nice. And it’s making it hard to go back to a professional relationship.”
Namjoon’s hands pause. His chest presses into your back. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he says, almost too softly.
You don’t reply. Not yet. You simply turn and take the body wash for yourself.
“Your turn,” you say with a little smile, wanting to keep things light.
You gently start working the lather across his chest, over his broad shoulders, and then down his back. The muscles move under your hands like smooth, sculpted marble. He sighs deeply at your touch.
“You know,” you murmur as you wash down the center of his spine, “your back looks like a landscape to me.”
He chuckles. “A what?”
“Like a canvas. Like–I could paint a tree on it. Or wings. Or maybe a river cutting through hills.”
Namjoon hums low, smiling to himself. “You’re such an artist. Everything you touch turns poetic.”
“You’re the one who quoted nude paintings during sex, remember? You even make music about poetic euphemisms of riding you,”
He laughs, the sound echoing off the tile. “Touché.”
When you’re both finally rinsed and clean, he shuts off the water and steps out, grabbing the largest, fluffiest towel and wrapping you in it first. Then he ruffles another towel through your hair, drying you gently like you’re the most delicate thing in the world.
Once you're mostly dry, he hands you one of his oversized white t-shirts. It swallows you completely, falling down to mid-thigh, and smells just like him–earthy, clean, with a hint of something musky and expensive.
“You look really good in that,” he murmurs with a grin as he pulls on his own sweats.
You help him strip the bed, tossing the stained sheets into a hamper tucked in the corner of the room. Then, together, you remake the bed–Namjoon smoothing the fitted sheet while you fluff the pillows and pull the new comforter into place.
When everything’s set, you both crawl under the covers, bodies warm and damp and soft with sleep.
Namjoon pulls you into his chest, your back to him, his arm draped protectively over your waist. He exhales one last time, burying his nose into your hair.
“Can’t believe I’m going to sleep without checking my phone for hours,” he mumbles, already dozing. “You’ve gotta be magic.”
“That’s honestly all just you,” you smile to yourself, your eyes fluttering shut. “Goodnight, Joon.”
“‘Night, baby.”
And just like that, for the first time in a long time, he sleeps soundly through the night.
+
That night became the catalyst for a series of sexcapdes with Namjoon.
You started visiting his place regularly–what started as late-night hangouts became something far more intimate, far more regular. Despite the chaos of his world tour preparation, long hours at the dance studio, late-night recording sessions, and relentless content filming, Namjoon always made time to see you. He'd slip home in the narrow windows between his schedules just to wrap his arms around you, to kiss you like he’d been starved, and to fall into bed tangled together.
Your sex life evolved into something rich and varied, a secret world just for the two of you. Namjoon, surprisingly attentive and open-minded, explored your body with curiosity and care, never rushing, always wanting to understand how you responded to every touch, every angle, every rhythm. You enjoy this too, and opt to go on birth control after some time just to ease the process for you both, while still using condoms at times to maintain protection. These are risky activites after all.
The kitchen table became your first unconventional setting. One late night, dressed in one of his oversized T-shirts and nothing underneath, you’d leaned against the marble countertop while making kimchi jjigae.
One look from him, slow and hungry, and somehow you were up on the dining table seconds later. He tugged your hips closer until your toes barely touched the floor, then lifted one of your legs to rest on his shoulder as he thrusted his cock into you.
The cold contrast of the table made you shiver, but his body was warm and grounding. His hands gripped your thighs tightly as he shoved himself into you, slow and deep, each movement echoing off the kitchen walls.
The stew became cold, forgotten. Namjoon’s breath came heavy against your collarbone as he muttered, “Fuck, I could take you like this every night. Watching your body shake just from this angle–God.”
Another time, in the living room, you’d found yourself in his lap one late afternoon, straddling him while his back sank into the plush couch. You were both reading a book, which soon became forgotten.
The light from the window cast golden streaks across his chest. You pressed your hands against his shoulders and sank down on him slowly, the stretch sharp and perfect. You moved with languid rhythm, your knees digging into the cushions, hips circling as your eyes fluttered shut. Namjoon couldn’t look away. His large hands spanned your waist and guided you as you rode him harder, your rhythm growing frantic, both of you getting lost in the slick, slapping sounds filling the space.
One hand slid up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a messy kiss. She’s so fucking beautiful when she’s above me like this, he thought, hips bucking upward. “Just like that, baby… keep using me.”
The shower was chaotic in the best way. Slippery skin, fogged-up glass, and steam curling around your bodies as he pinned you against the wall. Your legs up, wrapped around his waist, water cascading down his broad shoulders as he thrusted into you, the sharp clap of wet skin muted under the patter of the spray. You gasped against his neck while he braced one hand against the tile and the other held your ass, adjusting your angle so he could hit even deeper.
“You drive me fucking insane,” he growled into your ear, barely holding back. And even when he was losing control, he still reached down between your bodies to rub you gently, expertly, pushing you over the edge even as his own release built.
And then even at times, the bathtub. It started as a soak, your back against his chest, legs resting atop the edge, wine glasses on the side.
But the moment you turned to straddle him under the water, your mouths met in a slow, heated kiss, and his cock slipped between your thighs. You guided him inside, gasping as the hot water surrounded you both.
Your movements were slow and indulgent, bodies rocking beneath the surface, water spilling over the sides with every rise and fall of your hips. Namjoon held your waist with reverence, marveling at how your breasts bounced gently with every motion, your lashes wet and cheeks flushed. He whispered, “Baby, you look like something out of a dream,” just before his head fell back against the rim of the tub, lost in the pleasure you gave him.
One night, he brought up the Kama Sutra. You were sprawled on the bed, still slick and panting from a particularly intense session, and he casually flipped through the app on his phone, showing you diagrams. “For art and science,” he teased, nudging you with his elbow. You grinned, your curiosity piqued.
You laughed. “You’re actually such a pervert, Kim Namjoon.”
“You’re no different from me!”
“I’m not even going to argue with that, let’s just try one.”
It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a ritual. It helped him sleep better, too. You felt more livelier again after living in such a draining city. A surprising bonus.
He wanted to visit your place next, but you lived in Myeongdong, right above a busy alleyway filled with cafés and foot traffic from both tourists and locals. Too risky. One slip and someone might spot him, and you refused to be the reason his privacy got breached. So instead, his Hannam-dong apartment became your second home. His sanctuary turned into a shared one.
You started leaving things behind–changes of clothes, your favorite moisturizer, a toothbrush. Eventually, you even had a drawer, then a shelf. He didn’t mind. His closet was massive. You began using his place to rest after museum shifts, sometimes staying the night even when he wasn’t around. He’d given you the door passcode weeks ago, murmuring how precious you were to him while he typed it into your phone himself.
There were quiet nights when things were reversed. Sex first, then lounging, late night talks about music, art, artists, exhibitions, life, etc. One evening after a steamy sex in the shower, still wrapped in towels and slightly damp, Namjoon brought up something you’d mentioned during your first night over.
“You said you wanted to paint a tree on my back,” he says, rummaging through the closet.
You blink. “You remembered that?”
“I bought some body-safe paints and brushes. Even got a canvas drop cloth so we don’t ruin the floors.” He lays everything out with boyish excitement. “I thought it might be fun.”
Your eyes light up. He smiles, gently patting your head. “You’re seriously so cute.”
You both sit naked on the drop cloth, backs resting against the couch, warm lighting casting shadows across the room. Namjoon sits in front of you with his back to you, strong shoulders relaxed, spine straight. You dip your brush into black paint and start with the roots, then move slowly upward–every stroke intentional.
“So… what are we?” you ask suddenly as your brush moves along his lower back.
He chuckles. “Isn’t it a little late to ask that? We’ve been seeing each other for three months.”
“Just checking,” you say with a smile. “We’ve never put a label on this, so I want to know how you feel.”
He pauses for a moment before speaking. “I don’t mind labels. Or not having them. Some of my members don’t like being tied to those terms, especially with our jobs. But… being able to call you my girlfriend?” He turns slightly, flashing you that warm, dimpled smile. “That makes me even happier.”
You blush, caught off guard by his honesty. “Stop… you’re making my cheeks heat up…”
He laughs with his whole body, shaking his head in amusement. “What about you, baby?”
You hesitate. “I’ve been scared of labels, to be honest. I wasn’t sure if that would burden you. I didn’t want to add pressure on top of what you already deal with as an idol.”
Namjoon tilts his head slightly, sensing the sincerity in your voice. “If it’s you, I don’t mind it. Honestly, I think it’d give me more energy if you called me your boyfriend.”
You smile to yourself and dip your brush back in the paint. “Then, okay, my lovely boyfriend, I have finished the art.”
He stands and walks over to the mirror in the hallway between his bathroom and the closet. His eyes widen. “Is this a plum blossom tree in traditional Korean ink style?”
You walk over beside him. “It is. Plum blossoms symbolize resilience, hope, and perseverance in adversity. I think you embody that completely, especially after everything you’ve told me about your journey as an idol.”
Namjoon looks at you softly through the mirror, your reflection beside him glowing with warmth. His expression softens. His heart swells.
He turns and hugs you close, your bare chest pressing against his. You feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek.
“I truly love you, you know that?”
You giggle softly. “Yeah… of course I know. And I love you too.”
He pulls back with a playful smirk. “Now it’s my turn to paint you. Maybe I’ll put some flowers on your chest.”
He’s so precious. You burst out laughing at his cuteness, already reaching for the brushes again.
“Go for whatever your heart desires.”
January.
After months of constant hangouts and long, ongoing conversations, itt’s been two weeks since Namjoon last texted you.
You don’t really mind the lack of communication. You know better than to assume the worst. He’s an idol. He’s juggling a packed schedule with rehearsals, interviews, late-night studio sessions, choreography tweaks, and the constant pressure of the public eye. Silence isn’t always rejection. Sometimes, it’s just exhaustion.
Still, the quiet lingers in your phone like an unopened letter.
You consider texting him to let him know you’ll be at Frieze Seoul, the international art fair held annually in the city, known for bringing together global collectors, artists, and institutions. It's one of the biggest events of the year–a week-long celebration of contemporary art spanning prestigious museums and galleries across Seoul. This year, the after-party for opening night is being hosted by Artue in a private rooftop space above Itaewon.
You’ve seen past articles–photos of Namjoon quietly observing installations at events like this, tucked in black caps or sponsored by a prestigious brand in branded clothing. He’s no stranger to Frieze. He even reposted a sculpture from the fair two years ago. But you doubt he’ll make it this year. With the tour prep underway and pressure all on as the comeback nears, it seems impossible.
Still, you hover over your phone screen. Should you let him know?
Would that be weird? Does he even care about your schedules?
Would maybe seem to him that you’re fishing for attention? Or worse–assuming he’ll be there?
You don’t want to seem like a clingy girlfriend and you also don’t want to interfere with whatever he’s been up to. You get it. Maybe you should just get back to work.
You lock your phone without sending anything.
The COEX Convention Center is buzzing by the time you arrive, bright white lighting softened by the elegant glow of uplights bouncing off glass panels and floral installations. You walk through the tall revolving doors beside the Kukje Gallery Chairwoman Hyun-Sook Lee, CEO Charles Kim, as well as 3 other big gallery staff members you closely work with. Your heels click quietly across the marble.
Your For Love & Lemons Ophelia Gown, a floral satin slip dress clings to your figure, swaying at the hem with each step. The corseted bodice shapes your waist, soft ivory fabric catching flecks of light like pearls. You blend in–yet stand out. Clean and classic. Soft and smart.
“Y/N,” the Chairwoman leans in slightly, speaking over the hum of jazz and clinking glass. “You look lovely tonight. Walk with me.”
You heard the big lady boss, so you do.
“Tonight’s about presence. You don’t have to say much–just listen, absorb, and know who to recognize. Frieze is where art meets capital, and relationships are the real investment.”
“Yes, Chairwoman,” you nod, adjusting your clutch as you follow her into the crowd.
You’re introduced to gallerists from Tokyo and Berlin, a Swiss collector who apparently has a soft spot for Korean post-war art, and a British curator who mentions she follows your gallery’s Instagram. You smile graciously, thank her, accept the champagne flute a waiter hands you. Every few minutes, Director Bokyung Park sweeps past with a whispered cue–“That’s the Arario team. Oh, and the woman in green? She used to work with Zwirner.”
Jiwon and Sekyung, fellow Kukje Gallery assistants, are more relaxed now with drinks in hand, joke quietly near the sculpture exhibit by a Norwegian artist–tall slabs of glass stacked precariously like a frozen Jenga tower. You recognize a few celebrities from afar. One of them, a K-drama actor, brushes past your shoulder and nods with a grin. You smile politely, tucking hair behind your ear.
Matthew Thompson, the international liaison working at the Kukje Gallery with you, leans over and murmurs with his usual British charm, “You’re handling this well. Most first-timers freeze up at events like this.”
“I’ve worked under people like Curator Sungah Serena Choo for far too long to freeze up at events like these,” you reply with a small laugh.
“That’s impressive of you, especially at your age being in this world.”
The night rolls on with curated elegance. Music swells from a live quartet in the corner, and the soft chatter of artists, dealers, critics, and collectors swirls around you like the fizz of your champagne. You’re perfectly composed, but something nags at the edge of your mind.
Would he have come here tonight?
Would he walk through those doors?
And if he did… would his eyes look for you, with the same thoughts that you’d likely be here?
You sip your champagne, gently sway your hips to avoid a passing waiter, and smile at someone you half-recognize from an online networking panel last year.
You remind yourself you're here for the art.
Not for the chance to see him.
But your eyes still glance toward the entrance.
Just once. Maybe twice.
A sudden roar erupts from outside the COEX venue–louder than anything you’ve heard all evening. It crashes through the air like a wave, spilling into the open glass lobby from somewhere far beyond the polished walls.
You glance up. Fans have been camped outside since sunset, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite idols and actors as they arrived for Frieze Seoul’s opening. Most can’t even get past security, but they wait anyway, with cameras in hand and phones pressed to barricades.
But this time, the noise is different. Sharper. Higher-pitched. Sustained.
Something tugs at your heart.
Could it be…?
“Oh my god–it’s BTS RM and J-Hope! They’re here!”
Gasps flutter across the floor like startled birds. Conversations falter. Glasses pause mid-air. And then the migration begins–art professionals, dealers, and curious attendees flock toward the mezzanine railing of the second floor, eager to catch a glimpse.
You follow slowly, stuck behind a few people in the crowd forming, your heels clicking against the marble as you try to peek between shoulders and heads. Eventually, you find a sliver of space near the glass edge–and there he is.
Namjoon.
Wearing a VISVIM Crosby short-sleeve leopard print shirt, black slacks, and a sleek crossbody bag. Next to him stands J-Hope, dressed in Louis Vuitton, just as effortlessly casual. Both are flanked by tight security and rich older socialites sponsoring the events, surrounded by camera flashes and waves of cheers from fans outside the building’s lower entrance.
Namjoon’s calm in the chaos, nodding politely to a curator you know who greets him. He lifts a hand in soft acknowledgment toward the crowd below. You just barely catch his profile. His sharp jawline, the lines of concentration that crease his brow.
You freeze. It’s glamorous moments like this that remind you how different your worlds really are. The privacy you shared, your bodies tangled together in the quiet of his apartment, feels so far removed from this spectacle. Still, you can’t help the soft awe that creeps in. He’s so composed. So charismatic. So... him.
Yet, so different from the Namjoon you know.
You turn away before he can spot you. Not like you think he would amongst such a big room with a lot of people.
Back to the exhibit you go. Back to the safe familiarity of your team, who’ve now scattered into small groups across the gallery floor.
Just before adjusting the strap of his bag, Namjoon looks up toward the mezzanine. He catches sight of a figure turning away–your silhouette.
Was that really you? The thought tugs at him, feeling bad that he hasn’t had the time to message you, or anyone really. He needs to finish two more tracks on the album so he’s locked himself in the studio with the occasional Yoongi and Pdogg to help him with producing. Today was just lucky enough for him to have a schedule that pulled him out from the hell pit of work.
