A Love Written in Politics
Pairing: Politician!Kim Namjoon x Fashion_Designer!Reader Genre: Political marriage of convenience, Arrange Marriage AU, slow-burn, jealousy, obsession , possessive smut, yearning (both sides) Rating: 18+ | Minors DNI Word count: ~14k [Ik!! Again it's a long one but I hope y'all like it.] Warnings: Arranged marriage [Arranged by him], age gap (3 years), power play, dirty talk, marking, size kink, praise kink, dom-sub-switch dynamic, wall sex (little rough), car sex (jealousy fuelled sex), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (refrain IRL), angst, fluff, and Namjoon being completely unhinged for his wife. A/n: Honestly... I’m not from a political background, and I definitely don’t know how politics works in every country. So if something feels a little unrealistic or not perfectly accurate… Kindly ignore it and enjoy the drama. [MASTERLIST]
You were seven when you learned your father hugged like a politician.
Quick. Calculated. For cameras only.
After the flash, he would straighten his suit, pat your head like you were a puppy, and walk away without looking back.
To everyone else you were “the Minister’s daughter.” To your father you weren’t even that. You were… “just an investment.” A future bargaining chip.
Only Chairman Kim ever treated you like a kid.
Every Saturday afternoon, he showed up for tea with your father while discussing politics. He always brought you strawberry candies in golden wrapper.
“For you, little princess,” he’d say, tapping your head, handing you candies while you smiled brightly.
His son always stood behind him. Tall. Quiet. Too serious for a kid.
Kim Namjoon.
You didn’t pay attention to him at first. But at nine, you noticed him properly for the very first time. He was twelve, wearing a navy suit, hair neatly combed. He looked like a tiny adult who had forgotten how to be a child.
You were sitting under the grand staircase with a sketchbook, drawing princess dresses made of candy wrappers.
He walked past.
Then stopped. and looked down at you.
You froze with your pencil mid-air.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t even say a word. He just stared at you for five quiet seconds... long enough for your heartbeat to learn something new, then kept walking.
That night, you tried to draw him.
It was terrible. His head was huge, his body tiny. But you kept the drawing with you like a treasure anyway.
You didn’t know he stopped at the top of the staircase that day, looking back over his shoulder, wondering why a little girl designing candy wrapper dresses felt more alive than the whole house.
National Foundation Day.
It was your first grown-up banquet. You wore a yellow silk sundress embroidered with daisies. Your mother said it made you look “too bright.” Your father said nothing.
Namjoon was also here. He was twenty-one now. Taller... Sharper... Even more handsome in a way that hurt to look at. You saw him from across the ballroom. He was talking to a senator, but your heart already tripped over itself.
When he finally stood alone by the balcony doors, you took a deep breath, lifted your dress slightly so you wouldn’t trip, and walked toward him.
“Hi, Oppa,” you said, trying to sound casual and not like you’d practiced that exact greeting fifty times in the mirror.
He turned.
His eyes skimmed down your yellow sundress… then immediately lifted back to your face.
Too fast. Too controlled.
“Hello,” he said gently, voice and smile polite but distant.
You hated how cold it sounded.
Still, you tried.
“I, um… I saw your speech last week,” you said. “It was really, really good.”
He blinked at you like he wasn’t expecting genuine praise.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Then... “Excuse me.” He stepped around you and walked away.
You stood there alone, gripping your glass so tight your fingers ached.
But.. what you didn’t see was, Namjoon slipped behind a marble pillar twenty feet away, leaned his forehead against the cold stone and whispered under his breath, “…Why did she have to wear yellow? Why did she have to look so bright and cute?”
He stayed there until he calmed his breathing.
Because you were eighteen. And he was twenty one. And he wanted things he absolutely should not want.
At nineteen, you left your hometown to chase your bachelor’s degree—finally free from the suffocating walls of politics and expectations. You ran as far away as your world allowed. Your mother supported your dream.
Into color palettes. Into soft fabrics.
Into a life where people chose you because you made things beautiful, not because you fit into a political chessboard.
Your father fought you for years.
“This career is useless,” he scolded. “You’re embarrassing me.” “Come back and try to join politics.”
You didn’t. You kept sketching. Kept sewing. Kept breathing in a world full of art, not strategies. But when Autumn Festival came around, you had no choice but to return home.
And after a full day of polite smiles, fake compliments, and your father’s constant reminders of “behave,” you needed air. You needed space. You needed escape.
So you slipped away the first chance you got. Straight to the National Assembly library... your secret escape since childhood.
Quiet. Dusty. Safe.
A place where no one asked you to be perfect. A place where you could breathe again. A place filled with old books that smelled like freedom.
You didn’t expect him to be there.
Namjoon was twenty-two, round glasses perched on his nose, surrounded by policy reports. He looked annoyingly attractive in that serious, bookish way.
You hesitated before walking to his table.
“Hi... I didn't expect you here,” you said, softly.
He looked up. And for a second, his expression softened like sunlight touching snow. “You’re home for Chuseok,” he said. It was not a question... cause he already knew.
You nodded. “My house is too loud. I needed to hide.”
He smiled a little at that. “Same.”
You sat across from him.
You talked for forty minutes. Softly. Comfortably. About nothing and everything.
You: “Do you ever get tired of all the grey suits?” Him: “Grey is safe.” You: “Safe is boring.” Him, after a long pause: “…Some of us don’t get to pick exciting.”
At one point, you reached for his pen—even though you had three of your own. Your fingers brushed. He sucked in a sharp breath and pulled his hand back like you’d burned him.
You pretended not to notice.
When you left, he watched you walk all the way to the door. And when the library finally closed, he was still staring at the spot where your fingers had touched his.
Few months later, chairman Kim passed away unexpectedly, it felt like all the color drained from Namjoon’s world.
At the funeral, he stood expressionless. Those deep, thoughtful eyes carried a grief so restrained it almost hurt to look at him. He bowed and thanked guests, all robotic and polite.
It was the first time you saw Namjoon truly break.
You placed a single strawberry candy on the funeral wreath—one he used to give you every weekends.
Namjoon stared at it for a long moment.
When he looked up at you, his eyes were red, his voice rough.
“…Thank you,” he whispered.
You wanted to hug him so badly your chest hurt. But you didn’t. You walked away before you cried.
After that, something hardened inside him. He returned to politics sharper, colder, impossibly composed. He became ice who forgot how to melt.
You approached him once at a diplomatic dinner months later. You wore a dress you designed yourself—lavender silk, soft draping, delicate straps.
Your heart was fluttering like always.
“Oppa… you look thinner,” you said quietly.
“I’m fine.” He replied.
Short. Cold. Clipped.
His eyes flicked away the moment your friend approached.
It hurt. You told yourself he didn’t care. Didn’t feel anything. Never did. But you never knew he went home that night and punched a wall, furious at himself for reacting to you that way.
After that, you stopped trying to get close. He always stepped back anyway. Always kept his distance. Always refused warmth.
To you, it looked like indifference.
But in truth, he kept his distance because you made him feel things... dangerous, irrational things, and in politics, feelings were fatal.
Senior year felt like breathing after holding your lungs tight for ten years. Semester exams were done. Your brain was empty. Your heart finally felt light.
And that night… you wanted to forget everything.
The silver slip dress you wore clung to your skin like moonlight made of silk. You didn’t dress for anyone. You dressed for yourself... for freedom.
“Come on, babe, don’t overthink. Just dance tonight,” your friend Hyejin yelled over the music, pulling you to the center of the crowded Gangnam club.
The bass hit your body first.
The peach soju washed away the last bit of doubt. And the moment you started moving, everything—politics, your father, expectations, Kim Namjoon—blurred into nothing.
Jimin, your classmate, spun you around with a grin.
“You look dangerous tonight,” he joked, laughing.
You rolled your eyes. “Please, I look like someone who needs sleep.”
He laughed louder and pulled you closer. “Lets have fun and just dance before real life crushes you.”
You giggled, letting him guide you. Just harmless fun. Just dancing.
His hands slipped lower on your waist.
You didn’t notice... didn't care... cause he was just a friend. But someone else did.
Namjoon had not planned to stay.
He only came to discuss a campaign donation. He wore a black suit jacket undone, shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked like sin in human form.
He lifted his whisky glass. He was mid-sip when he saw you.
And the world… stopped.
One of the donors said, “Assemblyman Kim, shall we go over the proposal—?”
“Hold on,” Namjoon said without looking away.
Because there you were. Shining... Laughing... Dancing with another man. You spun, silver dress flashing under neon lights. Jimin’s hands settled on your waist.
Namjoon’s fingers tightened around the glass.
He whispered under his breath, “No… absolutely not.”
His jaw flexed. His shoulders locked. He shouldn’t look. He tried not to look. But he failed.
Jimin leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.
“You’re seriously glowing tonight,” he shouted.
You laughed, warm and drunk. “It’s just glitter! Hyejin dumped half a bottle on me!”
