i am unapologetic about my troll title. ty anon for the prompt! 👀 this is the couple from up all night. also, this isn’t beta read so i’m sorry if there are glaring errors lolz!!
pairing. knj x reader. rating. explicit. tags. this is smut, y’all. choking, riding that d**k, etc.. wc. 1.2k.
You’ve always been obsessed with his hands. The way the knuckles flex, the stretch of muscle and sinew beneath honeyed skin. His broad palms, so much larger than yours, big enough to engulf them whole when you’re holding hands. You’ve watched the way he stocks shelves and pieces strands of wayward hair behind his ear. He does everything with assured movements - like he’s perfectly aware of how capable they are.
You wonder how they’d feel around your neck.
“Choke me.” It comes before you can think better of it, driven by the soft buzz of liquor in your veins, the intoxication of just his touch. You’d blush bright red if you weren’t already flushed, sweat beading at your temple.
“What?” The rhythm of his hips stutter, his attention suddenly drawn from your bouncing breasts to your face. You can’t help the wry smile when he meets your stare; he’s adorably surprised, eyes wide as he peers up at you.
“Choke me,” you repeat, half-breathless
In true Kim Namjoon fashion, he’s dubious. You can’t blame him. You’ve only been dating a handful of weeks. His brow knits - slants brows low over his stare - as he repeats your request carefully. “You want me to choke you?” The grip on your waist tightens, pad of his thumb roving careful over your hip. It’s meant to be soothing, calming - to ensure you really want this. All it does is make you want it more. “Are you sure?”
You usually love how much of a gentleman he is. It prompts adorable date nights - stargazing on the highest rooftops in Brooklyn, sampling bottles at that new speakeasy, taco eating contests at the new place in the Meatpacking District - and the approval of your parents.
Tonight, though, you want the other side of him. The one you’ve only seen a dozen of times - jaw taut, lips pursed, hands balled into fists. The one that peeks its head out when you get cat-called late at night (“You’re not a piece of meat”) or when he’s working on the things he’s most passionate about (music, art, poetry).
The one that flashes now, presenting itself in the molten warmth of his stare - focused intently on your lips, pouted and swollen from your makeout on the cab ride back to his apartment.
You fold yourself in two, rolling your hips in a languid circle that snaps his attention to where your bodies join, the soft of your thighs wide around his hips. “I’m sure,” you murmur, a chaste kiss pressed just beneath his ear, right where his pulse jumps. You brush lips over and over, exhaling sweetly when you feel a hand shift - drift along the line of your spine and up over your shoulder. It tracks electricity in its wake - a livewire that follows the path of his touch.
“Sit up,” he instructs, right against the shell of your ear. You have to remind yourself what you’ve asked of him - whether it’ll feel better than the edge of his teeth. You’re not quite sure, now that he’s found the vulnerable spot that has you keening, his tongue laving hotly over the tiny mark that’s blooming beneath his mouth. “Sit up, babe,” he repeats, with a steady, unyielding pressure at the nape of your neck.
You do as you’re told, offering a last, sweet kiss before you’re settled back in his lap, palms flat against his chest. The streetlights cast long shadows into the room, throwing your features into stark relief. It’s a terribly pretty sight - your hair mused, eyes bright with anticipation. A dream come true.
“Good girl.” The praise is quiet but you preen nonetheless, deeply pleased. You’re still beaming when his thumb finds your neck, the softest ghost of his touch stirring butterflies in your stomach. It presses - ever so lightly, with the most gentle of pressure - before releasing. “Ride me,” he says, in a way that reads like a command rather than a request.
You don’t need to be told twice.
You resume your earlier rhythm, moving in unhurried circles that have his cock dragging sweetly through your aching walls. He fills you wholly, the weight and heat of him stealing all sensibility, head brushing against your g-spot with each grind of your hips. It’s perfect - but it isn’t enough. You’re pawing at the hand that rests, casually, over your shoulder.