And to see the sight of you after so long, it leaves his heart feeling excitement, yet sorry.
He feels bad to cast you aside a bit, but he hopes you understand. But for now, he has other matters to attend to.
The rest of the evening passes in a haze of polite smiles and steady conversation. You network with visiting curators, directors from European museums, and several artists whose work you've followed since grad school. Champagne flutes come and go, passed around by white-gloved staff. You laugh at a lighthearted comment from Matthew Thompson about Americans trying to understand makgeolli, and smile as Bokyung Park introduces you to a pair of Paris-based collectors interested in your last exhibition.
But there’s a dull ache in your chest. You haven’t seen Namjoon again. Not even once.
And yet, you remind yourself–this is your job. He’s doing his. There’s nothing wrong here.
Later, an art world acquaintance you haven’t seen in a year waves you over, and you catch up while waiting for your ride to Artue’s exclusive rooftop after-party in Gangnam. You consider skipping it–your heart feels too unsettled–but something inside you says to go. To loosen up. To reclaim the night for yourself.
And so, you do.
At Artue’s rooftop after-party in Gangnam, you try to loosen up. Lights twinkle above like stars tethered to wires, casting a soft glow across the rooftop. The skyline hums around you, music pulses through the crowd. You sip your drink and sway a little to the sounds of H.E.R. performing, followed by Rosé and Se So Neon. Then Crush, then Dean. It’s electric. Dreamy. The air smells of night-blooming flowers and expensive perfume.
You sip your drink and let your body sway to the rhythm, willing yourself to dissolve into the crowd. For most of the night you’ve managed to stay on the edges, drifting between familiar faces, nodding through conversations, pretending the distance in your chest doesn’t ache.
And then you see him.
There he is.
Front and center near the main bar, Namjoon stands with J-Hope at his side, both of them animated in easy laughter. Two idols flank them, and then Minju Kweon–Head of VIP & Business Development, Asia at Frieze–glides into the circle, her tailored dress catching the light as she leans in to greet them. You recognize a few more faces orbiting in, industry players and rising artists eager for a moment, a smile, a photo. Phones flash discreetly, capturing proof of proximity.
Namjoon poses, not resisting the camera. His hand rests casually in his pocket, his expression gentle, open, polite. He bends down slightly when Minju says something, the corner of his mouth tugging into that warm half-smile that you usually see from him. J-Hope throws his head back at a joke, and Namjoon’s laugh follows, low and familiar.
From where you stand –maybe twenty feet away, tucked into a pocket of the crowd–it feels like a universe. You are close enough to trace the slope of his shoulders, to notice how the glow of the rooftop catches on his rings, yet far enough that he might as well be untouchable. He hasn’t seen you. And a part of you wonders if you want him to.
The divide between you sharpens under the music. Him: easy in his element, at the center of gravity, people orbiting without hesitation. You: an observer on the edge, glass sweating in your hand, caught between the pull of wanting to belong and the urge to disappear.
You start to turn your head, already imagining the neatness of a discreet exit. Better to leave the moment untouched than to risk being pulled into a spotlight you’re not sure you’re ready for.
You sway, feeling a bit dizzy. Snap out of it. This isn’t good for you to ponder about.
“Y/N.”
A hand taps your shoulder, jolting you out of the thought. You blink and turn.
Sekyung.
"There are a couple of idols who said they wanted to meet you. They’re fans of your works."
You blink. "Oh?"
She steps aside, and you’re introduced to two young men–Ricky and Matthew from Zero Base One.
"You curated the Origins of Silence exhibition at Kukje, right?" Ricky says, shaking your hand with a surprisingly warm smile, followed by Matthew complimenting and doing the same.
"It was incredible. Your curation notes alone had me googling artists for hours."
"Thank you, that means a lot," you reply, your nerves smoothing into flattery.
You speak in Korean for a while about a few specific pieces with both men, before Ricky nods politely and excuses himself to mingle further. Matthew lingers.
"You’re American?" he asks in perfect English.
You blink. "Yeah–I’m from California, originally. Are you…Canadian?"
"Yeah, how’d you know?,” He chuckles.
“I can hear it a bit from the accent!”
“Haha, it feels relieving to talk in a language I’m comfortable with." He leans slightly closer, still casual. "I’ve just started tagging along with Ricky at these events, but it feels so awkward trying to act so sophisticated and professional."
You laugh, the tension in your chest loosening more than you expect. "No worries, I feel the same, but hey, you’ve found another international person here to make you not feel too alone."
From across the party, Namjoon spots you.
He had lost sight of you hours ago, but he was sure he saw you earlier. Now, seeing you again–standing so close to Matthew, laughing–it triggers something deep inside his chest.
He knows about Matthew. Funnily enough, before a specific Weverse post of a fan accidently copy pasting the wrong korean meant for Matthew, instead of him.
Young, talented, bright-eyed, full of momentum as Zero Base One ride the high of fourth-gen stardom. It’s not that Namjoon doesn’t respect him. It’s that Matthew represents something Namjoon is beginning to fear.
Time. Change. Relevance.
Namjoon clenches his jaw. He hates when he does this–spirals. Doubts. Wonders if he’s too old, too worn down, too deeply embedded in a life of late-night studio sessions and leadership roles to be someone’s... boyfriend.
Especially yours.
You're younger. Bright. Blossoming in your own career. So perfect for him it almost hurts. But maybe… not meant for him after all?
No. Fuck that.
He pulls out his phone and calls you.
Your phone buzzes in your hand. You glance at the screen. Namjoon.
Your breath catches.
“I’m sorry,” you tell Matthew gently. “I have to take this.”
He nods. “Of course.”
You step aside, barely hearing the music over your own heartbeat as you answer.
“Turn toward the center,” Namjoon says.
Your gaze shifts. And there he is.
Eyes locked on yours. A stillness in a sea of bodies.
“You’re here,” you whisper.
“Meet me by the emergency stairwell door in the back. We can’t talk here.”
His voice is low, firm. Sweet beneath the command.
“Okay.”
You weave through the crowd. He moves too, both of you drawn together like magnets. The stairwell is hidden behind a catering table and a black curtain. He reaches you first, hand closing gently around your wrist before tugging you behind the wall and through the heavy metal door.
"Woah, Namjoon–"
"So when I'm not here, you decide to go talk to other idols?"
"Huh? What?"
"I saw you talking to Matthew, all smiling and shit. What was that about?"
"Huh? Matthew?" The idol you were just talking to? You had already forgotten his name. "Ah, the member from Zero Base One? Our gallery sales assistant introduced me to him were just talking about art and our upbringing abroad. Nothing more!"
"Really? Because it didn't look like that to me, or maybe even others."
"Absolutely not. What the hell are you on about? Are you jealous or something?"
Namjoon sighs, feeling stupid that he let his emotions get the best of him. "No, I'm not.." He scans you and the dress you're wearing. the way it hugs your body, the way it shows your cleavage.
"Doesn’t sound like it to me!"
He looks away, "Ugh, let's go home. We've clearly been apart for a little too long and we’re taking this frustration out on each other." Two weeks doesn't feel too long, but dammit, it does to him. And to you too.
"Woah, wait!" He pulls your arm, pulling you walk down the emergency stairwell. He calls his manager to get the car to pick him up from a backdoor emergency exit that leads out an alleyway. no one should be able to see you two leave from here. He texts J-Hope to tell him that he's leaving ahead of him.
"I'm gonna fuck you so hard that you won't dare to talk to another idol and only think of me," he says as the car arrives and takes you to his place.
You swallow hard.
Tonight is far from over.
The car pulls into the underground parking garage at Nine One Hannam, its tires whispering against the smooth concrete. Namjoon’s hand is already on your thigh, jaw clenched and unreadable, the tension in his body palpable.
The second the door opens, he’s out first, rounding the car to open yours. He doesn’t speak. Just grabs your hand, intertwines your fingers with his, and walks you briskly toward the elevator. His palm is hot, firm, grounding.
The elevator doors close behind you.
It’s like a dam breaks.
His mouth crashes against yours with a hunger you haven’t felt from him in a while–raw, claiming, desperate. He cups the back of your head, tongue sweeping into your mouth, breathing heavy through his nose. Your hands curl around his shirt collar, pulling him closer, gasping when he angles your head and kisses you even deeper.
You worry the elevator will open at another floor and someone will enter, but luckily, it doesn’t happen. It seems the stars have aligned just for you and Namjoon here.
When the elevator dings at his floor, he doesn't stop. Just pulls away with a firm, “Come on,” voice dark and low.
He unlocks his apartment with one hand while the other holds your waist, already pawing at the curve of your hip. As soon as the door shuts behind you, he pins you to the wall beside the entryway, one hand gripping your jaw while the other slides down your side.
“This dress,” he growls softly, eyes raking over your body as though he’s just now really letting himself take it in. “God, baby… you look incredible.”
You barely have time to murmur a breathless “Thank you,” before he adds, voice lower, rougher, “But you look better out of it.”
He tugs at the zipper at the side, peeling the floral satin from your body slowly, watching your expression like a man starving. You step out of it, heat rushing to your face as you’re left in your lace white thong and heels. Namjoon’s already undoing his shirt–each button flicked open with precision–but he doesn’t take his eyes off you.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, like it’s a fact. Not a question. So domineering, you think.
Your fingers brush at his lips slowly, as if sealing them will silence him and his urge to consume you.
“I know.”
Then he’s kissing you again. Guiding you backwards toward his bedroom without breaking contact, walking you there with strong hands and stolen breaths. Clothes trail behind the both of you: his shirt, his pants, your heels. When your knees hit the bed, he pushes you gently onto it, palms braced on either side of your thighs.
His voice dips. “Lie back. Spread your legs.”
You do–eyes wide, heart pounding–and he climbs over you, muscles taut and tense with restraint. His cock, thick and flushed, presses against your slick folds as he settles between your legs. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head.
“You think I didn’t notice?” he says softly, hips grinding forward so the tip of his cock drags through your wetness. “You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you?”
“It was seriously nothing–” you breathe, but he cuts you off with a thrust.
It’s rough. Deep. Your eyes flutter shut.
“Then you won’t mind me reminding you who fucks you like this.”
He pounds into you again, each stroke controlled and precise, angled perfectly to hit the sensitive spot inside you. He lets your wrists go only to push your thighs up higher, spreading you open more obscenely so he can drive deeper. You moan, high and needy, and he growls as he pulls out, slapping the length of his cock against your soaked entrance–once, twice–before plunging back in.
He’s gritting his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, watching you unravel. Your legs are trembling around his waist as he fucks you deeper, harder.
“You like that, baby?” he growls against your mouth. “Only I get to feel this tight little pussy. Only I can make you cry like this.” Thrusts continue as the wet slap of your bodies echoes in the room.
“You’re so…a-ah, f-fuck..Namjoom, please” you moan.
Hell, you are even crying a little–more from pleasure than anything. His pace is ruthless, but he still keeps checking in with soft touches, lips brushing your temple, whispers of “you okay?” that only you can hear.
At one point, he pulls out and flips you over. Presses your chest into the mattress and grips your hips hard enough to leave imprints. When he sinks back into you from behind, he lets out a broken moan–like he’s finally letting his jealousy melt into pure, greedy need.
“Look at you,” he pants, fucking into you with long, possessive strokes. “Taking me so good, even when I’m this deep?”
You whimper something like a yes, your cheek pressed to the sheets, barely coherent.
Then he leans down over your back, lips near your ear. “Let me see that face,” he says.
He grabs your waist, pulls you upright, your spine flush to his chest as he continues fucking you from behind in this new angle. One hand circles your throat lightly, keeping you steady. The other slips between your thighs, rubbing your clit in tight, focused circles. His thrusts grow sloppier as you clench down on him–your body tightening and pulsing in time with the strokes of his fingers.
“Come on, baby. Come with me. Show me who you belong to.”
You explode immediately. Trembling, gasping, your nails dig into his thighs as pleasure rips through you in waves.
He follows, only seconds later, with a guttural moan that sounds ripped from the base of his throat. His hips jerk as he fills you, pulsing deep inside until he has nothing left to give.
Then he pulls out suddenly, breath ragged. “On your knees,” he orders.
You scramble onto all fours, but he doesn't go behind you just yet. Instead, he walks around, grabs your chin, and presses the tip of his cock to your lips.
“Open.”
You do, and he slides in slowly–so slowly–until your mouth is stretched full, lips wrapped around the base. He lets out a shaky groan, hand cupping the back of your head. He doesn’t thrust at first. Just holds you there, watching tears prick the corners of your eyes. Then he begins to move. Controlled, deep strokes that leave you gasping and drooling.
“You take it so well,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your spit-slicked cheek. “All that smart mouth and now look at you. Fuck.”
You give me a sly, silly smile. You’d love to argue a little bit more to rile him up, but your headspace is all over the place right now. Let’s just accept this fate being devoured by one of the finest men in Korea.
He pulls out with a wet pop and slaps his cock across your tongue–once, twice–before giving your ass a sharp smack. “Back on the bed. Face down.”
You scramble into position again, heart racing, and he doesn’t waste another second. He slaps your ass once more before grabbing your hips and driving back inside in one deep, punishing thrust. You cry out into the sheets as he pounds into you from behind, rougher now, voice rasping, “That’s it. Let me fuck the thought of anyone else out of your head.”
“Y-yes!! Fuck!”
Your orgasm crashes through you hard and fast, made sharper by the sting of another slap to your ass as you come. And he doesn’t stop–he keeps fucking you through it, body trembling with effort, until his own release overtakes him with a low, guttural growl.
You both collapse after a few more rounds, tangled in sweat-slick sheets and each other, your breathing uneven, hearts thudding out of rhythm before slowly syncing again. His hand strokes your waist lazily, thumb drawing idle circles into your skin. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “I really lost myself… after not seeing you for so long, and then suddenly seeing you talking to another man.”
You giggle, tilting your head toward him. “Ooh, you were jealous? Did you think I lost interest already?”
“Stop, baby,” he groans, hiding his face against your neck. “No. But… I wouldn’t have blamed you, honestly. I’ve been neglecting you.”
“Namjoon…”
“No, really. I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to text you, but I’ve been drowning in work. The album..we’re pushing for release in the next 2 months, and I haven’t been able to–”
“It’s okay, my love.” You cut him off gently. “I figured as much.”
“I missed you so much,” he admits, voice breaking with honesty. “More than I could even say.”
“I missed you too,” you whisper. “But next time… just let me know. Even a short text, so I don’t worry. You were completely M.I.A.”
“I know.” He exhales, brushing a strand of hair back from your face with aching tenderness. “I thought I could power through and surprise you with big news when it was done, but… I was wrong.”
You press your forehead against his, closing your eyes as his warmth seeps into you. “Joonie. Like I’ve always said, don’t worry about it. I’m here now. My worrying yapper king.”
Namjoon chuckles, dimples deepening, eyes soft as he looks at you. “Yeah. You are.”
He lingers like that a moment longer before carefully rolling out of bed, his body still languid from the intensity. He pads to the kitchen and returns with a tall glass of water. The kind of post-sex gesture that’s not flashy, but intimate–like he knows your needs before you do.
You sit up, muscles sore, and take the glass from him gratefully. As you sip, he sits at the edge of the bed beside you, his fingers ghosting down your back.
He hesitates. Then, quietly:
“Y/N… do you want to come by the HYBE building sometime?”
Your lips part, the glass freezing halfway to your mouth. “Huh?”
“I want to introduce you to the members. Officially.”
Your head snaps toward him. “Wait. Really?”
“I think it should be fine,” he explains, careful, like he’s rehearsed this in his head. “People already know I like art. If anyone sees you with me, they’ll just assume you’re an ‘art friend’...someone I know through exhibitions or gallery connections.” His tone softens into something more vulnerable. “But to the guys… I want them to know who you really are.”