He grinned. “Well, it's working and you are shining.”
You smiled back without thinking.
Namjoon saw that smile. And the way Jimin’s chest pressed to your back and how naturally you leaned into the touch. His heart slammed inside his ribs.
One donor asked, “Kim Namjoon-ssi? Are you listening?”
“No,” he said honestly, eyes locked on the dance floor.
“Namjoon-ssi, about the contribution—”
“Not now,” he said, voice clipped, icy.
He barely heard himself. All he heard was the blood roaring in his ears, one thought slamming over and over.
She’s mine. Why is he touching her? Why is she letting him touch her? Why wasn’t I there first?
Your laughter floated up to the balcony.
Something in him snapped.
Namjoon didn’t let them finish. He stood so fast his chair scraped loud across the marble floor. “Excuse me,” he said sharply. He didn’t wait for an answer.
He was breathing too hard. He reached the middle of the staircase and stopped. His chest hurt with how badly he wanted to drag you away from that boy.
He wanted to storm across the floor. He wanted to pull you into him. He wanted the whole club to see who you belonged to. But then another thought punched him.
She still thinks you don’t want her. She still thinks you’ve never looked at her that way.
He squeezed the railing until the metal groaned.
“Not like this,” he whispered. “Not drunk. Not in a club. Not when she doesn't know.”
He forced himself to turn around. Forced himself to walk back up. Forced himself to finish his drink. The glass cracked in his hand before he even realized he was squeezing it that hard.
Blood dripped down his palm, warm and slow.
He was too busy staring at the back of your silver dress in his mind.
Too busy remembering the very first time he wanted to kiss you—in that stupid yellow sundress years ago. Too busy losing the last bit of restraint he had left.
He left early.
He didn’t trust himself to stay.
Not when he knew exactly how good you’d feel pinned against the wall. Not when he knew exactly how easy it would be to claim your mouth and whisper, “I never stopped wanting you.”
He sat in his car for a long moment, hands shaking on the steering wheel. Then he whispered into the dark. “I’m done waiting.”
Meanwhile, You… You danced until your heels hurt and your hair stuck to your neck. Jimin offered to walk you home.
You shook your head. “I’m fine! Taxi is enough.”
He ruffled your hair. “Your loss.”
You laughed and waved goodbye.
You fell into bed at 4 a.m., cheeks flushed, heartbeat warm, mind airy.
And you didn’t think about Namjoon even once. Because you still believed he didn’t want you. You had no idea that the man you thought was cold and uninterested…
…just walked away because he was terrified he’d kiss you in the middle of a crowded club.
Terrified he’d finally lose control.
And deeply unaware that his control was already gone.
The dining room in your family’s official residence was always cold, even in summer.
Crystal chandelier, long mahogany table, portraits of presidents staring down like they were judging the food.
You were twenty-one, home for the weekend from university, wearing an oversized cream sweater and soft linen pants, hair still damp from the shower.
Your father sat at the head of the table, tie loosened for once but jaw locked tight. The staff brought the food in, quietly as always, never making eye contact. He didn’t let them finish.
He put his phone on the table—flat, heavy, decisive. “We need to talk about your future.”
You paused mid-bite, chopsticks hovering. “My… future?”
You tried to smile. Failed. “Dad, I already told you and mom. I got that internship in Paris. Remember? The eco-fashion collective? They only choose seven people in the whole...”
“I’m not talking about hobbies,” he interrupted, dismissing your dream with one flick of his hand.
You froze. “Hobbies?”
Your chest pinched. “Dad, it’s not a hobby, it’s my—”
“A marriage proposal has come for you and you will marry Assemblyman Choi’s son,” he continued, calm and cold. “Next month. You can finish rest of your last semester from here. I know attendance isn’t mandatory for this semester.”
The words slammed into you like a fist. Your chopsticks slipped and clattered onto the bowl. The sound echoed far too loudly.
“…What?” you whispered.
Your father didn’t flinch. “It’s already arranged. The Chois are powerful allies. This is a good match.”
“No.” You pushed your chair back. “Dad, absolutely not. Minhyuk is—”
“A respectable young man,” he cut in.
“A creep!” Your voice cracked. “He hits on my friends! Last month at the gala he cornered Ji-eun—”
“Rumors,” he snapped. “Girls exaggerate.”
Your jaw dropped. You felt sick.
“Dad, he’s a walking scandal. He literally bragged about cheating on his ex because she was ‘too clingy.’ I’m not marrying a man like that—”
“You will,” he said, slamming his palm on the table.
The glasses jumped. So did you.
“Because I said so.”
“Why won’t you listen to me?” Tears piled hot behind your eyes. “I’m building something. Fashion is important to me. I’m actually good at it—my professor said my designs could get into Seoul Fashion Week...”
“Enough.” His voice boomed. “Stop embarrassing yourself with glitter and fabric scraps. You have my name. That means something. And you will honor it.”
Your throat burned.
“Is that all I am to you?” Your voice trembled. “A tool? A deal? A pretty bargain chip?”
He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even hesitate.
“You are a disgrace to this family! Wasting your time on useless creative fields... drawing dresses like some starving artist! Do you know how many doors my name opens? And you throw it away for fabric scraps and glitter?”
Tears stung your eyes, hot and angry. “It’s not useless! It’s my life! You never even asked what I want!”
“What you want?” He stood too, towering over the table, face red.
“You want to embarrass me? Parading around in those ridiculous clothes, partying with those artsy nobodies? No daughter of mine will live like that. You will marry Minhyuk. You will smile at events. You will give me grandchildren who will carry this legacy. End of discussion. Or I pull every penny of your tuition, your apartment, your precious little fabric budget. You’ll be on the street by Monday.”
You went still. Absolutely still.
“Dad…” Your voice was barely air. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” he said simply. “And I will.”
Then he buttoned his jacket.
“Dinner is over.”
He walked out, door slamming behind him so violently the chandelier trembled. You sat back down slowly, shoulders trembling, tears falling silently into your lap.
You whispered into the empty room, “I hate you… I hate you so much.”
The staff pretended not to hear. But everyone did.
Namjoon’s office was dim, lit only by a desk lamp as he reviewed policies. He’d been working for hours; exhaustion clung to him like smoke.
His chief of staff entered quietly.
“Sir… there’s news. I think you should know.”
Namjoon didn’t look up. “What is it?”
The chief hesitated. “Minister Park just informed Chairman Choi… that his daughter agreed to marry Minhyuk.”
Namjoon’s pen froze mid-sentence.
“…What?” His voice was so low, it barely counted as a word.
“They’re planning the wedding for next month.” Chief replied.
Namjoon slowly lowered his pen, staring at nothing. “She agreed?” he repeated, like he needed confirmation.
“He says so...” The chief nodded, but continued, “... but I heard she was threatened too.”
Snap...
The pen broke clean in half in Namjoon’s hand. Ink bled over his skin, but he didn’t feel it. Namjoon stood abruptly, grabbing his coat.
“Sir... where are you—?”
“Get the car.”
“Sir?”
“Now.” He roared.
He drove faster than he should have through the quiet streets of Seoul. Every muscle in his body was tight. His grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled. His jaw was locked so hard it ached.
She agreed? Did she really? I can't believe it... I know her father force her? Does she think she has no choice?
His heart hammered.
He couldn’t let this happen. He wouldn’t. He knew your father might have forced you or threatened you.
You were his... No one can dare to touch you... He couldn’t even finish the thought without losing control of the car. He reached your father’s residence in minutes. Security let him in without question.
Your father looked up from his brandy as Namjoon entered unannounced.
“Namjoon,” he said calmly, “it’s very late.”
Namjoon didn’t bow... Didn’t sit... Didn’t even breathe properly.
“I’m here to discuss about your daughter.”
Your father smirked faintly. “You heard the news.”
“I did.” Namjoon stepped closer. “And I’m here to tell you something.”
Your father raised an eyebrow. Namjoon’s voice was steady, but beneath the calm was something dangerous.
“She will not marry Choi Minhyuk.” He pause a beat. “She will marry me.”
The amused expression disappeared from your father’s face. “You’re serious.”
Namjoon’s chest rose and fell once. “Completely.”
Your father set his glass down slowly. “Namjoon… you are an excellent young man. Too excellent for someone like her. You can easily aim for someone from a stronger political family.”
Namjoon’s jaw flexed. “I’m not asking.”
Your father stiffened. “…What did you say?”
Namjoon stepped directly in front of the desk, lowering his voice.
“I’m telling you. I will marry her... Not Choi... No one else... Only Me.”
Your father narrowed his eyes. “And why should I agree to this sudden… demand?”
Namjoon leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. “Because I’m the only man in this country who can give you what Choi never will... stability. Power. Control.”
Your father blinked.