It’s hard for Namjoon to focus on one thing. His attention jumps between your face - twisted so sweetly into a look of euphoria - to your breasts - god, he loves your tits, teardrops that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand - to where you’re connected, clinging to his cock every time you rise and sink down upon him. It’s a sensory overload. He barely notices your own preoccupation until you speak, needy and demanding.
“Joonie, please.”
His eyes snap to yours, half-lidded and hazy with lust. “Use me, baby. Then I’ll give you what you want.” You huff a little sound in response. It’s too adorable. He wants to hear it again, give you everything you want until you’re repeating it over and over. “Come on. Take what’s yours.”
He hums, delighted, when you begin to rock against him, stabilising yourself with hands on his thighs, fucking yourself in earnest. He can feel pinpricks of pain, your nails digging crescents into the muscle of his quads. The sensation shoots straight to his groin, his cock twitching in response.
“Good girl. Good girl,” he practically chants, watching in rapt fascination as your slick coats the base of his length and your own spread thighs. It’s so messy, so wet, so hot. He almost forgets what he’s doing yet again - only finding his train of thought when he feels you clench around him and a broken, breathy whine pitches off your tongue. “I’ve got you.”
The width of his palm finds your neck, fingers wrapping neatly around the column of your throat. The pressure is steady but never too much, digits firm on either side. You’re suddenly so tight around him that he almost falters.
“Right there?” He feels you nod - feels you try to - and he slinks his other hand between your legs, using your own arousal to slide his long, capable fingers over your clit. With each pass, you’re trembling, legs shaking with the effort of keeping yourself upright. He squeezes, just that bit tighter, and focuses his touch, circling the bundle of nerves with an intensity that has you seizing. “Come for me, baby.”
You unravel at his command - the low timbre, the glint in his eye, the heat that spreads like wildfire. You’re curving over him, clenching around him, crying out above him, held in place by the grip at your neck, your own hands scrambling across his chest.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, though you can’t quite make it out.
Everything’s fuzzy - soft at the edges, dream-like - and your entire body is jelly, incapable of much more than sinking against him. You’re gulping down lungfuls of air when you crash into his chest, his arms tight around you, fingers combing comfort through your strands.
Namjoon laughs into your hair, seemingly unbothered by the way your bodies stick together, cock still buried snugly in your cunt that feels like heaven. “I guess I’ll do that more often.”
tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi
a super duper late drabble set in the only joon verse i have (if you can call it that)! ty to anon for sending this in and i’m so sorry it took so long. i hope you enjoy regardless.
pairing. knj x f!reader. rating. general. tags. what the fluff?! wc. 0.4k.
You’re not short. At least, you think you’re not short. You’ve never felt particularly small, your larger-than-life personality making up for your lacking verticality.
Still, you can’t reach the chocolates you’re going for and it’s really starting to piss you off, not even the platform on your dumb sneakers aiding you in the battle of girl vs. shelf. You momentarily consider climbing up, shoving your foot between the cranberry nut crackers and the cocktail shrimp crisps, and are indeed halfway to doing so when a voice breaks you from your thoughts.
“What’re you doing?” Leave it to your boyfriend to make his appearance right when you need it most - but want it least.
You don’t answer, slotting the toe of your sneaker amongst the dried goods. You’re ready to hoist yourself up (c’mon upward momentum!) when he repeats himself, closer this time, with that thin-lipped smile spread over his mouth. He’s so close it’s distracting now, steering your attention in his direction when you should be focused on the task at hand.
Like a shitty rom-com, the lights dim (really, it flickers, because it needs to changed) and you feel your hand slip, Brazilian Bum Bum Cream hand lotion betraying you in your time of need. You’re falling falling falling— and then you’re being caught, wrapped in Kim Namjoon’s arms before you can crack your pretty skull on the linoleum floor.
“What were you doing?” He repeats, soft as ever, stars twinkling in his eyes and embedded in his dimples like heavenly treasure.
“I can’t reach the chocolates.” Of course he knows the ones you’re talking about. They’re your favourite - something he’d hooked you on after your third date and the only thing that can get you out of a bad mood (other than his kisses and al pastor tacos from your usual joint in the Meatpacking District).