The words sink in, spreading through your chest in a way that feels almost too big to contain. Meeting his members. The people he’s built his entire life and career with. The people who have seen every version of him you’ve only caught glimpses of in photos Namjoon has shared with you or just mentions in your late-night conversations with him.
It hits you like a tidal wave.
This is real. Not just a pocket of time you’re stealing together, not just secrecy behind closed doors. He wants to bring you closer, to fold you into the circle of trust he holds so tightly guarded. Your excitement prickles with nerves. What if they don’t like you? What if you say the wrong thing? But beneath all that anxiety is something brighter, warmer: the thrill of being chosen, of being claimed, of being seen. By the person you love so dearly.
Namjoon has always moved with intention. Never rushed, never careless. And this? This feels monumental. Like he’s opening a door you hadn’t dared imagine he’d ever unlock.
Your throat feels tight, but you manage a whisper. “Okay.”
His gaze flickers to you, searching. “Okay?”
You nod, a smile curling shy but sure across your lips. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Relief washes over him, loosening his shoulders. “I think the guys’ll love you.”
“You sure they won’t hate me for monopolizing your time?” you tease, though your heart’s racing too fast to sound casual.
“Are you kidding?” His grin is wide, boyish, the kind that makes your chest ache. “They’ll thank you for keeping me sane.”
You both laugh, soft and sleepy, and lean back into each other, your head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist again like muscle memory.
The bath can wait. Sleep can wait. For now, it’s just the two of you. Breathing. Holding. Wondering how everything is somehow moving forward.
to be continued in part 2.
a/n: thank you for reading part 1 of this long one shot i wrote. i had intended to publish this at the beginning of August, but i had a loved one pass away, so i decided against it as I didn't feel it was right, plus I wasn't satisfied with it. it was also around this time i got busier with work and restarted my job search process again due to not wanting to be at my job anymore. so the tldr; is... a LOT happened. this may be one of the last fics i publish in a long time, so i hope you all can appreciate it! it's my most researched fic as i tried to make it as canon as possible for the sake of immersion. please look forward to part 2 releasing on namjoon's birthday 12am KST.
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Genre: supernatural, smut, angst | MDNI | one shot.
Summary: Under the red moon, your secrets unravel, you don’t want his soul, you want his body. And when your borrowed skin fails…
You’ll come back to claim what’s next.
Him.
TW: blood, supernatural themes, soul-bargaining.
Word count 5.5k
The fluorescent lights hum overhead like tired machines. The air in the ER is too sterile, too bright, but beneath it all, there’s something heavier. A thickness that doesn’t belong to medicine.
Namjoon leans against the nurse’s station, cradling a chipped coffee mug between his palms. It’s his third cup tonight. The caffeine does nothing but give his hands something to do. The waiting room is full, as usual, but the cases are strange.
Too strange.
A girl with no pulse who woke up screaming in the morgue.
A man pulled from the river with slits across his chest like claws, insisting he saw a woman with “no face.”
A street preacher outside the hospital gates shouting in Latin and bleeding from the eyes.
“It’s happening again,” a voice murmurs beside him.
Namjoon glances over. It’s Mira, one of the night shift nurses, her dark curls pulled back, knuckles white around her pen.
“What’s happening again?” he asks, trying to keep his tone clinical.
She doesn’t answer right away. She just nods her chin toward the small TV in the corner of the staff lounge, where the news plays quietly on a loop. Namjoon turns to look.
“…this marks the fourth disappearance this week, all occurring during the lunar anomaly locals have dubbed the ‘Blood Moon Phenomenon.’
Authorities have issued no formal comment, though reports of missing persons surge with every red moon. Conspiracy theorists believe—”
“The red moon,” Mira says flatly, interrupting the anchor. “Every time it shows up, people go missing. Always the same pattern.”
Namjoon snorts, mostly to cover the way his skin crawls.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Three of my neighbors disappeared last fall. One of them was my mailman, Joon. He was eighty. You think he just wandered into another dimension for fun?”
“People disappear all the time,” another nurse mutters from behind a chart. “This city eats them alive. Moon’s got nothing to do with it.”
“It’s not just the moon,” Mira says, voice low now, almost reverent. “It’s the gate.”
Namjoon sets his coffee down a little too hard. “Come on. We deal with real emergencies here, real people, real trauma. Let’s not turn into one of those hospitals that blames ghosts for bed shortages.”
“You don’t have to believe it,” Mira replies. “But you will. Everyone does eventually.”
Namjoon walks off before he answers. Partly because he’s irritated.
Mostly because she sounds too convinced.
And there’s a nagging itch at the base of his neck, something that tells him she’s not wrong.
Not completely.
He doesn’t get to finish his paperwork.
There’s a sharp buzz through the intercom, a tone that usually precedes cardiac arrests or multiple casualty events. Namjoon bolts upright.
“Incoming! Trauma bay 1.”
Nurse Lee bursts through the automatic doors a moment later, gloves already on, breath caught between words. “Female, mid-twenties, found collapsed outside the East Wing entrance. No ID. Multiple lacerations. She’s—she’s not normal.”
Namjoon’s heart kicks once in his chest.
He doesn’t ask what “not normal” means. He’s already moving.
The trauma bay doors swing open with a hiss of compressed air. The room is bathed in cold white light, sterile and clean, until you are wheeled in.
Naked beneath a brown trench coat, your skin is smeared with streaks of deep violet, not bruises, not paint, but blood. Thick, shimmering, almost iridescent. Your hair clings to your face in soaked tangles, your limbs slack, as if you’ve been underwater too long.
The EMT mutters as he hands off vitals, “Pulse weak, nonverbal, pupils reactive. But she’s… I don’t know, doc. The blood—it’s not…”
Namjoon tunes him out.
Because he sees it too.
Your blood isn’t red.
It shines like mercury under the overhead lights, curling into smoke where it meets open air. His eyes track a cut along your side, a wound that should be gaping, gushing, but it’s closing. Actively closing, even as he watches.
“Vitals?” he barks.
“BP ninety over fifty, pulse one-forty. Breathing shallow.”
“Let’s intubate. Start fluids. Get her typed, no, scratch that.” He looks again. He knows no human blood reacts this way. “Run a tox screen and call hematology. Tell them… tell them it’s a priority.”
Mira hesitates. “Do I log her in?”
Namjoon swallows.
He doesn’t know what to say. The clipboard in his hand feels suddenly absurd.
He turns back to you, just as your eyes flicker open.
Black. Entirely black. No iris. No whites. Like staring into the void and finding it staring back.
And somehow, in that moment, Namjoon forgets the laws of medicine.
Because you look at him like you know him.
Like you’ve seen him before.
Like your soul is made of everything he’s ever feared, and everything he’s ever wanted.
It’s quiet now.
Too quiet.
The curtain is drawn. The lights are low, per his request. The machines beep steady, useless, not a single one reading what they’re supposed to. Your heart rate doesn’t exist on the monitor. The blood pressure cuff reads error. The thermometer shorted out in his hand.
Namjoon is alone with you.
And you are watching him.
You haven’t spoken. Haven’t moved. But your eyes, those impossibly black, fathomless eyes, follow every flick of his wrist, every inch he closes between your body and his hands.
There are no words to fill the space.
So he says nothing.
He gloves up slowly, like the stretch of latex might ground him. It doesn’t. His hands tremble anyway.
He reaches for the hem of your coat, and even that movement feels wrong, too intimate, too revealing, like he’s unwrapping something sacred or cursed. But the coat is soaked. Heavy. It needs to come off. He needs to assess the damage.
His breath fogs in the air.
It’s freezing in here. When did it get so cold?
He peels the coat away from your shoulder.
The blood is slick and thick, deep violet smeared across your skin like bruised starlight. And beneath it, lacerations, clean, angled, surgical. Carved into you with something too precise to be human hands.
But they’re healing.
Right in front of him.
The flesh knits with agonizing slowness, like watching a wound reverse itself in time-lapse. He shouldn’t be able to see something like that. No one should.
And still, you watch.
Your eyes don’t blink.
You don’t flinch when he touches you, only follow the path of his fingers, like you’re memorizing their shape.
He swallows hard.
His hand hovers above a particularly deep gash on your ribcage. The edges pulse faintly, like breathing skin. When he brushes the gauze to clean it, the blood smokes. The scent of ozone fills the air.
This is not a woman, something in his mind whispers. This is a threshold. A warning. A thing waiting to become itself.
The silence presses in like a second skin. No voices from the hallway. No footsteps. No pages over the intercom.
Just his breath. And the slick sound of your blood steaming against gauze.
And your eyes.
Always your eyes.
Like they know he’s unraveling.
Like they’re counting the number of beats left in his human heart.
His throat works as he tries to swallow again. He doesn’t know why he wants to say something, anything, but the words die in his chest like moths against a bulb.
He tapes down the final bandage with shaking fingers. Steps back.
The air tastes different now. Thicker. Heavier. The kind of air that hangs in old churches and places where people once bled for gods that never answered.
And still you do not speak.
But somehow—
Somehow, he knows you’re listening.
Namjoon leaves the room without looking back.
He doesn’t even know how long he’s been in there. Minutes? An hour? Time collapsed inside those curtains, warped by the unnatural rhythm of your body healing itself, of your eyes changing.
He walks down the corridor on autopilot, scrubs sticking slightly to his back, throat dry. He passes the nurse’s station without speaking. He can’t speak. His mouth won’t move.
He only stops when he reaches the medication supply room, cold, bright, blessedly sterile.
His hands brace the edge of the counter, white-knuckled.
What the hell did I just see?
He should report it. He needs to. An unidentified patient with signs of neurological trauma, complete black sclerae, inexplicable tissue regeneration, That’s what he’ll say. He’ll write it like it’s science.
But he’s lying to himself.
That… thing in your eye. That flash of gold. That iris that looked at him—
He felt it. It wasn’t just seeing. It was being seen.
Like it remembered something about him he’d never lived.
He exhales sharply through his nose, trying to reset himself. He can’t bring this to the head nurse without sounding delusional. Can’t talk to Mira, she’ll say she told him so. Can’t tell anyone, really. Not yet.
Just go back, he tells himself. Check again. Chart it. Try to make sense of it.
So he does.
He turns on his heel and walks back to Trauma Bay One.
Each step feels heavier.
The hallway stretches unnaturally long, like the light above is dimmer now. Like something’s watching from the corners, just out of sight.
He pushes open the curtain—
And stops.
The bed is empty.
No patient. No coat. No blood.
No machine still hooked to a body that shouldn’t exist.
Just sheets.
Clean. Tucked. Untouched.
As if no one was ever there.
Namjoon stares.
His fingers twitch at his side.
There’s a single smudge near the edge of the mattress, barely visible.
He steps closer.
A fingerprint.
Violet. Small. Centered. Like a mark left for him.
Still fresh.
Still smoking.
Namjoon doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already in the restroom, gripping the sink with both hands, sweat clinging to the back of his neck despite the freezing hospital air.
His reflection looks pale. Hollow-eyed.
Like he’s been awake for days.
He turns the faucet on full blast.
Cups the cold water and splashes it onto his face.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Each time, he hopes the shock will jolt the memory from his head.
But it doesn’t.
He still sees it—
That eye.
That iris.
The way it flickered into existence just for him, like a secret being whispered into his bones.
He leans over the sink, breathing hard.
“What the fuck is happening…”
He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. But the weight in his chest isn’t from fatigue. It’s something else. Something ancient and wrong.
He closes his eyes and tries to rewrite the memory.
Maybe it was low lighting. A trick of the mind.
Maybe the blood wasn’t violet. Just dark red in weird fluorescence.
Maybe her eyes weren’t black. Maybe he imagined that smile.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But when he opens his eyes again, he knows.
He remembers everything.
The bed.
The wounds.
The steaming blood.
The silence.
And that fingerprint. Violet. Still wet.
That didn’t come from exhaustion. Or stress. Or too much caffeine.
That came from her.
Namjoon splashes his face again and breathes through his nose.
Just get through the shift.
He dries his hands with a paper towel and pushes out the door—
Straight into chaos.
The ER has exploded into motion. A car accident, two victims incoming. Someone’s already yelling for a portable X-ray, another nurse is sprinting with a trauma cart. Monitors are beeping. Radios buzzing.
Everyone is moving.
No one even notices that a patient vanished from Bed One.
No one remembers.
Except him.
Namjoon stops just beside the nurse’s station, scanning the whiteboard. Her name isn’t there. No “Jane Doe,” no trauma note, not even a timestamp. Just empty space.
The clipboard he’d been holding earlier? Gone.
His notes? Gone.
The monitors that were hooked to her body are now connected to a new patient, some teenager with a concussion.
“Doctor Kim!” someone shouts. “Room six!”
He doesn’t move.
He looks down at his own hands.
There, just under his fingernails, faint but undeniable —
A glimmer of violet.
—-
It’s Friday night and the city hums under neon and heat.
Namjoon shouldn’t be out. He should be asleep. Or working. Or calling a therapist. But instead, he’s at a bar downtown, the kind with moody red lighting and whiskey neat, where people come to forget their sins and maybe find new ones.
He leans against the bar with a drink he hasn’t touched.
His eyes are dull. Shoulders stiff. He hasn’t stopped thinking about her. About you.
He’s searched the system every day. No Jane Does. No missing patients. He even checked the security feed..
Only static.
One full hour of footage erased from the system.
He could almost believe he hallucinated it.
Almost.
Then the music shifts. Something low, sultry. A slow beat cuts through the crowd.
And Namjoon turns his head..
And sees you.
Standing in the doorway like you walked out of a fever dream.
Your skin glows under the red light, dusted in golden shimmer. You’re wearing a short black slip dress, one strap sliding off your shoulder like it’s begging to be undone.
Hair down. Lips deep berry red.
Bare legs that go on too long. Heels that shouldn’t exist in reality.
And for a full five seconds, Namjoon forgets to breathe.
Because you’re not just beautiful.
You’re engineered.
You’re everything he’s ever wanted and shouldn’t. Every buried desire, every impossible type, distilled into one body. Tailored to taste.
And it terrifies him.
His eyes drag down your figure in slow, unwilling awe. Your waist. Your hips. The impossible curve of your thighs. The tiny silver ring through your nose. And just below the strap of your dress, riding the slope of your left shoulder blade.
A tattoo.
Simple. Black. A moth with open wings, as if inked mid-flight.
He stares.
You don’t.
You’re already walking. Toward the bar. Toward him.
And every step is siren song.
Namjoon tries to convince himself it isn’t her. It’s someone who looks like her. A doppelgänger. A coincidence. It has to be.
But then you slide onto the barstool next to him, smooth, deliberate, and turn your head slowly.
Those eyes.
Still dark. But now softened by just enough light to pass as human.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” you say.
Your voice is smoke and honey. A velvet rasp that dances across his nerves like silk over flame.
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
You smile like you’ve won something.
“I didn’t get to thank you for earlier,” you murmur. “For patching me up.”
Namjoon swallows. “You… were hurt.”
“You fixed me.”
His hand tightens around his glass.
No one knows this happened. No one remembers but me.
Your fingers trail down the side of your glass. The ice clinks softly as you lean in closer, perfume curling around him like starlight.
“I’d like to return the favor,” you say.
And before he can respond—
Before he can name the dread clawing up his spine..
You kiss him.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not sweet.
It’s claiming.
You don’t ask him to follow.
You just walk out of the bar like you already own him, and he comes.
The night air bites, thick with heat and something ancient, something unsaid. His keys fumble in his fingers. His mind is fog. His body moves before thought can catch up.
You stop by his car, a black Mercedes parked beneath a flickering streetlight, and glance back at him, head tilted, that dark smile blooming slow.
Like a predator in silk.
And then you climb into the backseat without a word.
He doesn’t breathe until the door slams shut behind him.
Your mouth moves like it knows what he tastes like already, tongue sliding deep, teeth nipping, pulling a groan from his chest before he can stop it. Your fingers curl around the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer as your thighs part over his lap.