Namjoon continued, tone razor-sharp. “Choi Minhyuk will embarrass you within a year. His scandals will drag your legacy through the dirt. But with me? Your family name becomes untouchable. I don’t lose. I don’t slip. I don’t fail. Tie your daughter to me, and your future is secure.”
Your father stared at him for a long, heavy moment. Then he slowly reached for his phone. “Prepare the marriage documents for Kim Namjoon,” he said into it. “Have them sent to his office by morning.”
Namjoon straightened.
Your father looked up. “The wedding announcement will be next week.”
Namjoon nodded once. “Thank you, Minister.”
He turned to leave, but paused at the doorway. “One more thing.”
Your father looked up again.
Namjoon’s voice dropped to a quiet, deadly softness.
“If you ever threaten her tuition, her career, or her freedom again, I will personally make sure you spend the rest of your career counting paper clips in a provincial office. Do we understand each other?”
A flicker of fear crossed your father’s face. “…We understand each other.”
“Good.” Namjoon left.
Outside, in the cold night air, he leaned against his car, finally letting the breath he’d been holding escape.
His hands were still stained with broken pen ink.
He closed his eyes, head falling back.
He’d waited eight long years to claim you... Eight years of distance, of control, of swallowing every feeling.
Now? You were finally, undeniably his.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, heart pounding.
“I’m coming for you,” he whispered to the night.
“And this time… I’m not stepping back.”
The hallways smelled like polished wood and ambition.
You didn’t call ahead. You didn’t care that his secretary tried to stop you. You shoved past her, heels clicking like gunshots on the marble, coat half-on, hair wild from the wind outside. You pushed the heavy oak door open so hard it banged against the wall.
Namjoon was standing at the window, phone pressed to his ear, back straight, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He ended the call without turning.
“I wondered how long it would take you to find me,” he said, calm, almost too calm.
You slammed the door behind you. Your hands trembled.
“How dare you,” you said, voice shaking with anger. “How dare you walk into my life like you own it and decide who I marry!”
He finally turned, slowly, eyes unreadable.
“I didn’t decide anything,” he said. Calm. Infuriatingly calm. “Your father did. I just changed the name on the contract.”
Your feet pounded across the floor until you were standing right in front of him, barely an inch apart.
“Who the hell asked you to play hero, Kim Namjoon?” you spat, chest heaving.
He looked down at you, jaw tight. “You preferred Choi Minhyuk?”
The name tasted like poison.
“I prefer no one!” you said. “I want to finish my degree, open my own studio, live my life... my way!”
He chuckled, low and sharp. “And you think your father was going to let you do that?” His eyes darkened. “He would have sold you to the highest bidder the second you walked across that stage. I know it. You know it.”
Your hands flew to his chest, shoving, angry, desperate.
He didn’t budge. Not an inch.
Instead, in a move so fast it stole your breath, he caught your wrists and yanked you toward him. You stumbled, crashing into him, palms flat against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat thundering beneath your fingers.
Your faces were inches apart. His breath brushed your lips... warm, faintly minty, with a rich undertone of coffee that made your stomach clench.
You hated how good he smelled.
You hated how your anger faltered for a split second, leaving your body betraying your mind.
“You should be thanking me,” he said, voice low, rough.
“Thanking you?” you spat, trying to pull away. He didn’t let go. “For what?”
“For saving you from him.” He glanced at your chest, then up at your eyes. “Choi Minhyuk would have destroyed you. Made you quit your passion, smiled at cameras while crying alone in bathrooms. I’ve seen what he does. I’ve seen the bruises he leaves on hearts like yours.”
Your stomach sank.
Namjoon’s voice dropped even lower. “I will never lay a hand on you in anger. I will never ask you to be less than you are.”
He leaned in until his forehead almost touched yours. “With me, you graduate. You design. You travel to Paris, Milan, New York, wherever the hell you want. You keep your name on the label. You keep your freedom.”
His grip loosened, but he didn't let go. “You’ll just have my last name too.”
You trembled. Rage mixed with something hotter, something dangerous.
“And what do you get out of this, Namjoon?” you whispered. “A political boost? Bragging rights? Or… a pretty little trophy wife?”
His jaw flexed.
He let go of one wrist to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone like you were fragile glass. “I get to sleep peacefully at night knowing that you are safe and no one else is touching you.”
The words landed between you, raw and sharp. You sucked in a breath. He saw it, eyes darkening.
Then he stepped back, regaining control.
Cold, smooth control that had nothing to do with kindness.
“Two days,” he said. “Think about it.”
He walked back to his desk. He didn’t glance at you again. You left, shaking, slamming the door behind you.
You drove to your mother’s apartment, the one your father pretended didn’t exist after the divorce. She opened the door in loose silk pajamas, hair falling around her face, eyes tired but alert.
You collapsed into her arms, crying like a child.
When the story spilled out, she didn’t flinch.
She poured chamomile tea, sat you on the couch.
“I married your father because I had no choice. I was young and scared,” she said quietly. “I thought love would grow. It didn’t. Every year, I got smaller.”
She held your hands. “Namjoon… that boy has watched you since you were sixteen. He’s never smiled much, but his eyes… they were always on you. Keeping you safe. Waiting.”
You swallowed hard. “He… he doesn’t even like me.”
“He’s in love with you,” your mother corrected gently.
“He’s giving you a door your father wants to slam shut forever. Take it, baby. You can always choose whatever destination you want later through that door.”
Next Morning, you walked into his office again. The secretary didn’t even try to stop you this time. He was at his desk, pen in hand, signing papers. He looked up as you closed the door softly.
Hands shaking, you forced your voice steady. “I have conditions.”
He leaned back, eyes never leaving yours. “Name them.”
“I finish my degree, my internship. No interference.”
“Done.”
“I keep my studio, my brand, my name on every label.”
“Done.”
“I am not a doll. I will not quit my life to smile next to you at banquets.”
He stood, crossed the desk until he was in front of you. “I don’t want a doll. I want you. Safe and peaceful.”
Your throat tightened. “One more,” you whispered.
He waited.
“If you ever try to control me the way he does—”
“I won’t,” he said, voice steady, eyes locking with yours.
You exhaled, relief, fear, and something wild all at once. “Then… yes.”
For the first time, Kim Namjoon smiled.
A real smile, like he’d been holding his breath for years.
“Thank you,” he said, voice rough.
“You won’t regret this,” he murmured, softer.
You lifted your chin. “I’d better not.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Welcome home, Mrs. Kim.”
You rolled your eyes, heart thundering for a completely different reason. “Technically I’m not Mrs. Anything yet.”
“Give it one month,” he whispered, stepping closer. Close enough that stepping back wasn’t an option anymore.
And for the first time, you didn’t even try to.
The wedding had been quick.
Too quick.
A blur of black suits, white flowers, and your father’s satisfied nods. Nothing warm, nothing soft... just contracts, handshakes, and a single fleeting glance from Namjoon that left your stomach twisting for reasons you couldn’t name yet.
Moving into his penthouse felt like stepping into another world... luxury that almost hurt your eyes, marble floors that echoed every step, and a quiet so deep it was suffocating.
You unpacked in your separate room, the one at the far end of the hall. He had his own, just a few doors away. That night you lay in that big bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn.
You came down the stairs at 9:15 a.m., legs bare in those tiny silk shorts, drowning in your oversized hoodie. You were still sleepy, still warm, still looking like trouble.
He was already at the kitchen island in fresh suit, sleeves rolled up, black coffee steaming beside a tablet full of boring government stuff.
He heard your footsteps. He looked up once... just once, and his eyes stopped dead on your legs.
A quick inhale. A tiny freeze in his action.
Then he ripped his gaze back to the screen like his life depended on it. You shrugged and pretended not to notice.
You grabbed a bowl and poured cereal. The clinking sounded like a loud gunshot in the silent kitchen.
Still, you tried.
“Good morning,” you said softly.
He didn’t look up. Not even a little.
“Morning,” he answered, voice low, careful… like if he looked at you again he would do something stupid.
You sat down three stools away, dramatically... like a queen claiming her territory.
Then… silence. Awkward, heavy, warm silence.
You stared at him. Then at his shoulders. Then at the tiny muscle twitching in his jaw. You lasted forty-three seconds.
“Do you always eat alone?” you blurted, poking at your cereal like it offended you.
He finally glanced at you—this controlled, composed look with eyes that were way too soft for someone pretending not to care.
“I’m used to it,” he said. Not coldly but honestly.
You huffed, stirring your cereal aggressively. “Yeah, well… you have a wife now. So get unused to it.”
His mouth twitched. The closest thing to a smile he’s allowed himself at 9 a.m.
“Noted,” he murmured, voice warm this time.
You tried not to smile.
He tried not to stare at your legs again. Both of you failed.
Soon, he finished his coffee, slipped into his blazer, and paused by the front door. “I’ll be late,” he said. “Long session at the Assembly.”
You nodded, sipping your coffee. “Come home safe.”
He froze for half a second—like the words did something to him, but then he nodded, voice lower now.