One arm stays securely looped around you, warm palms comfortable over your hip, and the other rises. The ease with which he grabs the neatly packaged bar should be infuriating.
“Just ask next time,” he tells you, pressing both a kiss and the sweet into your right hand.
tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi
14 + namjoon x reader 🥺🥺🥺 ty queen erin haha get it 🥰🥰🥰
❪ 💜 PROMPT ! ❫
things you said after you kissed me
It happens like this.
“I’ve wanted to do that for ages.” So soft you almost miss it, lost to the beat that rattles the ice in your glass and acts as the soundtrack to your evening. Paired with a stare you can’t escape, held perfectly behind horn-rimmed spectacles and so much potential it steals your breath. He kisses you again, not two seconds later, and you think it must be true. Kim Namjoon has wanted to do this forever.
When he does it later - standing at the bar, searing heat burning through the cotton of your shirt - he’s unabashed, delighted, enamoured. He holds you recklessly close, caging you between himself and the countertop, lips sweeping star dust into your hair. Each kiss comes with a message, a murmur that plays Chopin’s Chopsticks with your heart. Variations of sweet nothings: your name, how much he adores your laugh, why he can’t believe you’d agreed to go on a date with him.
“I think I’m falling for you,” he murmurs, exactly one month and eight days later. It comes while his lips are still warm upon yours. You can taste the beer on his tongue, smell it on his breath. You’re intoxicated - but you think it might just be because of him. He’s better than any spirit, stronger than any liquor, turning your knees to jelly with just one look. Who needs to find love in the bottom of a bottle when it’s right here, nearly six feet tall in front of you?
Your eyes twinkle up at him when he repeats himself, draws his nose along the length of your cheek. He’s terribly sweet - refuses to let you go as the brevity of his words sink in. He’s asking you to catch him when he drops a kiss against your temple, brushes the curtain of your hair back. Hold me as tenderly as I hold you.
“Stay with me.” The evening is old, streaked with starlight and promise. You do easily, readily, curling into his arms like they’re your home, as if his bed is yours and the beat of his heart is what keeps you anchored. He holds you through the dark, single-handedly fights the demons that seek you out in the dead of night. When you wake, he’s still there and his touch is the first thing you feel, the kindest wake up call in the world.
He kisses you over and over - peppering bits of sunshine across your face, warmth spilling past his teeth like yellow paint. You imagine your cheeks are speckled with it, each freckle a physical reminder of his devotion, how desperately he adores you. (Enough for both of you, you think.)
“I love you.” His words find you on a Thursday evening, on your usual trek home. It’s paired with the sweetest kiss, the warmest hug. Namjoon laughs at your expression, eyes waning and mouth splitting into that smile that both breaks and mends your heart in perfect tandem. He repeats it when you blink up at him, perhaps a little dumbly. You should say it back, you know; by how he looks at you, you know he reads your answer already, plucks it straight from the hazy depths of your stare.
Sometimes, things don’t need to be said - only felt. You love him. You kiss him back - return it tenfold with teeth and tongue and a trembling heart.
He travels a lot. He has to, given his line of work. It doesn’t make it any easier. You miss him often, when you least expect it.
Sometimes, it’s standing in your kitchen, swirling eggs around a non-stick pan when you remember the feeling of his hands, his smile against your neck. Other times, it’s walking down the street and passing by the jajangmyeon restaurant you call yours. You almost always stop, even if you’ve had lunch or dinner or it makes no sense for you to. Anything to feel just that little bit closer to him.
One time, it was in the middle of the lift on your way to work, leaned against the mirrored walls. His face had flashed across the screen above your head, dimpled and adorable.
“I miss you too,” he promises, voice crackling over the telephone line. You know he’s telling you the truth - he’d never lie to you - but it doesn’t feel like nearly enough. “I’ll be home soon.”
Eleven days doesn’t seem very soon, but when you’ve already waited forty-four, what’s a few more?