The windows fog before he even realizes you’ve moved.
You straddle him in the backseat like you belong there, like his body is already yours, and he’s just catching up to the truth. His breath hitches when you shift forward and he feels the heat of you through your dress.
No panties.
Of course you’re not wearing any.
You grind down slow, a wicked tease of friction that makes his cock twitch in his jeans.
“Wait—” he gasps, but your hand is already between them, undoing his belt with terrifying precision, like you’ve done this a hundred times. Like you’ve studied him in dreams.
“You patched me up,” you whisper against his throat. “Let me return the favor.”
You free his cock, hard and flushed, already leaking at the tip. He hisses when the cold air hits it, but then you’re sliding down his body, sinking to your knees on the backseat floor like worship.
He watches you with wide, disbelieving eyes, the sight of you below him, hair a tangled halo, lips parted, and he feels like he’s on the edge of something final.
You wrap one hand around the base of his cock and stroke him slow. Precise. Watching his face the whole time. Your thumb swipes across the head, spreading precum, and then—
Then you take him into your mouth.
Heat. Pressure. Wet perfection.
Namjoon’s head slams back against the seat, a low groan tearing from his throat.
“Fuck, fuck—” he pants, his hands shooting to your hair but stopping short of gripping. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed. Doesn’t know if he’s in control at all anymore.
You hollow your cheeks, sliding deeper, tongue flicking beneath the shaft like you want to ruin him from the root.
And it’s working.
You bob your head, slow and steady, hand pumping what you can’t fit. Your spit drips down to your wrist, messy, obscene, and your eyes never leave his face.
He’s unraveling.
Too fast.
“Stop,” he rasps, tugging gently at your shoulder. “If you keep going I’m gonna—”
You let him slip out with a pop, lips red and slick, a little breathless.
“That’s the point,” you murmur.
But you climb back into his lap anyway, straddling him again. His cock, wet and hard, presses against your soaked heat. He can feel how ready you are, how eager.
But still, he flips you.
It’s not rough. It’s not rushed.
But it’s hungry.
Namjoon lays you back against the seat, pushing your dress up past your waist. You stretch for him, legs parted like offering, the moth tattoo flexing slightly on your shoulder as you arch into his mouth.
Because he wants to taste you.
Needs to.
He lowers himself between your thighs, hooks them over his shoulders, and licks one slow, devastating stripe through your folds.
Your back arches instantly, breath shattering.
He groans against you, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines.
You taste like sin and starlight.
He flattens his tongue and drags it again, then circles your clit with maddening patience. He sucks gently, then harder, enough to pull a cry from your lips, a sound so wrong and layered it chills him even as he gets harder.
You writhe, one hand buried in his hair, the other against the fogged glass behind you.
“Joon,” you pant, your voice distorted, as if someone else is whispering under your breath.
He doesn’t stop.
He eats you like he needs to memorize you, like you’re the cure to something ancient in his chest. And when you come, thighs shaking, breath caught, he holds you through it, lets you grind against his mouth until you’re gasping from overstimulation.
Then, only then, does he move.
Namjoon slides up, hands trembling as he lines himself up at your entrance.
You’re so wet, it’s effortless.
He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, groaning as your heat swallows him whole.
You’re tight. Searing.
You wrap your legs around his waist and whisper, “Break me.”
And he does.
Your legs tighten around him like a vise as he slowly pushes deeper, inch by burning inch. The heat of your body presses against his, the slick wetness of you swallowing him whole, and Namjoon gasps, a sharp, ragged sound he can’t hold back.
The world outside the car fades to black, muffled by the pounding of his heart and the slick sound of flesh meeting flesh.
He moves with agonizing slowness at first, savoring every inch, every shiver running through your body. His hands grip your hips, trembling with need and disbelief, as if afraid you might vanish if he lets go.
But then the hunger takes over.
His thrusts grow harder, faster, rougher.
The car creaks and shudders beneath you, windows rattling with the force of your passion.
You grind down against him, matching every movement, every desperate claim, every moan that escapes his lips.
His head falls back, mouth open, breath ragged as waves of pleasure ripple through him.
“Fuck,” he moans, voice low and broken, “You’re… so tight.”
You bite your lip, eyes half-lidded with sinful delight, whispering, “Give it to me.”
He doesn’t need another invitation.
With a growl, he slams into you harder, each thrust hitting deeper, rawer.
The backseat becomes your cathedral, the sound of skin slapping skin and ragged breaths filling the confined space.
His body trembles as he loses control, moans spilling out like prayers.
You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders as your hips roll with abandon, riding him through waves of pleasure that leave you both breathless.
His hands roam your body, memorizing every curve, every shiver, every gasp.
“Joon,” you cry out, voice thick with need, “Please give it to me.”
He groans, losing himself completely as his release builds, reckless and consuming.
The car shakes with the force of his climax, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills himself, desperate and undone.
His body trembles, every muscle tight and trembling as his climax fades, but inside him, the fire still burns hot and raw, untamed and insistent. You can feel it, the pulse of need still thrumming through him like a second heartbeat.
Without breaking contact, he pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his eyes dark and heavy with desire. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers his head.
Your breath hitches when his lips brush your inner thigh, warm and featherlight.
His tongue flicks out, tracing lazy, teasing circles just at your entrance. His fingers spread you wider, and the scent of your skin wraps around him like a drug.
“Fuck,” you murmur, voice thick and breathless.
His hands grip your hips tighter, anchoring himself as he sinks into this new task with a hungry reverence. His tongue slides inside you, slow and probing at first, learning your shape, tasting your heat.
You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair, hips lifting to meet his mouth, the sensation a wildfire igniting every nerve.
His tongue dances over your sensitive bundle, flicking and swirling with growing confidence, driving deeper into your core.
“Joon,” you moan, voice cracking as waves of pleasure ripple through you.
He hums softly against you, a low, vibrating promise, and his tongue circles tighter, faster.
Your breaths come in ragged bursts. Your hips begin to buck uncontrollably as the tension coils tight inside you.
Then—
Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, muscles clenching around him, moans tearing from your throat in pure, unrestrained release.
Namjoon holds you through it, lips trailing kisses along your trembling skin as your body shudders beneath him.
When you finally come back down, flushed and breathless, he lifts his head, eyes gleaming with something fierce and raw.
“I’m not done with you,” he whispers, voice thick.
And you know, neither is he.
You’re still trembling when Namjoon pulls back, breath heavy, eyes dark with something primal. Without warning, his hands grip your hips and flip you over onto your hands and knees, pressing you down into the seat with a possessive force that sends a thrill straight through your spine.
His fingers dig into your waist, nails raking lightly over your skin, leaving red trails, sharp, delicious, a perfect mix of pain and pleasure.
A low growl rumbles in his throat as one hand moves to your hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands and yanking gently but firmly. Your head tips back, exposing your throat to him.
His other hand moves up, encircling your neck in a slow, steady grip, not enough to harm, but enough to steal your breath. The pulse thudding in your throat matches the beat of his racing heart.
“Look at me,” he commands, voice rough and fierce.
You arch your back, hips lifting involuntarily as he tightens his hold just enough to send a shock through your body.
Nails scratch down your spine, sending sparks of sensation that crawl through every nerve ending.
You gasp, lips parting in a silent plea.
Namjoon’s eyes blaze as he positions himself behind you, pressing into your heat again.
Slow at first, testing, savoring, then harder, deeper, each thrust raw, relentless.
Your body responds, hips rocking back into him, hands gripping the edges of the seat as pleasure and pain mingle in a wicked dance.
His grip on your hair tightens, pulling your head back until your breath hitches in your throat.
His hand around your neck pulses in rhythm with his hips, every movement driving you closer to the edge.
“Beg for me,” he snarls.
You do.
Your voice breaks on a moan, ragged and needy.
When you reach back, scratching at his chest with nails sharp and desperate, he groans and slams into you harder.
The car rocks with your joined rhythm, every creak and rattle a testament to your reckless abandon.
Then, with a guttural curse, he pulls out, flipping you onto your back again.
Before you can catch your breath, you’re straddling him, hips slowly lowering onto his still-hard cock.
He groans deep and low as you sink down, taking him in inch by inch.
Your hands find his shoulders as you start to move, slow, teasing, riding him like a storm held in check.
His hands grip your waist, guiding your rhythm until you’re both lost in the intoxicating heat between you.
Faster now.
Harder.
The world narrows to the sound of your breathless moans, skin slapping skin, and the unrelenting pounding of desire.
With a final, shuddering cry, Namjoon loses himself, filling you completely, his release spilling deep inside as the car rocks violently under your fevered motion.
You cling to him, both of you trembling, caught between burning need and the fragile aftermath.
You went home with him, moving silently through the city’s quiet streets as if you belonged to the shadows themselves. The car ride was thick with unspoken promises, lingering touches, and a tension that burned hotter than the summer air.
That night, the world shrank to your bodies tangled beneath the sheets, heat and sweat mingling in a fevered rhythm that never eased. You surrendered to each other completely, nameless, time-forgotten, raw and sinful.
Namjoon never wanted the night to end.
But morning comes anyway.
Light seeps through the blinds, pale and slow.
Namjoon wakes first.
His body aches with memory, every touch, every gasp, every whispered promise still echoing beneath his skin.
He turns, searching for you.
The bed is empty.
Cold sheets. No scent but the faint trace of your perfume lingering in the air.
His heart stutters.
He rises, moving to the window.
Outside, the city breathes under a sky bleeding red.
The moon, full and swollen, glows deep crimson.
The red moon.
His breath catches.
All the whispered stories, the vanished people, the impossible blood, they rush back in an overwhelming tide.
He reaches for his phone, fingers trembling.
But the screen is dark.
No messages. No missed calls.
Nothing.
His eyes scan the empty room again.
You’re gone.
And he knows.
This isn’t over.
——
Namjoon paces the empty apartment, restless and hollow.
Your absence gnaws at him, a phantom limb aching for what’s been taken.
He replays every moment, every glance, every touch.
Every impossible detail, the violet blood, the shadow-black eyes, the way your body healed like it belonged to no living woman.
His phone buzzes finally, a news alert.
“Another disappearance. Last seen under the red moon.”
His chest tightens. The city feels colder, more dangerous.
He throws on his coat and heads out, chasing shadows through the streets, haunted by the memory of your moth tattoo, your whispered promises, your impossible eyes.
Late that night, beneath the blood-red moon, he finds himself at the edge of the city’s oldest playground.
The air tastes like iron and forgotten secrets.
He remembers the stories, the soul shifters.
Creatures caught between worlds, borrowing flesh for brief reprieves, each day in a borrowed body stealing a piece of their own soul, delaying a descent into the underworld.
And he remembers you, a moth inked on your skin like a warning.
Back in the quiet of his apartment, the truth lands like a stone.
You aren’t human.
You are a soul shifter.
A creature trapped between life and death, borrowing flesh for twenty-four hours to escape the eternal night.
And every time you do, a piece of you fades, a price paid in silence.
Namjoon’s heart aches with fierce longing.
Desperation claws through his mind.
Because if you lose yourself completely…
There’s no coming back.
He breathes heavily, decision burning bright and wild.
He will offer you his soul, a bargain made in shadows, if it means you stay.
If it means he keeps you here, just a little longer
—-
The dream is thick, suffocating, velvet darkness and the ghost of your voice.
Namjoon twists violently under the sheets, damp with sweat, breath short and heart frantic.
He wakes.
It’s 3:47 a.m.
The moon hangs outside his window, bleeding red through the blinds.
And you’re there.
Sitting in the velvet armchair across the room, legs crossed, black dress clinging to every inch like a second skin. The same stilettos. The same calm expression.
Like no time has passed.
Like you never left.
His breath catches. He doesn’t dare blink.
“…You’re here,” he rasps, voice hoarse from sleep and disbelief.
You tilt your head. “I always come back, Namjoon.”
There’s something cold in your voice. Detached. Like you’re already halfway gone.
He sits up slowly, knees bent under the sheets, clutching at something real.
“You’re not human,” he breathes. “I know now. I— I figured it out.”
Silence.
Then you smile. Small. Tragic.
“Then you know why I can’t stay.”
He stares, jaw clenched. The red light dances on your skin, casting shadows on your collarbones. He remembers every inch of you. How it felt. How it ruined him.
“No,” he says. “I don’t accept that.”
You blink slowly, but he keeps going.
“I’ll give you anything. Anything, do you hear me? Just stay.”
His voice cracks. “You want a soul? Take mine. Tear it out. Burn it. I don’t care—”
You rise slowly, the sound of your heels echoing like distant thunder across the hardwood floor, a funeral march for something he hasn’t buried yet.
Namjoon doesn’t move. Can’t. He’s suspended in your gravity, heart thundering, pulse a frantic drumbeat beneath his skin.
You reach the bed.
And lower yourself beside him like smoke curling into space, like you belong here, on the edge of his life and the end of everything.
Your touch is gentle on his chest, fingers splayed over his heart as if trying to feel it one last time before you ruin it.
But your voice is cold.
“It’s not your soul I need, Namjoon.”
His throat tightens. “Then… what?”
You look at him.
Pity and inevitability war behind your gaze. And when you speak again, your words are a death sentence wrapped in velvet.
“It’s the body.”
He blinks.
“What?”
“I borrow them,” you murmur. “Flesh. Bone. Blood. It’s the only way I stay.”
The room goes still.
“I wear them like coats. Some last longer than others. But they all rot eventually. And when they do…”
You reach forward, brush his jaw with something like reverence.
“I have to find a new one.”
Namjoon stares at you, every nerve in his body seizing.
His voice is barely a whisper. “You mean… you’re wearing someone now?”
You nod.
“She was dying anyway. A heart too weak to carry the hunger. But it fit just long enough to find you.”
He shudders. “And now what? You’re going to take me?”
You smile, slow and soft, and it hurts worse than anything.
“Not yet.”
A pause.
“Soon.”
And then you rise.
No longer soft. No longer human. You move like the end of time itself.
As you walk toward the window, the blood-red moonlight finds your skin, and for the first time, he sees through it.
The flicker of other faces. A kaleidoscope of borrowed beauty. All of them once loved. All of them long gone.
You turn to him one last time.
“I came because you called,” you say. “With your need. Your ache. Your loneliness. I answered.”
Namjoon’s lips part, to beg, to curse, to scream, but nothing comes.
You step into the light, and just before you vanish, your voice breaks the silence one final time:
Summary: You and Namjoon have been married for quite some time, your relationship having only grown since you first met as bright-eyed students back in the day. Now, you're a passionate primary school teacher, and Namjoon is an inspiring college professor, both deeply invested in shaping young minds.
This holiday season, after a long day at work, you find yourselves staying late to decorate your classroom. Namjoon, ever the considerate soul, swings by to pick you up, but of course, you take advantage of the opportunity and put him to work.
As you hang twinkling lights and arrange paper snowflakes, the conversation takes a meaningful turn. In the midst of the holiday madness, you talk about your future, and the idea of starting a family emerges…
Best Christmas gift ever.
Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader
Genre: Fluff and smut. Married couple Au.
Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact.
Warnings: this is honestly just a fluffy slice of life drabble. Namjoon is clumsy, and whipped. Spandex? drinking.
Smut warnings: soft dom Namjoon, big cock Namjoon, oral (m and f receiving) praise, multiple positions, a little overstimulation, just a smidge of breeding kink.
Word count: 14k
Author’s note: Okay. I know I have an ongoing story, but I do this thing, where I get overwhelmed with life and just blurt out a whole drabble. Usually in those moments the story I’m already working on drives me insane, so I… do this. sorry?😊
thank you sweet sweet @callmenoona25 for accepting my... quirk when i just drop a whole new fic on your lap out of nowhere lol. Thank you @rpwprpwprpwprw
For the perfectly aesthetic joonie photos!