“I will.” And then he was gone.
You didn’t see him again for 18 hours, but the warm echo of that tiny, hard-won smile stayed with you the whole day.
It was 6:12 a.m., another morning at house where silence lived more louder than the conversations you two ever had.
It was way too early for your brain to function, but cravings don’t care about sleep schedules. You stood on your toes, tiny cotton shorts riding up your thighs as you reached, struggling—for the top-shelf.
You didn’t hear him come in.
But you felt him first.
A warm breath hit the back of your neck... soft, slow, like he was tasting the moment. You stiffened, fingers curling on the cabinet edge.
And then his bare chest—still faintly damp from his early gym session, pressed against your back.
Hard muscle. Hot skin.
A silent, dangerous wall of him.
He reached past you, arm brushing your cheek, body pinning you to the counter without even touching you intentionally. Your breath caught. He didn’t move away.
For five heavy, stretched-out seconds, the whole world narrowed to heat radiating from his body, your pounding heartbeat, and the thin layer of your shirt separating your spine from his chest.
He spoke low, voice rough with sleep and sweat. “This shelf is too high for you.”
Your throat tightened. “I'll manage.”
He didn’t answer right away.
He just lowered the cereal box… slowly… setting it on the counter with deliberate care.
His knuckles skimmed your hip on the way down.
A soft graze. Barely a touch.
But your breath hitched like he’d put his hand under your shirt.
His chest finally pulled away from your back, and you exhaled without knowing you’d been holding anything in.
You turned to face him.
He was already halfway across the kitchen, shoulders stiff, jaw flexing so hard you saw the muscle jump near his cheek. Like he was holding something back. Like touching you, even accidentally, was a test he barely passed.
You opened your mouth to say something but he didn’t look back.
Just tossed over his shoulder, voice low. “You shouldn’t have to struggle for basic things.”
Then he disappeared into his room.
The next morning, you shuffled into the kitchen, hair messy, eyes half-shut and froze.
Everything... Every single thing, was rearranged.
The cereal. The snacks. The spices. The ladles. The jars. All placed lower. All placed where you could reach without stretching.
You blinked, stunned. “This wasn’t like this yesterday…”
You heard his voice behind you, softer this time but with the same deep rumble. “You don’t have to struggle for anything in this house.”
You turned.
He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with those unreadable eyes.
“Why did you…? And when...?” you asked.
His jaw flexed again before he admitted, quietly, “Because I didn’t like seeing you struggle.”
Your heart did a stupid flip.
Every morning started the same way and night ended the same way.
Maybe it was the brush of his fingers against yours when he handed you a glass, the touch so light it felt like an accident but lasted just a second too long.
Maybe it was a care and love hidden under those tiny acts and moments. Or maybe it was the way your eyes met in the dim hallway, his gaze sliding down to your mouth, yours flickering to his collarbone, silence stretching warm and unbearable between you.
Someone always looked away first, pretending nothing had happened… even though you both felt it.
That unfinished moment followed you to your separate rooms, settling under your skin, making the air heavier the next morning. Nothing was ever resolved.
Nothing was ever said.
And every night the tension just… lived there, growing thicker, waiting for one of you to finally stop walking away.
It was supposed to be a quick phone call.
Instead, your father’s voice sliced you open like it always did. “Three months married and not even a single public appearance! Do you want people to talk? Do you want to embarrass me again? And along with me Namjoon too!”
Your throat tightened. “Dad, I’m finishing my degree... I need to submit my designs...”
“Nonsense. Namjoon is being polite, but that doesn't mean you will take advantage of it. He is gonna run for Mayor soon and he needs a proper wife beside him. Get your priorities straight.” He hung up before you could breathe.
You sank onto the cold marble floor of the hallway, hugging your knees, trying to swallow the knot in your chest, but the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable.
You didn’t even hear footsteps.
Just a sudden shadow falling across you.
“Hey…” Namjoon’s voice dipped low, gentle in a way that cut deeper. “Hey. What happened?”
You shook your head, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “It’s nothing. I’m just… being... dramatic.”
He dropped to his knees in front of you so fast it startled you.
“No.” He took your shaking hands, prying them away from your face. “You don’t cry like this unless someone hurt you.”
Your lips parted, breath trembling. “I... I talked to my father.”
Namjoon went still.
His jaw flexed once. Twice. Something dark moved behind his eyes.
“What did he say?” His voice was so calm it was dangerous.
“That I’m… embarrassing him... and you too. That I’m not being a proper wife. That I should forget my stupid degree and—” Your voice cracked.
His thumb brushed a tear off your cheek.
Then another.
Then the next.
“Live your life the way you want,” he whispered, inching closer. “I’ll handle everything else.”
You swallowed, a sob escaping before you could hold it back.
He cupped your face with both hands—warm, large, steady. Your breaths tangled. His forehead almost touched yours.
You could feel his heartbeat.
Fast. Hard. Uncontrolled.
For a moment, you thought he’d kiss you. His eyes flicked to your lips but he stopped himself. Pulled back like your lips were fire.
His hands fell to his lap.
He looked away, breathing unevenly.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t…”
You didn’t understand what he meant cause he never completed the sentence. You only knew your chest hurt when he stood up and helped you to your feet, careful not to touch you too long.
“Let me take care of my campaigns,” he said gently. “You focus on your dreams.”
You nodded, thinking he was just being kind.
He walked away with fists clenched, jaw locked, like he was punishing himself for wanting you too much.
A week later, you were hunched over your laptop in the living room, surrounded by fabric swatches and sketches. Your leg bounced restlessly, your teeth worrying your bottom lip.
You didn’t hear him come in until he spoke. “You’re overthinking.”
You jumped. “Uh... I’m working.”
“Torturing yourself isn’t the same thing,” he replied calmly, sliding his hands into his pockets as he walked closer.
You glared. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” His voice was unshakeably gentle. “Tell me what you are struggling with. Tell me what you need.”
You shook your head. “Materials. But the supplier is out. And the backup is too expensive. And the design idea is good but I can’t finalize it because the fabric isn’t right and—”
“Okay.” He stopped in front of you, lowering his voice. “Slow down. Which materials?”
You blinked, surprisingly.
He listened as you rambled, your hands moving animatedly, describing textures, cuts, colors, structure.
He didn’t interrupt. Not once.
He looked at you like the world’s gone quiet and you’re the only thing worth hearing.
Hours later, when you stepped out of the bathroom after a shower, you noticed boxes stacked neatly by the wall.
Your heart stopped.
Everything you mentioned. Even the items you said were “impossible to get at very short notice.”
You found him in the hallway, sleeves rolled up, opening the last box.
“You did all this?” you whispered.
“I told you,” he said without looking up, “I’ll handle everything else. And I hate seeing you struggle.”
The next morning, he led you to a door you had never opened.
Inside?
A full studio. Your dream studio.
Tailored exactly to the way you work.
You turned to him, stunned. “Namjoon… this is—this is too much.”
“No,” he said, meeting your eyes steadily. “It’s not enough.”
You swallowed hard.
He stepped closer, gaze gentle. “You deserve space to build your future. You’re not supposed to fit your dreams into a corner of the living room.”
Your chest tightened. “You made this… for me?”
“I made it because I like watching you work,” he said, then immediately looked away like he didn’t mean to be that honest. “It—uh—it’s important to you. That’s all.”
But you heard it.
Two weeks later, everything had blown up—posters everywhere, meetings stacked on meetings until he was nothing but a shadow passing through the house. You hardly saw him anymore... except in the quiet hours of the morning.
And the day he officially filed his candidacy, you dressed him in the first suit you’d finished for him.
A midnight–navy wool-silk… smooth, rich, beautiful with hand-stitched lapels. A thin silver pinstripe that showed only when he moved.
He looked unreal in it. But you pretended you weren’t staring.
He stood in the center of your studio like a perfectly-behaved mannequin, while you circled him with pins in your teeth and your heart somewhere in your throat.
“Arms up,” you said, tapping his elbow.
He lifted them instantly. No hesitation. No argument. Just complete obedience to your soft little command.
You pretended it didn’t affect you.
He watched you in the studio mirror, eyes following every move you made.
Your palm slid over his shoulder, smoothing the fabric. You stepped closer, fingertips smoothing down the length of his bicep, then flattening the jacket across his chest.
His chest was warm. His heartbeat was fast.
You tried to pretend you didn’t notice.
“Is it too tight here?” you asked softly, pressing your hand over his heart to check the fit.
A low sound escaped him... half-laugh, half something else. His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror.
“If it were any looser,” he said, “I’d look like I borrowed my father’s suit.”
You smiled under your breath and moved behind him to check the vents. Your hands skimmed lightly along his waist to adjust the back seam.
He inhaled sharply—so sharply that you felt it through the fabric.
“Stop moving,” you scolded, nudging him with your knee.
“Believe me,” he muttered, “I’m trying.”