“I know,” you huff, petulant and sleepy. It’s just past one in the morning for you. You’re not sure what time it is for him. He’s halfway across the world right now, chasing his dreams, and you’re in the too-big bed, cold without his warmth.
“Don’t pout, baby.” You know Namjoon means it kindly, says it as sweetly as it could ever be said. You sigh, muffle the sound into your pillow that no longer smells like him, and hum a noise that reads fine, whatever.
There’s silence then - a beat, then two, then three - and enough noise you can’t help but wonder what he’s doing.
He answers before you can ask, soothing your edges that have come undone, laying them neatly back together with the timbre of his voice. “We’ve got to head out soon,” he tells you. It’s an explanation and an apology all at once, wrapped up neatly and offered in the palm of his hands.
“Okay.” You can’t keep the sadness out. It filters in, sneaks beneath the gaps of the door, and fills your home with blue blue blue. There’s no sun to cast it out, no rays of light to sweep the shadows from your corners.
“I promise we’ll go out when I’m back.”
He doesn’t need to say such things. You know he’ll make it up to you, fill a week with two months worth of dates plucked straight from a romantic comedy. He’s never let you down before - not a single day in the two years you’ve been together. It doesn’t make this any easier.
“I just miss you.” And you do - so bad it hurts sometimes, overflows your cup with just a wayward thought. You wish you were stronger, that you could take all the loneliness and turn it into something productive. Instead it lays you to sleep, cradles you when all you want is him.
“I miss you too, baby. I miss hugging you and kissing you and telling you how bad your breath is in the morning.” The laugh isn’t what it should be, but it’s better than a sob, and that’s a win in your books. “I miss our walks and our drives and holding your hand even when you complain.” Because you do, when you’re trying to text and he refuses to let go. “But I’m always just a phone call away. I’m never very far. You have my heart, remember?”
hello my love! how about 20. things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear with namjoon?
❪ 💜 PROMPT ! ❫
things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear
[ read should be sad ]
pairing. knj x f!reader. rating. general. tags. reader is an eavesdropping butt!!!! wc. 0.3k.
“Really?”
You’re not supposed to be home. You’d planned a date night with your closest girlfriends - a good six hours at Yerin’s stupidly expensive condo, catered by that one place that did those grazing boards you’d all been loving for the last three weeks. You should be at least three glasses of rosé deep and probably four steps into the rigorous skincare routine Sumin had been raving about in the group chat.
Instead, you’re home sitting on the couch, laptop hot on your legs, glass of white wine cradled like a baby in your lap.
Listening to a conversation you probably shouldn’t be.
“Yeah. I think I’m— I think it’s time.”
“How do you think she’s going to take it?” You’d recognise Yoongi’s voice anywhere, the polite curiosity that offers itself in between syllables. Never prying, decidedly casual.
There’s the sound of shoes being stripped, the shuffling of socked feet down the hallway.
“Well? I mean, it’s not like we’re getting any younger and I think it’s hard for her when we’re away.”
He’s not wrong. Namjoon can read you better than anyone in the world, sense your sadness half a world away. A part of you feels bad about that, guilty that you can’t reign in your emotions when he’s already got a hundred other responsibilities weighing on his shoulders.
(This is when you should interrupt - call out to them before you hear anymore.)
“So you think marrying her is going to make it easier?” You don’t mind the disbelief in Yoongi’s voice. You know he likes you, treats you like a younger sister despite the fact you’re the same age. He’s just being reasonable - taking the reins from the person most known for his logicality.
“I think it’ll give her a peace of mind.” The voice is closer now, about to round the corner, if you had to guess. “It’s going to happen eventually anyway, so why—”
“Suuuuuuurprise!”
You wonder who looks more mortified: you, your poor boyfriend, or his head shaking best friend.
*im too lazy to look for the infinity sign so pretend this is an infinity sign*
❪ 💜 RUN BTS : ❫ fun and games !
pairing. knj x reader. rating. general. tags. nothing about this makes sense. but c’est la vie! enjoy the slightly angsty, slightly fluffy goodness. wc. 0.5k.