(fun fact, i used to know a baby chicken little. He'd always break his glasses down the middle)
Merry Christmas everyone!❄️🎄
Your new crafting scissors glided against the construction paper with ease. A flurry of cut-off bits, small pieces of colourful paper, glitter, pompoms, and anything else that merely resembled a Christmas theme littered your classroom floor.
A delightful chaos surrounded you—scraps of red, green, and gold paper mingled with stray stickers, twisted up pipe cleaners, and the occasional orphaned googly eye. It was a mess, the kind only a classroom holiday crafting session could conjure, and yet here you were, adding more to it.
The new scissors, sharp and precise, were a joy to wield, effortlessly turning construction paper into stars, trees, and snowflakes. You got so absorbed in your work that the mountain of scrap paper piling up next to your desk barely registered anymore.
The room was silent now. The kiddos had left hours ago, followed by a parent-teacher conference and a staff meeting to finalize plans for the upcoming Christmas holiday party. By the time you returned to your classroom, the exhaustion was bone-deep, and the sight of the disaster awaiting you made you groan.
But as you approached your desk and spotted a few abandoned crafts—a lopsided tree, a glue-smeared snowman—a spark of creativity flickered to life. The supplies were already out, and with autumn decorations still clinging to the walls, you figured you might as well get a head start on transforming the room into a winter wonderland before the weekend.
You lost yourself in the rhythm of cutting and crafting, glueing and arranging, the silence of the empty classroom wrapping around you like a warm blanket. It was practically the only moment during the long, exhausting day when you could to sit down and just let your thoughts wonder.
You were so focused that you didn’t notice the sun setting—or the faint creak of your classroom door opening.
“Mrs. Kim, it seems my wife forgot to come home today after class.”
You froze mid-snip, the scissors poised in your hand, a half-finished snowflake dangling from your grip. The familiar voice carried a teasing warmth that made your cheeks flush before you spun around in your chair, to catch a glimpse.
Standing in the doorway was you husband, Namjoon, leaning casually against the doorframe with that playful grin you loved (or occasionally cursed for how easily it could fluster you).
His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up, and his coat draped over one arm, a telltale sign that he’d come straight from his own long day at work. Yet his smile was bright, his tired eyes twinkling with delight upon seeing you, like he was about to tell you the best pun he ever heard.
“You know, most people would’ve taken that parent-teacher meeting as their cue to call it a day,” he teased, crossing his arms. His gaze swept over the room, taking in the colourful chaos, before settling on you.
“Well,” you started, trying to sound casual as you placed your scissors on the desk and brushed the glitter from your hands, leaning back against the chair. “After that I also had a staff meeting.”
His grin widened. “Did you cut out the staff out of paper?”
You huffed at his playful remark, picking up a pompom from the desk and tossing it in his direction. The fluffy projectile sailed weakly through the air before plopping to the floor with an overly dramatic bounce, getting lost in the multicoloured mess on the ground. “Very funny, Mr. Kim,” you said, shaking your head as you reached for your scissors to finish the snowflake.
Namjoon laughed, stepping into the room, his footsteps soft against the glitter-dusted floor. “I prefer clever over funny.”
You mused, pretending to consider his suggestion. “I’ll agree when you grab some paper and make something clever yourself.”
Namjoon chuckled, shaking his head. “No way. I’m just here to admire the handiwork—And maybe rescue my wife before she buries herself in glitter.”
“Too late for that.” You laughed, showing him the underside of your hands, covered in an array of colourful plastic bits and flecks of glitter.
He laughed too, his warmth filling the classroom as he settled into a nearby chair. He watched you with quiet amusement as you snipped away the final pieces of the snowflake.
Once done, you brushed the remains off the desk with a casual sweep of your hand, letting the scraps fall to the already messy floor. Reaching for a spool of string, you began tying a loop to hang the snowflakes.
“You know,” you said, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, “I was just thinking I could use a tall, handsome man to help me hang these from the ceiling.”
His dimples deepened slightly as his lips curled into a smirk. “Should I fetch the principal for you?”
“God, no!” you exclaimed, shooting him a mock-horrified look.
Namjoon’s laughter echoed again, and he stood, taking off his coat and draping it over the back of your chair. “Fine. Lucky for you, I happen to know a tall, handsome man who’s free to lend a hand. On one condition.”
“And that is?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you handed him the snowflake.
“I get to take you out for dinner afterwards.”
“You hang up my décor and I don’t have to cook dinner?” you said with a grin, watching as he reached up to hang the snowflake with ease. “You’ve got yourself a deal, my love.”
Namjoon smirked as he hooked the snowflake onto the ceiling, his long fingers adjusting it so it hung perfectly. “Don’t get too excited. You’re paying, and I’m starving,” he added with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
You rolled your eyes, laughing as you handed him another snowflake. “Starving? You make it sound like you haven’t eaten all day.”
“I haven’t eaten enough,” he corrected, taking the snowflake and hanging it with the same care as the first. “Besides, all this helping is hard work. I’m burning calories just by existing in this glitter cloud.”
“Poor baby,” you teased, before standing up and stretching as much as possible, waiting for that satisfying pop that made your back come to life after sitting at your desk for hours.
While Namjoon made remarkable progress on the snowflakes, you retrieved your broom and vacuum cleaner, trying to salvage the floor and not declare war with the cleaning staff in the process.
Once it finally started looking like a classroom again—crayons arranged, glue sticks all capped and drawings proudly hung up on the walls —you fetched your seasonal décor box from the supply closet, gathering the autumn leaves and acorns as you went.
The sound of Namjoon’s soft humming filled the room as he continued to hang the rest of the snowflakes. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him, so effortlessly blending into your little world. His tall frame moving with ease as he reached up to secure another delicate snowflake.
“You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?” you teased, carefully arranging the autumn décor for storage.
“Just trying to make your life easier,” Namjoon replied, his voice warm. He stepped back to admire his work, hands on his hips like he’d just solved a complex philosophy problem.
You smiled, unrolling the fairy lights on your desk, silently thanking your teacher assistant for her knack for packing them neatly and knot-free.
“Think you can help me with this too?”
When you looked up, you noticed Namjoon standing next to the wall where your classroom photo was hung up. It was a large picture of you surrounded by your students, all laughing and holding colourful balloons.
The parents had given it to you as a gift on the first day of this school year, though it had been taken during the end-of-year celebration when your little first graders graduated.
Around the group photo, you’d carefully arranged individual pictures of each child, their names neatly written underneath and decorated with felt stickers.
Namjoon stood quietly, his eyes scanning the display with a soft smile tugging at his lips. His expression was a mix of pride and warmth, the kind that never failed to make your heart flutter.
“What’s baby Chicken Little up to?” he asked, glancing over at you, the playful nickname making you giggle.
Last year your heart had been stolen by a little boy named Minjun, who made it his yearlong mission to bring you a leaf or a flower every single day of school. His little backpack was almost as big as he was, and he’d always greet you with the brightest, most infectious smile when he walked through the door, before dropping the little plant on your desk and giving you an adorable bow.
You’d told Namjoon all about him at the end of each day, and when you proudly showed him the photo you’d snapped of Minjun on your phone, Namjoon cooed and playfully nicknamed him baby Chicken Little. All because of his “iconic green glasses,” which happened to bear an uncanny resemblance to the ones the animated character wore.
“He’s doing really well. A little genius when it comes to multiplications, although his calligraphy could use some work.”
Namjoon chuckled, his dimples making an appearance as he glanced back at Minjun’s photo. “Multiplications, huh? Guess he’s already ahead of the curve.”
You smiled fondly, scavenging through your storage boxes for the chalk markers. “He’s a sharp one. Always so curious. His mom says he’s been teaching his little sister how to count using her barbie dolls.
Namjoon’s expression softened further. “Sounds like a future teacher in the making.”
You giggle, “Only if he can pass your philosophy 101 class in college.”
“Oh, come on! You know I’m not as mean as you make me out to be.”
You raised an eyebrow, pausing your search for the chalk markers to give him a teasing look. “Not as mean? Should I remind you about that one student—what was his name? Jungkook? —who said your essay prompts were harder than his organic chemistry final?”
Namjoon groaned dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “That was one time! And he clearly didn’t read the syllabus.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, stifling a laugh as you finally found the markers, holding them up triumphantly. “I’m just saying, if Minjun wants to pass your class, he better start practicing his critical thinking skills now.”
Namjoon crossed his arms, feigning offense. “For the record, my students love me. I’m approachable, insightful, and, dare I say... inspiring.”
You watched as Namjoon gave you that challenging look, daring you to tease him further. But deep down, you knew 100% that he was right.
After all, he’d proudly told you about Jungkook— the ‘Muscle Bunny’—who, by the end of the year, would refuse to leave the classroom after lessons, just for a chance to talk with Namjoon about everything from philosophy to general life issues. (And on more than one occasion, you had to swing by the college to collect your husband, because they were both so emersed in the conversation.)
Sure, Jungkook may have started out as a bit of a tough nut, but by the end of the semester, he was one of Namjoon’s biggest fans.
You chuckled softly at the thought. Namjoon had a way of drawing people in, even the most unlikely candidates. It’s what made him such an outstanding teacher. And you couldn’t be happier that you managed to snatch him up before he even graduated with his teacher’s degree.
“I know you are.” You said honestly, watching his posture soften, his eyes almost twinkling with delight at the compliment.
Namjoon’s dimples deepened, and he turned back to look at the photos on the wall. A comforting silence falling over the classroom again as you started drawing with the chalk markers on the windows.
It was just as you were finishing the last details of the snowman that Namjoon spoke again, his voice steady but carrying a weight that immediately caught your attention.
“Do you think we’d make good parents?”
The question hung in the air, quiet and unexpected, causing you to freeze mid-stroke. Your hand suspended, the tip of the marker just inches away from the snowman’s little top hat. You hadn’t expected that. Namjoon had always been thoughtful, but this… this was something entirely different.
You turned slowly, finding him looking at you, his expression unreadable but soft. There was a quiet intensity in his eyes, as if he wasn’t sure why he asked the question, but was waiting for your answer nonetheless.
“Good parents?” you repeated, your voice quieter than usual, the weight of the question settling into your chest. It wasn’t just a casual inquiry—it felt loaded and significant. It felt like he was asking something deeper, something that might change your life in the very near future.
Namjoon seemed to notice the shift in the atmosphere, his gaze flickering to the floor for a moment before meeting your eyes again. His lips parted slightly, as if trying to find the right words, but instead, he stayed silent, letting the question linger.
You cleared your throat, your thoughts racing. Was he asking about parenting techniques? Was this a hypothetical question, or was there something more to it? You couldn’t quite tell. But the thought of it—of you and Namjoon as parents—flashed across your mind, and for a split second, you felt a warmth spread in your chest.
You’d talked about your future many times—even while you were still just dating—and you both agreed you wanted kids. But there was never a set timeline or a specific goal you wanted to reach before starting a family.
You took a slow breath, trying to gather your thoughts as the weight of the question settled in your mind. The idea of having a baby—it was something you’d talked about casually, even dreamt about in passing. But now, with his eyes on you, the conversation suddenly felt real, more tangible than it ever had before.
You finally put the chalk marker down on the desk, turning fully to face him. “You’ve asked me before about the future,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the rapid beating of your heart. “But this... this feels different. Are you asking because you’re actually thinking about it?”
Namjoon looked at you, his eyes soft but filled with a quiet intensity that made your cheeks heat up. “I mean-” he said after a beat, his voice almost uncertain. “I guess I’ve been thinking about it more lately, especially with everything we’ve built together. I don’t think we can get any more financially stable. And we’ve got a good thing, right? We work well as a team. I just... I wonder what it would be like to take that next step, with you.”
Your heart nearly exploded, a big grin spreading across your face that would certainly make your cheeks hurt if you kept it up. He had a way of making everything feel possible, of making you believe in the future even when you didn’t have all the answers. The thought of raising kids with him, of teaching them the way you both wanted to, filled you with an overwhelming sense of warmth and certainty.
“I think we’d be great,” you said, your voice full of honest affection. “We’d make an amazing team. I know we’ve got the love, the patience, and the understanding to do it.”
Namjoon’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you, as if taking in your words, before a soft smile crept onto his face.
You knew you weren’t about to get a confirmation from him, not now at least. Namjoon needed to steep in his thoughts a bit more before he would finally and ultimately tell you he wants a baby.
Still, his smile lingered, and he slowly nodded, as if to affirm your words without needing to say anything else just yet.
The silence between you both felt comfortable, like a promise for the future—an unspoken understanding that this was a conversation that didn’t need to be rushed.
After a moment, he reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch soft but sure.
“I love you.”
Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you felt an overwhelming sense of warmth and peace settle in your chest. Even despite hearing those same exact words come out his mouth millions of times, they still wrapped around you like a protective embrace, making everything else, every worry, every unfinished plan and every glitter-littered snowflake fade into the background.
You leaned into his touch, savouring the moment. “I love you too,” you replied, your voice steady but filled with the same devotion that was in his eyes.
He placed a chaste kiss on your forehead, before glancing around the classroom, “What did you ask me to do?”
“Fairy lights, Joon.”
Namjoon chuckled softly at your reminder, his fingers still lingering on your cheek for a moment before he stepped back. “Right, right,” he said, shaking his head. “I got distracted from the important things.”
You watched him walk toward the desk to finish hanging the fairy lights, a warm smile tugging at your lips as you returned to your drawing. The weight of the earlier conversation still lingered in the air, but it left you with a spark of excitement.
As he carefully draped the lights along the chalkboard, you noticed how effortlessly he moved, how much care he put into making sure everything was perfect. You’d always admired that about him—his attention to detail, his quiet confidence in everything he did. And now, with every little task, you couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of certainty.
“Almost done,” Namjoon called out, glancing over his shoulder. You gave him a thumbs-up, your smile widening as he finished the last strand of lights.
The classroom now looked like a cozy little haven, with the soft glow of the fairy lights casting a gentle warmth over the space. Everything felt perfect.
You capped your marker once the windows were done, and walked over to your desk to organize a little bit, putting away the potentially dangerous supplies, before closing the drawers and the boxes.
Namjoon stood beside you, his hands in his pockets as he admired the room. “It’s impressive, I’ll give you that. But it’s still missing one thing.”
You frowned, stopping mid-motion, to glance around. “What’s that?”
He reached down, gently tugging you to your feet and closing the last box for you. “Us. Out of here, enjoying a well-deserved dinner.”
You couldn’t help but giggle, grabbing his coat and your bag before stepping away from the desk. Namjoon fetched your coat from the hanger, draping it over your shoulders with a soft smile. He then took your hand, a firm but gentle hold, and started guiding you toward the door, almost certain that if he didn’t, you’d find something else to do.
As you walked together, you paused by to the classroom pet cage, drawn by the soft rustling inside. The little chinchilla scamped out of his enclosure and over to the bars, his nose twitching as he looked up at you with big, hopeful eyes.
“Did I tell you we need to take Professor Fluff this Christmas break?” You asked, grabbing a treat from the nearby jar and tossing it into the cage, watching as the chinchilla eagerly snatched it up and started nibbling on it.
Namjoon, holding the door open for you, tilted his head as you walked back to him.
“Wasn’t it Teacher Assistant Park’s turn?”
“She’s pregnant, Namjoonie. She can’t.”
You slipped your hand into his, smiling as his fingers intertwined with yours, leading you down the dimly lit school halls.
“She should be able to handle a chinchilla if she expects to take care of a baby.”
You giggle, shaking your head. “No, babe, it’s about allergies.”
Namjoon sighed dramatically but couldn’t fully hide his grin. “That settle it. Definitely getting you pregnant. Even if only for the perks —wife comes home on time, and I get to have her all to myself for the holidays.”
You blushed furiously at his comment, a big, droopy smile tugging on your lips.
“Oh, come on. How much time do you think Professor Fluff is going to keep me occupied?” you tease, bumping your shoulder against him as you walk.
Namjoon raised an eyebrow, playful glint in his eyes. “With what I have planned for you, more than I like.” he replied, pulling the door shut behind him as the two of you stepped out into the crisp evening air.