You stepped to his front again, reaching for the tie you dyed yourself—a deep burgundy that warmed against his skin. You slid it under his collar, your knuckles brushing his throat.
He swallowed. You felt everything.
“Hold still,” you whispered.
He didn’t. He swayed almost imperceptibly closer.
You tied the knot slowly, adjusting it until it sat perfectly. Your hand smoothed down the tie, down the firm line of his chest… and lingered over his heart again without meaning to.
Your voice dropped. “There. You look…”
You swallowed the rest.
He turned his head, meeting your eyes through the mirror like the way a man does when he’s trying very hard not to cross a line.
“How do I look?” he asked, voice deep and rough.
You let out a shaky breath. “Like you’re going to win.”
His eyes dropped immediately to your mouth. “And if I do win?”
You stepped back a tiny bit—barely an inch. “Then the city gets a mayor who dresses well.”
He gave a soft, humorless laugh, like it hurt him. “That’s all?”
Your fingers were still brushing his chest, even though you were trying to drag them away. His heartbeat was wild under your palm—louder, faster, like he was afraid you’d hear everything he’d been holding back.
“Mhmm...,” you said quietly.
He closed his eyes for a second, breathing like he needed to calm himself, then stepped back with visible effort. His hands clenched at his sides.
“One more month,” he told himself in mind, almost like a promise. “Just one more month…”
He left before you could say anything further, afraid he’d grab you, afraid he’d kiss you, afraid he’d ruin the careful control he’d been holding onto.
You watched him on the television from your new studio—half-finished sketches on the table, fabric scissors forgotten in your hand.
He stepped onto the stage for his first town-hall speech wearing the suit you made for him.
Under the bright lights, the midnight navy shimmered. Every turn caught the silver pinstripe. The burgundy tie glowed against his throat.
He looked powerful... Confident... And heartbreakingly handsome.
A reporter leaned forward. “Mr. Kim, your suit looks fantastic today. It's different than what you usually wear. May we ask who designed it?”
He smiled—small, soft, secret.
“My wife,” he said.
Those two words hit you harder than the studio lights above you. You felt your breath catch, your chest tighten, your heart race against your ribs.
He said it with pride. With ownership.
With something warm and protective in his voice that made your knees weak.
You pressed a hand to your chest as he continued speaking on screen, his voice steady and strong. But all you could hear was the smile in his voice when he said it.
My wife.
You’d promised one night for yourself before finals took over everything. Just one night to forget the weight on your shoulders. One night to laugh with the friends who pulled you out of the suffocating world of politics and lit up your college days.
One last night before all of you drifted toward your own futures.
So you went out with your friends to a rooftop bar in Itaewon—fairy lights hanging above you, cheap cocktails in plastic cups, music loud enough that your overthinking finally shut up for a few hours.
Jungkook, your playful, chaotic friend, offered to drive you home when your cab cancelled. At 2:13 a.m., his matte-black Jeep stopped in front of the entrance to the penthouse.
You leaned over the console to side-hug him, laughing at something stupid he had said. “Thanks for the ride, Kook. Seriously.”
He hugged you back briefly and grinned. “Anytime. Text me when you’re alive tomorrow.”
You hopped out, still giggling, hair messy, heels dangling from your fingers.
You didn’t know someone else had watched the entire thing.
Namjoon had been pacing the living room for two full hours, phone in hand, pretending he wasn’t waiting for you. He saw the hug. He saw you smiling. He saw another man’s hands around you.
And something inside him burned.
The moment Jungkook’s car drove off, you stepped inside—humming softly, completely unaware of the storm brewing for you.
You stopped dead.
Namjoon stood in the dark living room, facing the window, the city lights outlining his tall frame. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly wild like he had been dragging his fingers through it.
His voice cut through the darkness like a knife. “You should have told me you’d be late.”
Your heart jumped. “God, Namjoon. Don’t stand in the dark like that. It’s creepy.”
“I wasn’t trying to scare you,” he said without turning. “I was waiting.”
“For what?” you asked, dropping your heels by the door.
“For you,” he said simply.
You blinked. “I texted you. You didn’t reply.”
He finally turned toward you. His eyes were sharp. “I was in a strategy meeting until 11.”
You let out a breath. “Okay… then what’s the problem?”
He stepped forward. Slowly. Controlled.
But his jaw was tight, and you saw the muscle tick.
“The problem,” he said softly, “is coming home and watching some guy put his hands on my wife.”
Your lips parted. “Jungkook just hugged me. He was driving me home...”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It DOES matter. He’s my friend!”
“I don’t care,” Namjoon growled, taking another step. “I don’t care about him. I care that his hands were on you. I care that you were laughing in his car. I care that you didn’t tell me you’d be with him that late.”
You stared at him, stunned.
Then a sharp, humorless laugh escaped you.
“You don’t get to be jealous,” you said. “You don’t even TOUCH me, Namjoon. You barely LOOK at me. You treat me like a roommate you’re forced to live with—”
His voice cracked open, raw and ragged. “Because I’m trying not to ruin you before you graduate.”
The room fell silent. You swallowed, the anger melting into hurt.
“Then why... why do you act like you don’t want me?” Your voice shook. “Every time I get close, you step away. We sleep in separate rooms. You treat me like I’m made of glass. You don’t even love me. You’re just stuck with me. So why the hell do you care who drops me home?”
Something inside him broke. You could feel it.
He moved faster than you could process.
In two strides, he had you caged against the wall, his hands on either side of your head, chest rising and falling, breath shaking.
He wasn’t touching you. But the air between you felt electric.
His voice was low, furious, trembling. “You think I don’t want you?”
Your breath stopped.
He leaned closer, lips almost brushing your cheek.
“I have wanted you,” he whispered, “since you were sixteen and I was nineteen. And it was wrong. It was illegal. And I hated myself every single day for it.”
Your eyes widened, heart slamming against your ribs.
He continued, voice breaking, “I married you because the thought of another men breathing near you made me want to burn the world down. I married you so no one else ever would.”
His forehead pressed gently against yours. His whole body shook with restraint.
“I count the hours until your graduation,” he murmured, “because if I touch you now... if I kiss you now—I’m afraid I won’t let you leave that bed for days.”
Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer until your lips hovered an inch from his.
“Then stop being fucking coward,” you whispered.
“I’m twenty-two. I’ve been yours on paper for three months and yours in every way that matters. So fucking show me. I’m not a kid anymore.”
His breath hitched. His grip tightened on the wall. His eyes dropped to your lips like he was starving.
And that was the moment... everything snapped inside him.
He made a sound you’d never heard from him before—half-groan, half-growl, like something wild had finally been let out of its cage.
Then his mouth crashed onto yours. There was nothing soft about it.
No pause. No hesitation.
Just years of hunger slamming into you all at once.
His lips were hot, desperate, almost angry with how long he’d held himself back. Your teeth bumped, your tongues tangled, breath mixing in messy gasps that tasted like whiskey, jealousy, and every held-back fantasy he’d buried for years.
You moaned into him... high, needy—and he swallowed the sound like he’d been starving for it. His hand slid into your hair, fingers curling tight, controlling your head with an ease that sent heat pooling between your legs.
The other hand grabbed your thigh, hauled it up around his hip, dragging you flush against the thick, hard heat straining against his slacks.
His hips rolled, rough and frustrated.
“Fuck…” he breathed against your lips, voice torn open. “Feel that? That’s what you’ve been doing to me for years, sweetheart. Every damn day.”
You couldn’t even speak.
Your hands were shaking as you grabbed at his shirt, popping buttons, pushing fabric aside until your palms met his bare chest.
Hot. Solid. Trembling.
His heart hammered so hard you felt it against your fingers.
He groaned—a deep, broken sound, and dropped his mouth to your neck. The first kiss was hot. The second was harder. Then he sucked, teeth dragging, leaving a mark that made your knees almost give out.
“Tell me to stop,” he gasped against your skin. He was breathing like he’d run miles. “If you say stop, I swear to God I will. But this is the last time I’m asking you. Last chance, baby...”
“Don’t you dare,” you panted, nails dragging down his back hard enough to make him hiss. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.”
Something in him snapped clean in half.
He spun you so fast you gasped, your back hitting the wall as his body pressed into yours from behind. His mouth found the nape of your neck, kissing, biting, breathing you in like he’d been drowning in restraint.
His hands slid under your cropped sweater, warm palms gliding over your stomach, up your ribs, until they cupped your breasts completely. He groaned into your skin as his thumbs brushed your nipples through the lace—slow first, then firmer when he felt you shaking.
“God,” he whispered, voice shaking, “I dreamed about this. I dreamed about touching you like this. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You arched back, grinding against the hard line of his cock. He cursed—low, filthy, helpless.
“Baby…” he rasped, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath hot on your skin. “If you do that again, I’m gonna lose every bit of control I have left.”
You did it again.
And he broke all over you.