You might say, I'm wasted on you
But when you break, I break for you too
Love can beat us black and blue
But darling, I'll take the punches for you
- Punches (with LP) - Noah Cyrus
Kim Namjoon isn’t someone who asks much of others. He’d much rather shoulder his own pain, carry it between the notches of his bones, buried somewhere beneath the skeletal frame that creaks and groans beneath the weight.
There are some burdens only he can carry - responsibilities he’s meant to hold, that no one else can, no matter how they might try.
(And oh god, how you try.)
“Joon,” you say, soft and sweet and seductive in a way he knows will break him into pieces. Pieces he cannot afford to split into - not now, when he must act as a foundation for others. There’s no room for cracks, no give that he can offer. (Even if it’s just an inch, it’ll become a mile and that terrifies him.) You repeat yourself when he’s lost in his own thoughts, staring out at the skyline like he might find all of life’s answers there.
It’s such a lovely sight, lit up against the pitch black abyss. A reminder that there’s always light at the end of the tunnel, something to be found even in the darkest of days. Like the stars twinkling above your heads, there’s an entire world left unexplored.
It’s why he does what he does - pushes as hard as he does. Because he wants to explore all that.
Needs to, so his family can too.
“Joon.” The third time is usually the charm with him, the sound of your voice piercing the veil that he sometimes gets caught within. It works now - just barely - dragging him back to your side on the grassy hillside.
“Huh?” He’s tired. You can see it in his eyes, the hollows beneath moulted purple with fatigue.
Your answer comes in motions - in a gentle sweep of his hair from his forehead, of tender touches over his temple, behind his ear. You coax him into his favourite spot right in your lap, nestled against the swell of your hip with his cheek pressed to your thigh. It’s not luxury linens or a warm bed after a long day, but it’s all the love in the world, offered in the ways you know how. With repetitive brushes over his cheek, fingers of your other hand twining with his.
When he squeezes, you return the gesture with white knuckles and soothing circles. When he exhales long and low, you swallow it up, take his sigh and turn it over in your chest.
“Take it easy,” you tell him, ask him, beg him. “Just for a little while.”
Kim Namjoon doesn’t know what the word easy means, but he finds the meaning somewhere with you.
You feel awful. Your palms are sweaty, heart hammering against your rib cage so hard you’re almost certain it’s going to launch itself out of your chest. There’s tension threading your spine, curling around each vertebrae like a shackle. The sun has set - disappeared behind a curtain of misery and blue blue blue.
Joon’s bonsai sits at your feet, carefully crafted china and resin pot shattered into a hundred little pieces, dirt strewn across the floor and dirtying your formerly pristine white socks. There are signs of your clumsiness for miles - or at least, to the far reaches of his bedroom.
What should you do? What could you do, really? Tell him you’d broken something priceless, irrepleacable? Beg on your knees for forgiveness? Run away and change your name and never come back?
So many options, with each of them being worse than the last.
“Hey—” His appearance throws your body into overdrive, has you scrambling for something - anything. Shards dig into soles, cut through and make you yelp, and you wave him away when he advances, concern stark across his sleepy face. “What’s wrong?”
Because he can read the fear in his stare, reads it as pain when you wince and try to hobble further past.
Then he sees the mess. Hurt flickers in his eyes - you see the disappointment that replaces the warmth of his irises, drops his mouth into a little ‘o’ of surprise - and the shame deepens, disappearing beneath your skin. He looks utterly heartbroken, staring down at what had once been his most prized plant.
“I’m so sorry,” you squeak, wide-eyed and terrified, fingers shaking, feet throbbing. You need to move, get those stabby pieces out, but you’re rooted to the spot.
“It’s okay.” It doesn’t sound like it is - there’s too much sadness turning his words soft, lining the edges of syllables like fine wool - but he’s insistent, advancing toward you with a furrowed brow and outstretched hand. He wants you to take it; you’re not sure why. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
You realise you’d forgotten - you’re just as important as that little tree.