You laugh, your cheeks still warm from the blush he had put there. Namjoon's teasing always had a way of making your heart flutter, but this time, there was something deeper in his words—something that felt like it carried a promise.
“I swear, you really know how to keep me on my toes,” You glanced up at him, feeling the warmth of his touch on your hand as he guided you out into the crisp evening air.
He grinned, pulling you closer to him as you made your way to the car. “That's the idea. Keep you guessing, keep you interested.” He gave you a wink, the playful glint never leaving his eyes, even as he opened the driver’s door for you.
“I don’t think you need to work too hard at it. You're already the most interesting person I know.” You said when he settled into the passengers seat.
Namjoon's smile softened, and for a moment, you could see the sincerity behind his teasing demeanour.
“I like that you think that,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, as he slowly leaned over the console to catch your lips in a sweet kiss.
You melted into him, the soft press of his lips against yours lingering for just a moment longer than usual, making your heart race. It was the type of kiss that had you coming back for more, the kind that melted all your worries away, and made you feel like you two were the only ones in the world.
As he pulled away, he gave you a playful smile, his thumb gently brushing over your cheek. “Now please drive. I’m starving.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at his sudden shift in tone, your heart still fluttering from the lingering kiss.
“Always about food with you,” you sigh, starting the engine and pulling out of the parking lot. “I guess I'll just have to accept that food is your first love.”
Namjoon raised an eyebrow, his expression turning mischievous. “Well, if food's my first love, you, my dear, are my favourite dessert.”
You felt your cheeks heat up at his words, a mix of amusement and affection swirling inside you, butterflies wreaking havoc in your stomach.
You glanced over at him, trying to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “Is that so?” You said, your voice teasing as you focused on the road.
Namjoon's grin widened; his eyes gleaming. “Absolutely. You’re sweet, irresistible, and I could spend hours between your legs.”
A flush crept up your cheeks as your grip on the steering wheel tightened, the tension between you two shifting. His words hung in the air, teasing but also carrying an edge that made your pulse quicken.
“Keep talking like that and I'm taking you home,” you threatened.
Namjoon’s expression shifted in an instant from playful to mock-serious. “No, no,” he whined, leaning back into the seat with a dramatic sigh. “I promise I'll be good.”
You giggle. “What do you want to eat then?”
He lit up again, his mock seriousness giving way to his usual enthusiasm. “That little BBQ place that opened up down the street from us.”
“The one you haven’t stopped talking about since they put up the ‘coming soon’ sign?”
“That’s the one,” he admitted unabashedly, his grin growing wider “It’s fate. They opened just in time for us to have the perfect date.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you turned the car toward home. “I guess it is. But I’m parking at home and we can walk—that way, I can drink too.”
“Oh, is my baby planning to get wasted tonight?” he teased, his tone light and playful.
“No,” you chuckled, glancing at him with a smirk. “But I know for a fact you’re going to order that fancy whiskey you always get, and I don’t want to be stuck as the designated driver.”
Namjoon laughed, his deep dimpled grin lighting up his face. “Fair point. That whiskey is worth the walk. And hey, I’ll carry you home if you have one too many.”
You rolled your eyes, a fond smile on your lips. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. It hasn’t been such a bad week” you smile at him, “But I won’t say no to being spoiled by you a little.”
“Always,” he replied without missing a beat. “I’ll spoil you every chance I get.”
You couldn't help but grin at his words, the warmth in his voice making your blush reappear. There was something so comforting in the way he always knew how to make you feel special, how he was so genuine in every little thing he did for you.
“So, you’re paying tonight?”
“Nope,” he smiled, popping the p, and earning a heartfelt laughter from you.
As the two of you approached your home, you turned the car into the driveway, the familiar sight of your house welcoming you. Namjoon was already getting out of the car, his excitement for the evening palpable.
“Let me grab my bag, and we’ll head out,” you said, stepping out of the car and locking it. Namjoon waited by the gate, glancing around as the evening air started to cool, a few stray little snowflakes lazily drifting through the air. The stars above twinkled in the dark sky, and the soft hum of the city around you made it feel like the world had slowed down just for the two of you.
“Ready?” he asked as you approached him, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket.
“Let’s go,” you replied with a grin, your arm slipping through his. You walked down the quiet street together, the comfortable rhythm of your steps matching each other effortlessly.
The neighbourhood was peaceful, with only a few cars passing by, and the crisp air reddening the tip of your nose. As you reached the corner of the street, the warm glow of the BBQ restaurant came into view. The scent of grilled meat and spices filled the air, making your stomach rumble in anticipation, and reminding you your last meal was breakfast, many hours ago.
“There it is,” Namjoon said, his voice full of excitement. “I’ve been dreaming of this all week.”
You laughed, the sound easy and full of affection. “It’s definitely been a long time coming, huh?”
“Worth the wait,” he replied, grinning.
As you entered the restaurant, the cozy atmosphere wrapped around you, and the delicious smells only heightened your anticipation. Namjoon gave you a playful glance, watching as you all but jump with excitement, before leading you to a little booth. You, of course, slid in next to him, and cuddled up against his side as you waited for the waiter. Namjoon grinned as you cuddled up against his side, his arm naturally wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer. The booth was small, but cozy, and the warm lighting of the restaurant made it feel like a private little nook just for the two of you.
As you settled in, your gaze drifted to the menu, although, truthfully, you were more focused on the tall and handsome man next to you. His warm presence besides you, the way he always seemed to know exactly how to make you feel safe and cared for. The man who wanted a family with you, who would undoubtedly take perfect, tender care of your little human being, and who would hang out at the museum talk hours on end about his favourite pieces with the kiddo, like they could grasp every single concept. Before, undoubtedly trying to teach your baby the deepest philosophy concepts ever, and five different musical instruments all at once.
The waiter soon approached, and Namjoon, with his usual confidence, ordered for the both of you without missing a beat. He didn’t even need to ask what you wanted—he already knew. A small smile tugged at your lips as you watched him. He always did that, always taking care of things in his own calm, capable way. It was one of the many things you loved about him.
Once the drinks arrived—a neat whiskey bottle that you couldn’t remember the name of—you clinked your glasses together in a soft toast.
“To perfect dates,” Namjoon said with a glint in his eye, his voice warm and filled with affection as he held his glass up to yours.
“To many more to come,” you replied, your voice light but sincere, the sound of it carrying a promise in the air between you.
The glass met with a soft clink, and the warmth of the whiskey settled in your chest as you took your first sip, savouring the smooth, smoky flavour. Namjoon mirrored your actions, the ice in his glass gently clinking as he took a long sip, never breaking his gaze from you.
You smiled at him, the familiar tenderness filling your heart, a slow, easy feeling of contentment settling over you. There was something special about moments like this—about sharing time in each other’s presence, just the two of you, with no outside distractions.
It reminded you of your first few dates, back when you two were both overworked students with a seriously high number of sleepless nights, and a very poor diet consisting mostly of cola and noodles.
Back when he was so nervous that he basically talked to himself the whole date, stumbling over his words in a rush to make the ‘conversation flow’, but still managing to make you laugh with his awkward charm. You didn’t tease him about it back then, how could you? When he’d look at you like you could single-handedly change the world with a flutter of your eyelashes.
And when you agreed to a second date, he gave you the biggest, cheesiest smile you ever saw, before accidentally bumping into you as he leaned down to kiss your cheek, somehow managing to smack you in the face with his forehead.
You froze for a second, both of you staring at each other in stunned silence, before he apologized in a flurry and left you alone and confused in front of your dorm room.
Imagine his surprise when you called him for details about the promised second date.
Even so, there was never a moment when Namjoon ever made you feel unsafe, or like he was going out with you just to make up for his awkwardness. No, despite his nervousness, he always made sure you felt valued, cherished, and like you were the most important person in the room. That was one of the things you’d grown to love about him. He was sincere in every gesture, every word, even when he felt uncertain about himself.
That second date he got to kiss you right.
You had both come a long way since then. The clumsy first kiss was just a part of the story now, a little cherished memory that always brought a warm smile to your lips whenever you thought about it. You’d grown together since that day, and with each date, each shared moment, your bond had only deepened.
Now, here you were, sitting next from him, your husband, in this cozy little restaurant, enjoying the warmth of the whiskey and the various dishes that the waiter brought out for you.
Everything felt right. There was no doubt in your mind that this, right here, was exactly where you were meant to be.
Namjoon caught your eye, a small, playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re smiling to yourself.”
“I’m happy,” you replied simply.
Namjoon softened, his eyes filled with warmth as he leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a more intimate tone. “Me too,” he said, his words wrapping around your heart and making it jump in your chest. You quickly leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, giggling a bit when he let out a soft, surprised puff, his eyes widening slightly at the unexpected gesture. “What was that for?” he asked, his voice light with amusement but still smooth .
You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, the devotion in your gaze unwavering. “For making me happy. And for hanging the snowflakes in my classroom.” You paused for a quick second, before smirking. “And for paying for dinner?”
Namjoon chuckled, his dimpled smile lighting up his face. “Nope.”
He laughed at your fake little pout, before holding out his chopsticks to you. “Here, try this.”
You opened your mouth wide, waiting for him to feed you the piece of beef he cooked, only for it to fall from his chopsticks and right on your button-down shirt.
You both froze for a moment, staring at the little piece of beef resting on your chest. Namjoon blinked, his eyes widening in disbelief before he broke into a fit of laughter, his deep voice filling the space between you two.
“Smooth,” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you reached for the beef and popped it into your mouth, before grabbing a napkin to wipe away the mess on your shirt.
“I'm so sorry,” Namjoon said, still laughing, but his voice filled with genuine concern. “I swear I aimed for your mouth.”
You dabbed the spot on your shirt, trying to suppress your own laughter. “That’s what he said.”
At that little comment he gave you a deep belly laugh, a hand covering his mouth, before grabbing another napkin for you.
“I’ll take it to the cleaners tomorrow. I’m sorry.” He still giggled like a little kid watching you try to rub the stain away.
You couldn't help but smile, your heart warm at the small, sweet gesture. “I think it’s fine,” you said, your voice softening as you met his eyes. “It's just a shirt. But it’s the thought that counts.”
Namjoon tilted his head, his dimpled grin returning. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, leaning in slightly, his voice lower and softer. “I swear.”
The temptation to flirt back tugged at you, but the urge to tease him was simply too strong to resist.
“You can start by not burning the rest of the meat on the grill.”
“Shit!”
You couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction as he whipped around to check the grill. The sizzling sound of beef filled the air, and he immediately sprang into action, grabbing the tongs and flipping the steaks with exaggerated haste.
“Shit, shit!” he muttered under his breath, his hands moving quickly but still a little too late to save the edges of the tender cuts from burning.
You couldn’t help but laugh, watching the frantic yet adorable way he tried to salvage the meal. "Maybe next time, don’t get so distracted by my chest," you teased, leaning back in your chair with a sly grin
“I swear I’m a better cook when I’m not trying to impress you.” he confessed with an embarrassed smile that made your heart pick up again.
“Why are you still trying to impress me? You’re already getting in my pants tonight.” You flutter your eyelashes up at him, leaning into his side.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered under his breath, focusing back on the grill with renewed determination.
You let out a laugh, unable to resist bugging him further. “Come on, Namjoonie, you don’t have to work this hard for me. I’m already sold. Burned beef and all.”
He shot you a quick look over his shoulder, his dimple making a reappearance as he smirked. “Oh, I know you’re sold. But I still have to keep my reputation intact. Can’t have you thinking you married a man who can’t even grill properly.”
You shrugged playfully. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly drawn to you for your cooking skills to begin with.”
Namjoon smirked, his eyes briefly flicking to yours with a teasing glint before he said, “Good. Then I guess my other skills will have to do now too.”
The innuendo wasn’t lost on you, and you raised an eyebrow, “Careful, Mr. Kim. You keep that up, and I’m taking you home.”
Namjoon’s laugh was loud and deep, echoing around the room as he handed you the piece of meat. “Eat first,” he said with mock seriousness, his tone firm but the amusement dancing in his eyes betrayed him. “And you’re getting dessert too.”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, smirking “You’re just going to eat half of whatever I pick, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” he admitted shamelessly, his grin widening in triumph, dropping some veggies on your plate too.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress your laugh as you reached for the menu. “Fine. Let’s get the profiteroles. They look amazing, and you can’t mess up sharing that.”
Namjoon arched a brow. “Are you implying I messed up sharing earlier?”
You shot him a pointed look, lips twitching with amusement. “There’s beef on my shirt, Namjoon.”
Namjoon paused mid-grin, glancing down at your chest, before letting out a sheepish laugh. “Okay, okay, point taken. No more distractions.” He turned back to the grill, but not without throwing you a cheeky wink first. “Although, just for the record, you’re quite distracting when you wear that skirt.”
You shook your head, still smiling. “I swear, you're impossible.”
Yet there wasn’t even a crumb of conviction in your tone.
The evening carried on naturally, the warmth of the alcohol and the steady rhythm of conversation made everything feel comfortable. The intimate little interludes— the flirting, teasing, the way his eyes never strayed far from you—kept the energy between you two charged. You weren’t sure whether it was the drinks, or Namjoon’s smile, or a mix of both, but you couldn’t deny the way everything felt amplified. You were tipsy, needy, and feeling more than a little flushed.
Namjoon noticed it before you did, that little shift in the air around you. He leaned in, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he casually placed his hand over thigh. “You’re looking a little red,” he remarked softly, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that made a shiver run down your spine.
You tried to laugh it off, shifting slightly in your seat. “I think I might’ve had a bit too much to drink.”
“Mm, I noticed,” he said, his voice smooth, low. He didn’t pull his hand away, but instead gave your leg a gentle squeeze, before moving his hand higher up edging the seam of your skirt, “You look adorable though.”
A soft heat spread through you, making your heart beat in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol. There was something in his gaze—something undeniably intense—that made the air between you feel thick. Like you could just eat him up, and he’d thank you.
“Do I need to carry you home?”
“No.” You swallowed, shifting your eyes away. “But you should stop looking at me like that. You’re making me blush.” You replied, trying to play it off, but your words felt like they were slipping from your lips a little too easily. You could feel his gaze on you, assessing, as if he knew exactly what you were trying to hide.
Namjoon’s gaze softened, and the corner of his mouth quirked up as he leaned in a fraction closer. His thumb gently stroked your skin, the simple touch sending a spark of heat straight to your core. “Am I?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that made your stomach twist in the most wonderful of ways.
You tried to steady your breath, but it felt impossible under the weight of his attention. “Yes.”
“Good,” he smirked.
“Namjoon,” you breathed, not sure whether it was a plea or a warning.
The playful banter felt more like a slow burn now, the kind that lingered in the spaces between your words and between your slowed movements.
“Mm?”
“Please get the tab, so I can pay and we can go.”
Namjoon’s lips curled, his fingers still moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“Impatient, baby?” He murmured, his voice deeper now, like he was savouring the effect he was having on you.
You nodded, the growing need clouding your thoughts. “Yes,” you whispered, barely audible. “I want to go home.”
He leaned in slightly, his face just inches from yours, and for a moment, everything else seemed to blur out of existence. His breath was warm against your skin, and the weight of his gaze made you feel both exposed and electrified. It didn’t even register that you were out in public anymore, or that there were other patrons around. The only thing on your mind was his dark eyes staring at you.
“Alright,” he said, his voice low and steady, his smirk never wavering. “But only because you asked so nicely.”
He slid his hand off your leg, but not without one last lingering touch—soft, deliberate, and devastating—leaving you absolutely wrecked as he leaned back to call the waiter.
(Of course, he didn’t even let you see the tab, snatching it up and paying for your meal without a second thought.)
Every movement of his was slow, measured, like he knew exactly where your limit was and he was drawing it all out with maddening precision. The air between you thickened with unspoken tension, humming in the spaces where his fingers lingered, where his gaze met yours.