“These clothes,” he snarled, yanking your sweater over your head, bra following in one impatient tug. Cool air hit your skin and then his mouth was on your shoulder, your spine, licking a hot path downward as he dropped to his knees behind you.
He spun you so fast the room tilted, hands rough on your hips as he folded you forward, palms slamming flat against the wall for balance. Your skirt was already bunched at your waist, panties dangling uselessly around one ankle now.
Cool air kissed your soaked skin for half a second, and then his mouth was on you, no warning, no mercy.
“OW... FUCK... Namjoon—”
He groaned, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating straight through your core. “Fuck, you taste better than I dreamed,” he rasped, voice muffled against you. “So fucking sweet.”
Another long, deliberate lick, slower this time, flattening his tongue so he could feel every shudder that rolled through you. When he reached your clit he circled it once, twice, then sucked it between his lips, hard.
Your knees buckled.
You would’ve hit the floor if his hands weren’t gripping your hips like iron.
“Stay right there,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Legs open. Let me eat this pretty pussy the way I’ve been dying to for months.”
He spread you wider with his thumbs, exposing you completely, and dove back in. This time his tongue speared inside you, thrusting deep, curling, fucking into you like he couldn’t get far enough.
You felt the wet drag of it, the obscene sounds of him drinking you down echoing off the walls.
“Namjoon... oh god—”
You whimpered, pushing back against his face shamelessly.
He moaned again, louder, the vibration making you clench around nothing. “That’s it,” he growled. “Fuck yourself on my tongue. Show me how bad you wanted this.”
You did, rocking back, chasing his mouth.
He let you for three desperate strokes, then took control again, tongue flicking fast over your clit, relentless, before sucking it hard enough that stars burst behind your eyes.
“Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name,” he promised, words slurred against your slick folds. “Then I’m gonna do it again with my cock.”
Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling hard, and you cried out, palms slapping the wall for balance.
“So wet,” he growled, voice muffled against your skin. “Been wet for me for months, haven’t you?”
“Yes—fuck—yes—” You clenched around his fingers so hard.
“Come for me, baby,” he demanded, voice raw. “Come all over my face, right now, let me taste it...”
The orgasm crashed over you so hard you screamed, thighs clamping around his head, hips jerking helplessly as wave after wave tore through you.
He didn’t stop, just kept licking, gentler now, drawing it out until you were sobbing from overstimulation, pushing weakly at his forehead.
Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, eyes black with lust, your wetness glistening on his chin. He stood slowly, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip like he was savoring the taste.
“Turn around,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
He made you stand in one motion, spinning you again to face him. His belt clinked open, zipper rasping down. You reached for him desperately, fingers wrapping around his cock... hot, thick, leaking—and he hissed, head falling back.
Your back hit the wall again as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The head of his cock nudged your entrance, slick and burning.
“Look at me,” he demanded, voice shaking.
You did.
His eyes were wild, pupils blown, lips swollen from your kisses. Sweat glistened at his temple.
“I love you,” he said, raw and reverent. “I love you so much it’s fucking killing me.”
Then he pushed in... one long, slow, devastating thrust that stretched you open and seated him to the hilt. You both froze, trembling, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air.
He didn’t move yet.
Just held you there, buried deep, pulsing inside you.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered against your mouth.
“I’m yours,” you breathed. “Always was.”
His control snapped a second time.
He pulled back and slammed inside again, hard enough that your moan cracked in half.
“Fuck—” you sobbed, head banging back against the wall.
Namjoon didn’t give you time to breathe.
He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward with wet, filthy slaps of skin on skin, the wall trembling behind you with every relentless drive. Each stroke dragged the ridge of his cock over that spot inside you that made your vision spark white, made your toes curl.
Your nails raked down his shoulders, carved burning lines across his back, and he hissed through his teeth, fucking you harder.
“Like that?” he growled against your ear, voice ragged. “You want it rough, baby? Been dreaming about splitting this tight little pussy open for years.”
“Yes—yes... Fuck... harder—” you chanted, barely sane.
He shoved one hand between your sweat-slick bodies, fingers finding your clit, swollen and slick, and started rubbing fast, merciless circles that matched the brutal pace of his cock.
“Listen to you,” he rasped, breath scorching your throat. “Listen to how wet you are for me. Can hear it every time I fuck into you—soaked down my balls, dripping on the floor.”
The obscene sound of it filled the room... slick, rhythmic, filthy, mixed with your broken moans and his low, animal groans.
“Namjoon—please—”
“Please what?” He slowed just enough to grind deep, rolling his hips so the head of his cock pressed hard against your wall, making you see stars. “Tell me what you need.”
You clawed at his back again, legs shaking around his waist. “Make me come... want to come on your cock... please—”
He snarled, snapped his hips faster, fingers working your clit in tight, ruthless circles. “Gonna give you everything,” he promised, voice cracking. “Gonna fill this pussy up so good you’ll feel me for days. Every time you move tomorrow you’ll remember who you belong to.”
The pressure coiled viciously tight, your walls fluttering around him.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, dark and filthy. “Squeeze me... fuck... milk my cock, baby, show me how much you love this—”
His fingers pressed harder, rubbing side-to-side now, fast and perfect, and you shattered.
The orgasm hit you sooner than earlier, ripping a scream from your throat as you clenched around him, vision whiting out.
He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you with a broken groan of your name.
You stayed locked together, shaking, sweat-slick, his cock still twitching deep inside you, your legs trembling around his waist.
After a long moment he lifted his head, eyes soft now, almost scared.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek. “I lost it. Did I hurt you?”
You laughed, breathless and wrecked. “You better do that again in approximately five minutes.”
Relief flooded his face.
He kissed you slow this time, tender, like he was memorising the taste. “Bedroom,” he murmured against your lips. “Now. I’m nowhere near done proving how much I love you.”
He carried you there without pulling out, your bodies still joined, and kicked the door shut behind you.
Neither of you slept that night.
The gala felt unreal.
It was Namjoon’s first major campaign event after your graduation, and he stood in the centre of the room in the deep wine-coloured suit you had made with your own hands. The silk lapels caught the light every time he moved.
He looked powerful. He looked calm.
He looked like the future of the city.
And he looked like yours.
You stood half a step behind him in your backless blood red dress, silk flowing around your legs like spilled wine. The diamond choker around your throat glimmered with each breath.
Namjoon had clasped it himself before you left, his fingers warm on your skin, his lips brushing the nape of your neck as he whispered, “Perfect.”
You had felt warm and proud and so unbelievably happy.
Until she arrived.
Councilwoman Lee Soojin.
Young. Elegant. Confident. And very aware of her beauty.
She moved through the crowd like she owned the floor, eyes locked on Namjoon before she even reached him.
“Mayor-to-be,” she said in a silky voice, placing her hand on his forearm like it was a habit. “You absolutely must tell me who designed this suit. It should be illegal to look this good.”
Her fingers travelled along the lapel, far too close to his throat.
You felt heat rise in your chest.
Namjoon stiffened almost instantly. His smile froze into something polite and cold.
“My wife designed it,” he said, turning slightly so he could gesture toward you. He said it calmly, proudly, like there was never any question.
Soojin’s gaze flicked to you... one quick, dismissive glance, before she turned back to him as if you were decoration.
“Well,” she said with a soft laugh, “she must have measured every inch of you very carefully. It fits you perfectly.”
Your hand tightened around your champagne flute.
Namjoon’s jaw tightened in the way you knew meant he was seconds from snapping.
You stepped forward before he could.
“Every inch,” you said sweetly, letting your voice glide like honey over steel. “Twice, actually.”
Soojin blinked, startled.
You slid your arm through Namjoon’s, pressing your palm firmly against his chest. “Enjoy your evening, Councilwoman.”
She stepped back. Her smile finally cracked.
He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. But his heart was slamming against your palm like a drum.
He stayed silent the entire walk to the car.
The drive through Gangnam was a slow burn.
Neon lights flashed across the windshield, slicing across the tense air between you. The city looked alive outside, but inside the car everything was quiet and heavy.
Namjoon drove himself tonight.
No driver. No witnesses. No escape.
You sat with your arms crossed, face turned toward the window, trying not to show how furious and jealous and stupidly, painfully in love you felt.
He kept glancing at you.
Once. Twice. Every few seconds.
“Baby—” he tried.
“Don’t,” you said sharply.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking wrecked. “I didn’t like how her hand...”
“I said don’t.”
Your cheeks were flushed, chest rising and falling, your lipstick bitten off from how hard your teeth dug into your lip.
And Namjoon?
He looked like he was seconds away from either apologising or pulling over and kissing the breath out of you.
At the next red light, he reached over... slowly, as if not to startle you. His hand brushed the seatbelt strap across your chest… sliding down to adjust it.
Completely innocent. Until it wasn’t.
His knuckles grazed the soft swell of your breast. His hand paused.
Your breath caught.