And when he brushed your hair to the side to help you slip into your coat, his hand found the back of your neck, resting there for just a second longer than necessary—firm and warm, enough to leave your heart pounding and your mind spinning.
The moment the door of the restaurant swung open, a gust of cold air hit you, the crisp night biting at your skin. The alcohol in your blood dulled slightly, replaced by the clarity of the chill as you instinctively pulled your coat tighter around you. Yet, the thin fabric did little to shield you from the cold, the breeze slipping through the seams.
Namjoon was right beside you, his sharp eyes scanning the darkened street as if the cold didn’t faze him at all. With a glance your way, he stepped closer, shrugging his own coat higher on his shoulders before slipping his arm around you without hesitation. His hand rested lightly on your back, the weight of it both grounding and comforting.
His warmth beside you was enough to make the walk more bearable, and the anticipation bubbling inside you made it all worthwhile.
He turned to you, a slight smile on his lips. “Cold out here, huh?” he said, his breath visible in the night air, quickly leading you towards your home.
You nodded, pulling your scarf up a little higher to shield your face from the cold.
Without a word, Namjoon slid his arm around your shoulders, tucking you closer to his side. His touch was casual yet deliberate, like he didn’t need permission but still silently asked for it. The fabric of his coat was rough against your cheek, but his body heat bled through, chasing away the chill that had started to seep into your skin.
The street was quiet, the glow of streetlights casting long, soft shadows as you walked side by side. Those shy snowflakes from earlier now growing bolder, swirling down in earnest. They clung to your hair and coat, melting into tiny droplets against the warmth of your skin.
Namjoon’s hand shifted after a while, slipping down to find yours. Without hesitation, he slid both into the pocket of his coat, the gesture so natural and intimate that it made your stomach flutter anew. His thumb brushed over your knuckles absently, a small but steady movement that set your heart racing. Each step brought you closer together, your shoulders brushing now and then, as you neared your house.
His presence, the solid warmth of him beside you, was more than enough to keep the chill at bay.
“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice cutting through the crisp night air as he glanced over at you.
You nodded, your breath forming soft clouds in the cold. “Yeah. This is nice.”
Namjoon chuckled. “Nice? You’re freezing.”
“You’re hot.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, accompanied by a fit of giggles that felt almost too loud in the still night. The alcohol still hummed faintly in your system, loosening your tongue, but it was worth it just to see Namjoon stutter, his eyebrows raising.
And then he laughed, full and rich, the sound reverberating through you. “Wow,” he murmured, shaking his head with an amused smile. His cheeks tinged pink—maybe from the cold, maybe not—as he reached into his other pocket, pulling out his set of keys.
“Smooth,” he teased, glancing sideways at you as he fiddled with them, making quick work of finding the right one. The lock clicked open, and he stepped aside to let you in first, the warmth of the indoors beckoning you like a sanctuary.
As you passed, he caught your arm gently, his fingers brushing along its length. His eyes met yours, a daring glint in them that suddenly made your heart pick up again.
It wouldn’t be the first time Namjoon pins you to the first flat surface as soon as you walked through the door, fucking every single sensible though out of your brain, and that idea sends a tingle of excitement coursing through your body. You smile up at him, leaning further into his touch.
But Namjoon is undeterred.
“Don’t make snow all over the place. I mopped yesterday.”
You tilted your head, a little indignant puff escaping your lips before you smirk, toeing off your snowy boots by the door. “You’re so sexy when you do chores.” You push your luck further, but your lovely husband can’t seem to pick up on it.
“That’s it. No more drinks for you.”
“Mm, you love it,” you teased, stepping past him into the warmth of the hallway.
The cozy embrace of the house wrapped around you, softening the crisp chill that clung to your skin, inviting that sense of ease that only your home could bring. You made quick work of shedding your coat and boots, setting them neatly by the door before stretching your arms high above your head, a little moan escaping your lips as the tension of the day melted away.
Namjoon glanced over just in time to catch your little display, his eyes flickering with amusement—and something else. “Comfortable already?” he shrugged off his own coat and tossing it over a chair.
“Very,” you replied with a content sigh. Without much thought, you made your way to the living room and plopped down on the couch, curling up against the soft cushions.
Namjoon followed behind, shaking the snow from his hair before taking his seat right next to you. His long body settled into the couch with easy grace, his head leaning back against the cushions, eyes lazily studying you as you sink further into the couch.
The warmth of the room wrapped around you like a cozy blanket, combining perfectly with the comfortable silence that filled the air. You could feel the weight of the night slip away.
The alcohol was still buzzing lightly through your veins, making you feel a little lighter, more complacent.
Namjoon shifted slightly, his arm brushing against yours as his hand found its way to your thigh, his fingers resting there with an easy familiarity. The warmth of his palm seeped through the fabric of your skirt, and when he shifted again, his touch grew bolder, fingers tracing slow circles just above your knee.
The small touch made your heart pickup again, and you looked up at him, catching the softness in his expression as he glanced back at you.
“So tired,” he confessed, almost like it was a secret. The day had been long for both of you, and you had no doubt the holiday season weighed just as heavily on him. Sure, yours was filled with glittering snowflakes and loud kids singing out of tune Christmas carols, while his likely consisted of conference calls, paper grading and presentations, but fatigue didn’t discriminate.
Still, there was something about the evening, the silence between you two, that made it all feel worthwhile. The day was over, but the night had a way of stretching on, leaving just enough space for small moments like this. Because with Namjoon, there was always something that made the world feel quieter, easier. Like he was grounding you, helping you recharge in a way no one else could.
“Mm-hmm,” you hummed in response, your voice a little dreamy as you let your head fall to the side, leaning against his shoulder.
“You look tired too,” he said softly, his voice laced with tenderness, still his hand shifted to the inside of your thigh, fingers massaging your skin softly.
“I am,” you admitted with a small sigh, your body naturally melting into his touch as the knots in your muscles began to dissolve.
Yet, even as your body relaxed, a spark flickered deep in your belly—undeniable and growing—kindled by the deliberate care in his movements, each touch purposeful and impossible to ignore.
“But I’m also horny,” you tack on after a few seconds, your voice a little breathy, your eyes flicking up to meet his, watching for his reaction.
Namjoon’s hand stilled for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. His gaze dropped briefly to where his fingers rested against your leg, then lifted to meet your eyes.
His smile turned slow, deliberate, and his voice dropped an octave when he finally responded.
“Is my baby needy?”
You nodded slowly, feeling completely vulnerable under his deliberate admiration “Yeah,” you whispered, the word falling form your lips like a confession. “I want you.”
“You’re sure?” he asked, as if testing the waters, giving you a chance to pull back if you wanted to. But the way his eyes locked onto yours, the way his touch lingered now a little longer, a little rougher, said he wasn’t going anywhere unless you wanted him to.
Instead of answering, you shifted, turning around to straddle his hips, tugging your skirt higher in the process so you could sit comfortably on his lap.
“Always,” you muttered, your voice a breathy promise before closing the gap between you. You pressed your lips to his with fervour, cutting off the teasing words he was no doubt ready to deliver, swallowing them whole.
Namjoon’s hands quickly went to your ass, pulling you impossibly closer, and you giggled when he squeezed at your flesh, then shifted like he sensed something unusual.
“What are you wearing?” Namjoon murmured against your mouth, his breath warm and pleasant. The low timbre of his voice made you giggle, the vibration of your laughter mingling with the tickle of his breath.
“Spandex,” you replied with a grin. “How do you think my butt looks so good in this skirt?” With a playful movement, you lifted the hem of your skirt just enough to show him. The spandex hugged your curves perfectly, a sly smirk plastered on your face.
Namjoon chuckled softly, his fingers brushing over the edge of the spandex before his hand returned to its frisky grip on your ass. His gaze lingered, warm and unguarded, as if memorizing every curve.
“Sexy,” he concluded. His other hand grabbing the edge of your shorts and letting it slap against your skin; the gesture drawing another burst of giggles from you.
“The sexiest,” you replied, your laughter dissolving into a grin as you shook your head. With an easy motion, you dropped your head onto his shoulder, muffling your laughter against his shirt.
It was ridiculous, you knew that—the whole moment—but there was something about the way he looked at you that made your heart swell. Like he found you beautiful even in the silliness, even in spandex.
You remained like that for a moment, enveloped in the comfort of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with your own. His hands continued their gentle kneading of your flesh, and you shifted your hips, pressing closer, feeling his hardness through your clothes.
Namjoon let out a soft huff, and you lifted your head to meet his eyes, an impish glint in your own. With a wicked smile, you began moving your hips in slow, deliberate circles, grinding against him, enjoying the way he hardens beneath you. His hands tightened, pulling you closer, a soft moan escaping his lips as he let his head fall back against the couch.
“Ah, babe-” His voice was strained, thick with desire, the heat between you intensifying, his hips buckling up slightly.
Your hands wander up his chest, feeling the muscles tense and relax beneath his shirt. You can feel his heart racing, matching your own as you lose yourself in the rhythm you’d set. With a bit of fumbling, you managed to unbutton his shirt, watching as he shivered under the touch of your cold fingers as you chart his toned muscles.
“Fuck. Kiss me please,” he breathed out, his voice rough and needy.
Your mouth hovered just few inches away from his, the warmth of his wrapping around you like a cocoon. Close enough to count the moles and freckles that dotted his skin, to take in the slight stubble along his jaw. His breath mingled with yours, teasing your lips.
Your gaze flickered down, lingering on his mouth for just a moment longer.
And then, you didn’t hesitate. Leaning in, your lips find his in a fervent kiss. His mouth moved with yours, tongues tangling as you explored him, your hands roaming the expanse of his now exposed chest. The kiss was all-consuming, filled with the passion that had been simmering between you since he stepped into your classroom earlier today.
Namjoon's hands are not idle either. They roam up your thighs, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, making you shiver. You can feel his arousal pressing against your core, and you grind against him, eliciting a low moan from him.
“You feel incredible,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands squeezing your thighs. “I want you so bad.”
His words send another wave of heat through you, and you deepen the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair. You can feel the tension building between you, your own arousal growing with every passing moment.
With a reluctant movement, you pull away to stand up, your skirt falling back down to your thighs as you stare down at him. Namjoon looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire, and you can't help but feel a thrill of excitement as you slowly, deliberately, begin to undress for him.
Pulling your button down over your head, you let it fall at his feet, watching the way his eyes barely flicker to it. Instead, Namjoon watches you, his breath quickening as you reveal more and more of your body to him.
You slip out of your skirt, tossing it aside as you stand before him in nothing but your spandex shorts and a lacy bra. His eyes rake over you, taking in every inch of your body with a hungry gaze.
“God, you're beautiful,” he breathes, his voice thick with longing, watching you kneel between his legs on the floor, your hands quickly moving to his belt to unbuckle it.
You take your time with it, savouring the way his breath hitches as you brush your fingers against his hardness. Once the belt is undone, you unbutton his pants and pull them down, taking his boxers with them. Namjoon lifts his hips to help, his gaze never leaving yours.
Now that he's fully exposed, you can't help but admire him; He's always been handsome, but in this moment, with desire burning in his eyes and his body tense with need, his unbuttoned shirt still clinging to his shoulders, he was downright irresistible.
You reach out, wrapping your hand around his cock, hard and ready, resting against his stomach, and he hisses in a deep breath, melting under your touch.
“Fuck.” His head falls back against the couch pillows, breaking eye contact once you wrap your lips against his him, running your tongue over his leaking tip, swirling it and dipping it into the slit, enjoying the lewd sounds that escaped from his chest without abandon.
Emboldened, you keep taking him deeper in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and finding a steady rhythm that has him unravelling quickly. Your tongue rolling over his head every time you come back up.
Your hand starts working the part you can’t reach mirroring the rhythm you've set with your mouth, unleashing a flood of moans from him.
Namjoon’s hips buck, accidentally bumping the back of your throat, making you gag, and a quick, weak apology falls from his lips, although you feel like he doesn’t truly mean it, because he does it again right after.
But you barely care, because his taut stomach clenches, showcasing his pretty abs, and the long, low sound he makes sends a new wave of wetness between your legs, urging you on. You were the one making him weak. You were pleasuring him in such a way that made him lose himself.
“Just like that, love.” He reaches out, his fingers tangling in your hair, not tugging at it, but guiding your movements, fucking your mouth. You keep up with him, your lips now redden, tongue rolling on the underside, and your chin covered in spit as you bob faster.
The room is filled with the wet vulgar sounds your mouth makes and his low groans, the air thick with desire and anticipation.
“Fuck. Babe, stop.” He whimpers, tugging at your hair. “I’m close. Don’t want to cum-”
Suddenly, Namjoon pulls you away, holding you just out of reach as his head falls back against the couch, a long miserable “Fuuuuuck,” filling the space between you, as if he’d just received the worst news ever.
You blink up at him, your mind scrambling to understand his sudden outburst. His gaze meets yours again, and the regret swimming in his eyes deepens your confusion.
“Fuck. I knew I forgot something.” He groaned, voice thick with frustration, his fingers releasing their hold on your hair.
Your hand stilled mid-movement, your head tilting slightly as you tried to make sense of his words.
“You… can’t get blowjobs?” you asked cautiously, your knees wobbling as you stood up, bracing yourself against his legs for stability.
“What? No,” he blurted, his brows furrowing in indignation. “I forgot to go to the store. We’re out of condoms.”
Namjoon looked utterly defeated, his hands reaching out instinctively to steady you. Yet, there was something almost comical in the way his lips formed the smallest of pouts.
You bit down hard on the wicked grin threatening to spread across your face. He was adorable—even now, red hard cock pulsing against his chiselled thighs, neck flushed red, chest rising and falling rapidly as his mind raced. Likely scolding himself for forgetting something so crucial.
You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your lips, and again, you bury your face into his shoulder, leaning into him to press a kiss against his neck, drawing his gaze back to you. His thumbs began rubbing slow circles against your hips, grounding both of you as you whispered softly into his ear, “We could always go without.”
Namjoon froze. The suggestion sent a visible shiver through him, and his eyes widening slightly.
For a moment, the room was silent save for the soft hum of the heater in the background, the suggestion hanging in the air between you like a loaded secret. His hands, still resting on your hips, tightened slightly as he stared at you, trying to gauge how serious you were—or how far he could let himself go without losing control.
“Are you serious?” his voice came out broken despite his best efforts, and you lean back to look at his face, your hands holding onto his shoulders.
“It would make a nice Christmas gift.” You admit, almost bashful, but maintaining eye contact.
“You’re not just saying that, are you?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. The playful tension had melted away, replaced by something heavier, more profound.
You nodded slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Of course, not” you said softly, your voice trembling just a little. “I want that too. I want a family with you.”
His hand moved to your lower back, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t quite get enough of you.
Namjoon let out a soft, shaky breath, his forehead pressing lightly against yours. For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes closing as if to let your words sink in fully.
When he opened them again, his gaze was filled with a depth of emotion that made your heart feel like it might burst.
“I really fucking love you.” He murmured, his hands settling more firmly on your hips, pulling you closer until there was barely any space left between you.
Your lips quirked into a small smile, your hands moving to cradle his face. “You better,” you whispered back. “I’m your wife, after all.”
Without warning, his arms tightened around you, and in one smooth motion, he stood up, lifting you effortlessly into his embrace.
You let out a startled gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders for balance.
“Namjoon!”
But he only laughed at your reaction, the sound of it lighting up his features as he carried you down the hallway with ease. His fingers pressed gently into your skin, steadying you, and even despite your mock annoyance, your heart still fluttered at the way he held you—like you were the most precious thing in the world.
“Don’t think being my wife means you can get away with teasing me like that,” he murmured. His steps were steady, purposeful, the warm glow of the bedroom lights spilling out into the hallway as he nudged the door open with his foot.
You grinned, brushing a soft kiss against his jaw. “Actually, I think it means exactly that.”