His fingers stayed there—just barely—but enough to make your entire body tighten.
“Namjoon,” you warned, voice low, trembling.
He didn’t respond. Didn’t move his hand. Didn’t even blink.
Green light.
He jerked his hand back and accelerated, jaw clenched so tight you could see the strain in his neck.
Next red light.
You unbuckled your seatbelt.
His head whipped toward you instantly. “Baby… what are you—”
You didn’t wait.
You climbed onto his lap in one smooth, furious motion. Silk sliding, your dress riding up, knees pressing into the narrow space between the seat and the console.
His hands snapped to your waist on instinct, eyes wide, breath gone.
“Drive,” you ordered when lights turned green, voice shaking with possessiveness, like you ruled the whole damn city.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His body reacted before his mind did, hardening against you inside his suit pants.
“B-Baby…” he breathed.
You rolled your hips once—a slow, deliberate grind that made him choke.
His head fell back against the seat with a thud. “F-Fuck...”
“You’re mine,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “How dare she flirt with you? No one touches you. No one leans in like that. No one puts their hands on what belongs to me.”
You bit his earlobe... hard enough to make his breath shatter. He jolted, hips bucking up helplessly.
“Say it,” you demanded softly. “Say you’re mine.”
His answer came without hesitation, voice raw.
“I’m yours... Babe,” he rasped. “Only yours. Always. I swear... no one else even exists to me.”
You started grinding.
Slow, deliberate, filthy circles that dragged the soaked lace of your panties over the thick line straining his trousers.
The friction was perfect, maddening, every roll of your hips grinding your clit against the rigid line of him until your breath came in sharp little gasps.
Namjoon’s head fell back against the headrest with a thud, throat bared, Adam’s apple working as a broken sound tore out of him, half groan, half prayer.
“Fuck… just like that,” he rasped, voice shredded.
“Keep moving on me, baby. Make me feel who I belong to.”
You leaned in, lips brushing the frantic pulse hammering under his jaw. “Gonna leave marks,” you whispered, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his skin. “So tomorrow, when she sees you again, she’ll see my marks all over you.”
His answering growl was feral. “Do it. Mark me so deep I feel you for days. Want the whole fucking world to know I’m taken.”
You didn’t hesitate.
You latched onto the spot just below his ear, sucked hard, teeth scraping, tongue soothing the sting.
Then lower, yanked his collar aside with impatient fingers, buttons straining, and sealed your mouth over his pulse. You sucked until you felt the skin give, until the hickey swelled hot and purple under your tongue.
His cock jerked against your clit, a fresh flood of wetness soaking through your panties onto his trousers.
You pulled back just enough to admire your work, lips swollen, eyes glittering. “Sensitive here, husband?” you purred, tracing the fresh bruise with your thumb.
He laughed, breathless, wrecked. “Only when it’s you.”
You rewarded him by grinding down in one slow, torturous circle, dragging the lace seam right over the head of his cock. His hips snapped up to meet you, chasing the pressure.
“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth. “You’re soaked. I can feel you through my suit. Gonna ruin these trousers, baby?”
“Good... I can design 10 more,” you whispered, nails raking down his chest, catching on the buttons.
His hands slid from your hips to your ass, fingers digging in, spreading you wider so you could feel every inch of him.
“Take whatever you want,” he said, voice raw and desperate. “Use me. I’m yours, every part of me, fucking take it.”
He couldn’t take it anymore.
He jerked the wheel, turned into a narrow service alley behind closed boutiques, cut the engine.
City sounds disappeared.
Only your breathing and the soft tick of cooling metal. He stared at you... eyes black, chest heaving. You didn’t wait.
You finally attacked his mouth, teeth scraping, tongue sliding deep, pure, feral possession. He met you with the same violence, one hand fisting your hair, the other already shoving under the silk of your dress, fingers sinking into the bare skin of your thigh.
“Fuck,” he snarled against your lips, “do it. Take me. Right here.”
Your hands dropped to his belt... metal clinking, leather whipping free. You tore the zipper down, reached inside, wrapped your fingers around him.
He was scorching.
Thick, pulsing, slick with precum that smeared over your palm as you pulled him free.
“F-Fuck—” His head slammed back against the headrest.
“Look at you,” you whispered, stroking once, slow and firm, thumb circling the wet tip.
“So fucking hard for your wife.” You leaned in, voice poison-sweet. “Did you like her fingers on your arm, Namjoon? Did it feel good when she laughed while standing too close?”
“No,” he growled, hips already fucking into your fist, frantic. “Only want you. Only ever you. Swear to God...”
You squeezed, just hard enough to make him choke on the words.
“Then prove it.”
You shifted, shoved the soaked lace of your panties aside with trembling fingers, and lined him up.
Just the head. One cruel inch.
You sank down.
His groan was guttural, broken, hands flying to your hips like he was trying to stop himself from slamming you down the rest of the way.
“Wait... fuck... baby—”
You didn’t wait.
You took him in one slow, relentless glide until he was buried to the root, stretching you open, filling you so perfectly your vision blurred.
“Holy shit...” His voice cracked. “So tight... so fucking perfect—”
You rolled your hips once, slow and deep, clit grinding against the base of him.
“Mine,” you breathed against his mouth, starting to ride him in deliberate, punishing strokes. Every downward slide took him to the hilt... every upward drag tore a curse from his throat. “This cock is mine. This body is mine. These sounds—”
“Yours,” he panted, fingers bruising your ass as he guided you harder, faster. “All yours... fuck... take it, take everything—”
You found the angle that made you see stars and ground down, circling, owning.
He lost it.
One hand shot up, fisted the front of your dress, and ripped.
Silk tore with a sharp, satisfying sound. Cool air hit your skin and then his mouth was on your breast, hot and wet, sucking your nipple hard enough to make you cry out.
“N-Namjoon—Yes... Fuck!”
He growled around the sensitive peak, teeth grazing, tongue flicking, while his hips snapped up to meet every roll of yours. The car rocked violently, windows completely fogged.
“Say it again,” he rasped, switching to the other breast, leaving it swollen and shining. “Tell me who I belong to.”
“You’re mine,” you moaned, nails raking down his scalp, holding him to your chest. “Only mine. No one else gets this—no one else gets to hear you fall apart...”
He released your nipple with a wet pop, head falling back, throat exposed, sweat glistening in the hollow of his collarbone.
“Never,” he swore, voice shredded. “Never wanted anyone the way I want you. Fuck... look at me.”
You did.
His eyes were wild, wrecked, completely gone for you.
“I love you,” he said, raw and desperate, hips still driving up into you. “Love you so much it fucking hurts. Want you on me, in me, around me.. always—”
The words snapped the last thread of your control.
You slammed down hard, grinding in tight circles, clit dragging against him with every thrust. The pleasure coiled vicious and bright.
“Come inside me,” you ordered, voice trembling on the edge. “Right now. Want to feel you lose it while I’m wrapped around you.”
He groaned your name, hands forcing you down one final time as he erupted... hot, thick pulses flooding you, cock jerking deep inside as he came apart with a broken groan.
The feeling of him spilling pushed you over.
You shattered, walls clamping down, milking him through it, your own release crashing so hard your vision whited out.
The car was a haze of sex and shattered breathing.
You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard, your heartbeats thumping in the same fast rhythm. His arms wrapped around you instantly, strong and warm, like he wanted to keep you pressed to him forever.
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, kissing the warm skin there, brushing your lips over the marks you’d left in the heat of the moment. Your voice came out softer now, almost tender.
“No one touches you like that,” you whispered. “No one gets you like that. Only me. Understand?”
He let out a weak laugh... the kind that sounded breathless and almost shy, but so, so happy. “Understood, Mrs. Kim,” he murmured, and you felt his smile against your hair.
His fingers slid slowly down your spine, not rushing, just tracing you like he was memorizing every inch.
Then his lips brushed the top of your head.
“I love it when you’re jealous,” he confessed quietly. “I love knowing you want me just as much as I want you. It… does something to me.”
Your lips curved into a smile against his skin.
“Then get used to it,” you said softly.
He tipped your chin up with two fingers, guiding your face to his. His kiss was slow this time.... deep, sweet, almost fragile.
Like he was pouring his whole heart into it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Good,” he said softly. “Because I’ve been yours since the day you spilled acrylic paint on my shoes at sixteen just to get my attention.”
You froze.
Your mouth slowly opened.
“You… you knew I did that on purpose?”
He smiled—the soft, shy kind he never showed anyone else. “Baby… you looked up at me like I hung the moon. How could I not know?”
Your chest tightened, emotion swelling painfully.
After several long minutes of quiet breathing and soft touches, he whispered, “Stay still.”
You blinked up at him. “Why?”
He shrugged out of his blazer and wrapped it around you carefully, covering the torn front of your dress with slow, protective hands.
“Let’s go home,” he said gently, touching your cheek with the back of his hand.
And as he pulled the car back onto the road, both of you wrapped in each other’s warmth and outside, Seoul kept passing by in streaks of neon and streetlight.
Sunlight spilled gold across the sheets.
You were tangled in Namjoon’s arms, face buried in his neck, one of your legs thrown over his hip, his hand resting possessively on the curve of your ass like it belonged there... because it did.
He stirred first, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
“Baby,” he whispered, voice gravel-rough from sleep. “I have to get up. Assembly budget meeting at nine.”
You made a small, wounded sound and tightened your arms around his neck. “No. Stay… I wish we could stay like this the whole day.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “You know we can’t. I have a meeting at the assembly…”
You nuzzled closer, lips brushing his throat. “Mhmm… just five minutes…”
He didn’t argue. He never could when you asked like that. Instead he rolled you both so you were fully on top of him, your hair spilling over his shoulders like silk.
His palms slid up your bare back, tracing lazy circles.
“Why so clingy today, Mrs. Kim?” he murmured, thumb brushing your spine. “What’s going on in that pretty head?”
You hesitated for too long.
He noticed instantly. His fingers stilled. His eyes searched your face.
“What happened?”
You lifted your head, biting your lip.
“I got the letter yesterday,” you whispered. “The internship… in Paris. Starting next week.”
The room went perfectly still. His arms locked around you tightly. “How long?” he asked, voice suddenly careful.
“Three months.”
He exhaled, long and slow, and stared at the ceiling.
You felt his heart hammer against your chest. Then, without a word, he reached for his phone on the nightstand. You watched, confused, as he dialled.
You blinked. “Joon… what are you doing?”
“Calling in sick,” he said simply, already dialling.
Your mouth fell open. “What?! You never call in sick... Wait... Stop—”
“Hyung,” he said into the phone the moment it was answered, “I’m not coming in. Fever. Cancel the meetings, reschedule everything. All of it. I’ll update you tomorrow.”
He hung up.
You stared at him. “You actually did that?”
He tossed the phone aside like it meant nothing and flipped you beneath him in one smooth, warm, authoritative motion.
His body hovered over yours. “Of course I did.”
“I can’t stop you from going,” he said, voice low, serious. “And I won’t. I told you the day we got married... I never want you as a trophy wife. I want you chasing every dream you have, even if it takes you across the world.”
He brushed your hair back, eyes fierce.
“But the next three months are going to be hell for me. Campaign, debates, polls… and you won’t be here. So today...” he kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips, “...today is ours. I’m not letting anyone else take a single second from us.”
You laughed through the sudden tears. “You really want me to go?”
He smiled... small, pained, proud.
“I’m proud of you,” he said fiercely.
“I want you to fly. And when you come back, I’ll be waiting exactly like this. Besides... his grin turned wicked, “...I’m going to wear the suits you designed for every single campaign stop. They’re my lucky charm and I'll feel you close.”
You leaned up and kissed him softly.
He kissed back slowly, deeply… then broke away to stare at you with an expression you’d never seen before.
“Can I tell you something? The things you never knew... The things that I kept hidden for so long under my cold personality.” he whispered.
You nodded.
He exhaled shakily. “I wanted to kiss you senseless years ago.”
Your brows furrowed. “When?”
His eyes softened as memory pulled at him. “That day you came to the banquet wearing that yellow sundress. You remember? You came to me and praised me for my speech…”
He shook his head, almost embarrassed. “You looked so bright I swear it hurt to look at you. All I could think was... if I kiss her right now, I won’t stop.”
Your heart thudded. “Namjoon…”
“And the library,” he continued, voice getting lower, warmer. “When you reached for the pen and your fingers brushed mine… later you walked away like nothing happened.”
You blinked. “But back then... I thought you were not into me—”
“No... that's not true.” he said. “I stared at my hand the entire damn night like a teenager. I didn’t sleep. I kept touching the spot where your fingers brushed.”
Your breath hitched.
He wasn’t done.
“And at my father’s funeral…” His voice cracked—the memory still sharp. “I saw you standing with that candy.”
You swallowed. “I... I wanted to hug you. But there were reporters and people—”
He shook his head. “Baby… I wanted to walk straight to you. Fall on my knees. Put my head in your lap and cry like a child. You were the only person I wanted that day.”
Your chest tightened with something fierce and tender.
“Joon… I promise... You will always have me by your side.”
You lifted your arms around his neck and pulled him down until your foreheads touched again.
“I love you,” you whispered.
His smile was pure devotion. “I love you more. Now come here...” He slid his hands down your sides, gripping your hips.
“...we have only one day to make up for ninety nights.”
Three Months Later... Jamsil Stadium.
Forty thousand people... Cameras everywhere... Screens lit up with Namjoon’s face. He stood at the podium, looking powerful, calm, every inch the man Seoul had placed its faith in.
“And together...” he said, voice rolling through the speakers like thunder, “...we will build a Seoul where—”
His breath caught.
Because he saw you.
You’d just arrived from Paris, suitcase still in the car, still wearing the cream coat you’d left in. Your hair was a little longer now, your eyes a little tired but glowing, and you stood at the very back of the VIP section.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
The crowd went silent, confused.
Then he smiled. That helpless, warm, completely ruined by you smile. He cleared his throat, trying to recover.
His voice softened as he continued, almost trembling... “…a Seoul where every dream...” His eyes stayed on you. “...no matter how far it takes you… always finds its way home.”
He drew a steady breath and continued, voice rising with purpose— “A Seoul where every citizen has the chance to work with dignity, where passion and opportunity isn’t a privilege but a right, and where our growth is shared... not by a few, but by all.”
The crowd roared, moved by the promise. People didn’t know why the line hit so hard.
But you did. And he did.
The stadium erupted, forty thousand people screaming his name. He won by a landslide. But the only victory that mattered walked back into his life was wearing a cream coat and tired eyes.
That night, you barely stepped inside before the door of penthouse slammed shut behind you. Namjoon grabbed your face and kissed you so desperately it knocked the breath out of you... like he’d been starving for three months straight.
Your coat slipped off your shoulders and hit the floor.
You were laughing, breathing his name, tears slipping down your cheeks because you’d missed him so much it hurt.
His hands slid into your hair, gripping gently.
“God,” he breathed against your lips, “you’re really here. You’re really—”
You cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tear he tried to hide. “Of course I’m here,” you whispered. “Where else would I go?”
You kissed him again, harder. He broke into a messy laugh that almost sounded like a sob.
“You have no idea,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, “how many nights I imagined this.” His mouth found your neck, your jaw, your lips again.
“I missed you so much,” you whispered, voice shaking.
He didn’t answer.
He just lifted you... effortlessly, and carried you down the hallway, kissing you the whole way like he was making up for every day you were gone.
He laid you on the bed with a tenderness that made your chest ache. Then he crawled over you, suit jacket already on the floor, shirt half-open, tie loose around his neck.
He cupped your face with both hands.
“You showed up,” he said softly, breath uneven. “You came back to me.”
“I’ll always come back to you,” you whispered, fingers brushing his cheeks. “You’re my home, Joon.”
His eyes went glossy. “Baby…”
His voice broke. “I thought I’d be strong... you know? If I keep myself busy with all these elections stuff, I thought I’d be fine while you were gone. But every night, I… damn, I missed you so much it hurt.”
You pulled him closer, your hands sliding into his hair. “I missed you too.”
He kissed you... slow, deep, like he was memorizing you all over again. When he finally pulled back, he hovered above you, chest rising fast.
“You’re the only person,” he said, touching your lips with his thumb, “who keeps me sane… but also makes me completely fucking insane at the same time.”
You laughed softly, eyes wet.
“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m going to keep doing that for the rest of our lives.”
His smile... your favorite dimple smile... spread slowly, beautifully. “Promise?”
You hooked your finger around the front of his shirt and tugged him down until his weight settled on you just right, warm and solid and his. “Promise.”
He exhaled like you’d just given him air after months of living underwater.
Outside, the city celebrated its new mayor.
Inside the penthouse, the man himself only cared about the woman beneath him.
And somewhere between the city lights and the sound of his name on your lips, Seoul crowned its new king and queen.
Obsessed. In love. Unbreakable.
A/n: First of all… my brain was short-circuiting whole time while writing this story. Because let’s be honest... Namjoon as a political leader? We all know that man would look unfairly hot standing behind a podium, sleeves rolled up, addressing nation in his deep voice.
And the driving part? Yeah... well... I know, he doesn’t have a license in reality… but if he did? Lord have mercy on me.
Because the thought of him driving... One hand gripping the steering wheel… The other resting on your thigh… Eyes focused on the road with his clenched jaw... Ahhhhhhhh.... He’d look as dangerously sexy driving a car as he looks driving all of us abso-fucking-lutely insane.
Taglist: @3racha-agustd . @jeonjamiekim . @jinnieminie . @minpdrecs . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria. @orionsworld420. @amarawayne . @unknownbeknowst