He shook his head, his lips curving into a smirk as he laid you down gently on the bed, his hands lingering as if reluctant to let you go, while your legs remained wrapped around his hips, his hard cock pressing against your thigh. His gaze roamed over you, warm and full of affection, but the spark of desire in his eyes was impossible to miss.
“You’re impossible,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he leaned over you, bracing himself with one arm while the other trailed down your side, sending a delicious shiver through you.
“You love it,” you replied, your tone just as playful as you tugged him closer.
Namjoon hummed, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that started sweet but quickly deepened, every touch and movement making you feel lighter, like you were floating.
His soft lips were moving yours and controlling the kiss, and you melted in his arms, letting him do anything he wanted. He pushed your lips open, and you willingly allowed his tongue to explore every inch of your mouth, moaning against him when he hooked it around your lip to softly bite on it.
His movements were slow and deliberate, as if savouring every second of the connection between you two. Your hands dropped down to his shoulders to push away his shirt, letting it fall off somewhere, and in response, Namjoon pressed against you further, pushing you into the mattress.
You can feel the weight of his body on you, every inch of him pressed against your curves, and you revel in the sensation, though it does very little to soothe the burning ache spreading through you. You try to arch your back, try to make your hips meet, desperate to feel more of him, but Namjoon keeps you pinned down.
Your heart hammers against your ribcage, and you're lightheaded from the kiss, each one of his lingering touches drawing you deeper.
His hands move with purpose, gliding down your arm and leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake. Each touch feels purposeful, yet it only strokes the fire within you, the tension between you building with every measured caress.
Namjoon shifts, his lips abandoning yours to travel along your jaw and neck. Soft and warm, they graze your skin, leaving a searing path of heat that makes your breath hitch with every press of his mouth.
The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the warmth of his breath on your neck made your head spin, the room narrowing to just the two of you.
You gasp when he nips at your neck, his lips a welcome contrast to the sting of his teeth. His hips rock against yours, and you moan at the feeling, even if it's just his length pressing against you, but at this point, you’d take anything to ease the lustful haze that clouded your mind.
“Joonie,” you whimper squeezing your thighs around his hips, “Please.”
You fought to keep your breathing steady, but it was a losing battle.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered against your skin, his voice soft like caramel, dripping with longing, his hands still caressing the sides of your body, stopping over your breasts, teasing your nipples through the lacy fabric of your bra.
You mewl, arching instinctively towards his touch. “Then show me,” you whispered back, your voice hushed, sounding so needy that you barely recognise it as your own.
His eyes shift to your face for a quick second, a big teasing smirk tugging on his lips.
“Mmm, I will.” He replies casually, before pinching your nipples through your bra. A little whimper falls from your lips as a jolt of pleasure shoots through you.
He tugs your bra down, letting your tits spill out, and with an almost primal movement, he takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it while his hand continues to tease and pinch the other one. You gasp, throwing your head back, letting out soft moans as your fingers weave themselves into his hair, pulling him closer.
“God, you’re so hot,” he breaths against your chest, goosebumps erupting across your skin, before switching his attention to your other nipple.
You look down at him, your eyes heavy-lidded with desire. His hands slide down your body and you feel his fingers hook around the waistband of your spandex shorts, tugging them down your legs, leaving you completely bare and vulnerable before him.
He lifts his head from your breast, his lips red and slightly swollen, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. You feel a flicker of shyness wash over you, an instinctive reaction under his steady, adoring eyes. It isn’t that Namjoon ever made you feel uncomfortable—far from it. If anything, he had taught you more about how to love yourself than anyone else ever had.
But still, those small insecurities lingered, faint whispers at the back of your mind. The little things only you noticed, the things you thought didn’t measure up. You tried to push them away, focusing instead on the warmth in Namjoon’s gaze, the way his touch seemed to erase every doubt and hesitation.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice soft but brimming with conviction, like he couldn’t hold the words back even if he tried. His eyes traced every curve and detail, lingering as if memorizing you all over again. “Fuck, you’re going to kill me,” he whispered, the words tinged with awe before he leaned down to place slow, deliberate kisses along your ribs.
A shaky moan slipped from your lips, a sound of your clear frustration as his seemingly endless patience began to test your resolve. He chuckled softly against your hip, the vibration of it sending a wave of heat through you.
“Namjoon,” you breathed, your voice teetering on a plea, your fingers threading through his hair to tug gently.
His lips paused their trail, his gaze lifting to meet yours, mischief and adoration mingling in his dark eyes. “What is it, love?”
“Stop teasing,” you demanded, your tone shaky but resolute. “I swear to god-” but before you could finish your threat, Namjoon’s fingers swipe across your pussy, rendering you absolutely speechless.
“Holy fucking shit.” Namjoon breathed, the disbelief in his voice almost comical as his wide eyes flickered from your face to your cunt. “You’re dripping wet.” His fingers parted your lips, pulling them apart so he could see better. “Is the idea of me knocking you up turning you on this much?” His other hand joined in, both of them exploring your wetness, spreading it around. “Fuck.” He muttered, his fingers positioning at your entrance, sliding in and out of you easily.
You couldn't help but moan, your back arching as you pressed yourself into his touch. “Namjoon,” you sob, your voice filled with longing. “Please, just fuck me.”
“I will. I will,” he mumbles, moving lower to settle between your legs, spreading your thighs further apart, “After I get a taste.” He tacks on, quite proud of himself.
You couldn’t help but huff in frustration and desire as you felt his breath against your slick folds, ready to complain. But before you could get the words out, Namjoon quickly shuts you up, his mouth on you.
“Be good.” He warns, his tone firm but gentle, voice muffled against your pussy. As the words left his lips, his tongue darted out, tracing a line from your entrance all the way to your clit and then back down, causing you to shiver in pleasure. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you open for him as he explored every inch of you, his fingers moving in tandem with his lips.
“Joon,” you whimpered, your fingers tightening in his hair as you tried to control the rhythm, your hips trashing against his face. He chuckled against your skin, the vibrations sending another wave of heat through you, but his patience never wavered, even as your breaths became shorter and your whimpers turned into moans.
He slurped loudly, pressing his face in hard as he moved his lips and tongue expertly. You couldn’t help throwing your head back and moaning, the movement completely involuntary to you. His head moved around as he devoured you like a starving man, moaning to himself as he worked, his tongue lapping at your wetness, before coming back up to your clit and sucking hard, driving you crazy with the way his fingers moved and arched against your sweet spot.
“Namjoon!” Your eyes closed and you bit your lip, trying to muffle your moans, feeling the way his tongue swirled around your opening and licked up your wetness like he was savouring every drop of you.
He was worshipping you, consuming you like he’d been starving for you, growling whenever you pulled his hair too hard or moaned for him in a way he liked. Your back arched and you let yourself close your eyes, unable to stop yourself as your loud moans turned into gibberish, raising in pitch as he brought you right up to the edge.
His name was falling from your lips like a prayer, your hips bucking, thighs trembling and stomach clenched. You felt like you were about to explode, but he didn’t let up, not until you were unravelling against his touch. Your orgasm was so sudden, so violent and unexpected that you didn’t even get a chance to warn him, wave after wave of staggering pleasure washing over you, rendering you an absolute useless mess in his grasp.
Namjoon didn't miss a beat, continuing his assault on your pussy as you came hard around him. Your muscles quivered and pulsed, and he groaned, the sound reverberating through you and adding to the intense pleasure crashing through your veins. And he didn't stop, his tongue and fingers working in tandem to wring every last ounce of pleasure from your body, his fingers pushing your release in his mouth.
As you slowly came down from your high, Namjoon gently kissed your inner thighs, his lips warm and soft against your sensitive skin. You could feel his proud smile against you, and you couldn't even find the energy to glare at him.
It wasn't until your breaths evened out and your body went limp that you finally managed to push him away, a satisfied smirk playing at his lips when he looked up at you.
“Feeling better, baby?” he asked, his voice twinged with amusement, although a little breathless.
You couldn't be bothered to reply, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. But you managed a small, satisfied smile, your eyes closed in contentment.
“I told you I would take care of you,” he murmured, his lips brushing softly against your hip. At that you chuckled, the sound light and airless, the remnants of pleasure still humming through your body like an electric current.
Namjoon began a slow ascend, pressing soft kisses against your skin as he went, each one making your breath hitch just a little more. When he finally reached your lips, his gaze was heavy with intent. He kissed you deeply, and the moment you tasted yourself on his tongue, a wave of heat crashed over you.
Your lips parted instinctively, drawing his tongue deeper as you sucked on it, the sensation unravelling something primal in your mind. A soft, desperate moan escaped against his mouth, your hands fisting into his hair as you clung to him, utterly consumed by him, by his mouth, by his hands against your hips. By Namjoon. Your husband.
“Ready for me to fuck you now, my love?” he asked, his voice low, a whisper against your lips, but one that sent a new wave of wetness to your core.
You were too fucked out to form a coherent sentence, so your let your hand drop to hips and pull him closer, eager for him to take you.
You could feel his hard cock press against your entrance, and you couldn’t resist the temptation to glance down and watch as he positioned himself at your opening. A low moan falling from your lips as you waited for him to thrust inside you.
But instead, Namjoon teases you further, swiping his cock against your wet folds, driving you wild.
“C’mon love, don’t leave me hanging. Say something.” He chuckles, watching your expression carefully as he pushes the head of his cock against your clit, circling it.
That completely makes you snap, a flurry of uncoherent begging and threatening falling from your lips, filling the little space between your heavy breathing and his low chuckles.
“Please, please, please Namjoonie. Fuck me. Get me pregnant. God! Move! You always do this,” your head falls back against the pillow, tears prickling at the inside of your eyes, your fingernails digging in his skin. “Knock me up, please. Just fuck me. I’ll delete your homework gradings if you don’t.”
He bets you have almost no idea what you were spewing, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. Not when his heart swelled with love and desire at your words. He couldn’t resist you any longer. He presses the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you just for a second longer, before he finally pushes inside, agonizingly slow.
You gasp, your body trembling in his arms, feeling him fill you all the way to the brim. The feeling of him bare inside you, the warmth and the intimacy of it, is almost too much to bear. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein. You feel every movement and every thrust as if it's the first time all over again. The sensation is so intense, so overwhelming, that you can't help but let out a series of weak, trembling moans every time he moves inside you.
“Holy fucking shit, you feel so fucking good.” Namjoon whimpered, his hips slapping against you, pulling almost all the way out before filling you up again, “Fuck, you're so tight. I can feel every inch of you, gripping me, love.”
The sound of your skin slapping fills the bedroom with his steady thrusts, punctuated by the occasional slap of his balls against your ass. You gasp, your orgasm building deep inside you. You can feel it coiling in your belly, ready to explode at any moment.
“Yes, yes, just like that, baby,” you moan, your hips moving in time with his.
“Shit love, look at that.” Namjoon presses a hand hard against your lower stomach, “Can you feel it?” he asked, his voice hoarse with desire. “Can you feel how deep I'm inside you, how close I am to filling you up?”
His words sent another wave of heat crashing over you, and you nodded eagerly, your breath hitching as you felt his hand press against your stomach. His cock, so deep and snug in you that you can feel the bulge faintly against your abdomen as he moved.
You nodded frantically, your eyes wide as you felt him pulse inside you. The thought of him coming inside you, of him potentially getting you pregnant, only served to heighten your pleasure. You were so close, so unbearably close to the edge, and with each thrust, you felt yourself slipping closer and closer to the brink.
“Yes, yes, I can feel it,” you gasped, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts. “Please, Namjoon, please fill me up. I want to feel you cum inside me, fill me up, I want to carry your baby.”
Namjoon's thrusts grew more desperate, spurred on by your pleas, more urgent as he chased his release, his grip on your hips tightening as he drove himself deeper and deeper inside you, hitting places you didn’t think possible.
You feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Don't stop,” you beg, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Don't you dare stop!”
But of course, ever the contrarian, Namjoon pulls out, making you scream in frustration. An elongated, miserable “Nooo,” falling from your lips, your body going limp, “God! Namjoon! I swear-” but he ignores you, flipping you over on your stomach.
You still angle your hips up in invitation, although angrily, your body trembling with anticipation and frustration. You’ve known your husband long enough to know how he liked to play, and how to play his games. You plant your knees on the mattress, lifting your ass higher in the air as your chest falls against the pillows, slowly swaying your hips for him.
Namjoon takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him. Watching you offer yourself to him so willingly, so eagerly. He can’t resist your lure much longer. He positions himself behind you, his fingers tracing a path down your spine before grasping your hips firmly. You feel the head of his cock against your entrance once more, and you can't help the whimper that escapes your lips, as again, he swipes it against your clit before sinking into you.
This new position allows him to reach deeper somehow, and you can feel him hitting your sweet spot with every movement. Your fingers clench the sheets as he starts to thrust harder, his hips meeting your ass with a satisfying slap, and you push back against him, meeting him stroke for stroke, your pleasure mounting right back up, bringing you closer to the edge.
Sweat starts to collect at your hairline, your breath hitching with each of his powerful thrusts.
“That's it, love. Take all of me,” Namjoon growls, his lips finding your neck as he continues to fuck into you. His hand snakes around to find your clit, and he starts rubbing slow circles around it, making your knees buckle under your own weight.
Your body trembles as he pushes you closer and closer to ecstasy. You can feel your orgasm building, the pressure coiling deep in your belly, ready to explode at any moment, with any one of his thrusts that hits right against your g-spot.
“Namjoon, I'm so close,” you gasp, your fingers gripping the sheets like a lifeline.
“I know, love. I can feel it. Let go, let me feel you come undone for me,” he whispers in your ear, his voice filled with need, his fingers flicking your clit softly, completely stealing the breath from your lungs. “Let me feel you clench around my cock baby.”
His words are your undoing. You cry out, dissolving into pleasure, everything around you cutting to white noise. Your elbows give way, and you collapse onto the mattress, completely boneless as he coaxes wave after wave of bliss from your trembling body.
His hands fly to your hips, holding you up for him as his thrusts grow more erratic, dragging out your orgasm and making you clench so hard against him that his movements stutters. You felt utterly weightless, as though your body had melted into the sheets, as if you had no strength left to hold yourself together.
“I’m so close,” Namjoon moaned your name, his sounds growing lounder and more uninhibited, as he relentlessly chased his own climax.
“Cum inside me,” you beg, egging him on. “Fill me up with your seed. Make a baby with me.”
His movements falter, his most base instincts taking over, and with one final, powerful thrust, he releases. Filling you up with his hot, sticky cum, you can feel it, coating your insides and leaking out. You clench around him, another orgasm, less intense but just as blissful as the first one washes over you.
The feeling of him coming inside you, the warmth and the intensity of it, is almost too much to bear. You can feel your heart racing, your entire body trembling with the aftershock. You can feel him still inside you, pulsing to the rhythm of his own release, and the sensation of it is just overwhelming.
“Fuck, love,” Namjoon whispers, his lips finding yours in a gentle kiss. “That was...incredible.”
You can only nod in agreement, your breathing still heavy and uneven. You can feel him softening inside you, but you don't want him to pull out. You want to stay like this forever, connected in the most intimate way possible, his full body weight on you.
But eventually, he does pull out, rolling onto his back beside you and you snuggle up against him, your head resting on his chest as you catch your breath. You can feel his heart racing, matching the rhythm of your own.
After a few moments of peaceful silence, broken only by your breathing, a soft, tired chuckle escaped your lips. You rested your chin on his chest, gazing up at him through fluttering eyelashes, a playful glint in your eyes.
“You have a breeding kink.” You state with a sly grin, your tone leaving no room for argument.
Namjoon huffs, his lips quirking into a faint smirk as he mutters, “Maybe.”
“Good,” you reply, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. “Means you’ll enjoy these next few months.”
He groans, running a hand through his hair as his gaze locks onto you, full of equal parts amusement and surrender.
I'm going to vent now: it’s actually refreshing to find a great namjoon fanfic cause people don’t write much about him and when i find a good one it stay with me forever just like a favorite movie scene that keeps replaying over and over again in my mind
