kittenan2

[kittenan2]

Smoke & Sugar

Pairing: Bad Boy!Namjoon x Runaway Bride!Reader Rating: 18+ (minors DNI) Genre: College AU, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Romance Word Count: ~5k Warnings: Explicit sexual content, smoking, reckless driving, abusive guardians, unprotected sex, voice kink, dirty talk, light choking, bruising, possessiveness, ovulation-driven horniness, lots of teasing and banter, heavy emotions, mentions of forced marriage and legal action against abuse.

The sky hung low, thick with clouds the color of ash, as if the universe itself was mourning the path you’d almost been forced to take. Each breath you took burned your lungs, torn between panic and relief, as you sprinted down the narrow alleyways with a torn wedding dress trailing behind you like a ghost.

Every step was a war between your body and the cursed shoes your aunt had shoved your feet into—heels that cracked under pressure, just like you almost had.

Tears streaked through your foundation, mascara smudging your face, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t. Not when your uncle’s voice still rang in your ears like a death sentence:

“He’s offering us stability.”

As if you were a bargaining chip in a poker game. As if your life, your future, your very body, were up for sale.

Your legs carried you, farther and farther from the grand venue and its suffocating expectations. You didn’t know where you were going—just that it had to be away.

Then you saw him.

The streetlights flickered as if hesitating to illuminate him, but there he was.

Kim Namjoon.

Leaning against a sleek black motorcycle like sin made flesh, cigarette balanced between two fingers, eyes shadowed with something darker than night.

Everyone at your university knew him—your final-year senior, troublemaker, heir to a corporate empire he seemed to despise.

You’d seen him in passing, buying cigarettes from the mart where you worked, always silent, always tense, like a storm waiting to snap its leash.

Now, under the bruised sky, he looked like a lifeline you weren’t sure you deserved.

Your voice cracked as you stumbled forward, heart beating louder inside your ribs. “Please,” you choked, your throat raw from crying, “I just—I need to get away. Anywhere but here.”

Namjoon’s head turned slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you were real or just another hallucination from a shitty day.

His gaze swept over you—messy hair, ruined dress, swollen eyes. His brows knit, not in judgment, but disbelief, like the world had thrown one more insane thing at him and expected him to deal with it.

“Are you serious?” he muttered, exhaling a drag of smoke. But then his jaw flexed. He looked past you—perhaps saw the fear chasing you down, headlights in the distance—and without another word, he flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot.

“Get on.”

You hesitated, your breath catching, legs trembling as a car door slammed somewhere nearby. Maybe it was your uncle. Maybe it was nothing. But your body moved before your mind could catch up.

Namjoon grabbed your wrist—not hard, but firm, grounding you when your whole world felt like it was breaking apart.

Instead of guiding you to the back seat, he pulled you in front of him.

“Here,” he said, voice like thunder waiting to roll. “You're safer this way, where I can hide you.”

You didn’t even have time to argue. One moment, you were standing on broken dreams, the next you were straddling his bike, your thighs pressed against his torso, his arms bracketing your body as he reached for the handlebars.

Your heart rattled inside your chest as your fingers curled into his jacket—soft leather and something that smelled like pine and fire.

He didn’t look at you when he muttered, “Hold tight. And don’t squirm.”

The engine roared to life beneath you, a deep, vibrating purr that hummed against every nerve ending. You barely had time to suck in a breath before the bike took off, wind whipping through your hair, dress flapping like wings behind you.

For the first time in years, you felt free.

The ride was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional crack of thunder in the distance.

Namjoon took you to a secluded lake on the outskirts of town, a place you’d never been. The water was still, reflecting the heavy clouds above, surrounded by tall grass and a single weathered bench.

He pulled over, cutting the engine, and you slid off the bike, your legs shaky from the adrenaline and the awkward position. Your dress was a mess, the lace sticking to your thighs, your hair damp from the humid air.

Namjoon leaned against his bike, pulling another cigarette from his pack and lighting it with a flick of his lighter. The flame briefly illuminated his face—sharp jawline, full lips, eyes that seemed to see right through you.

He offered you the pack, one eyebrow raised.

“Want one?”

You shook your head, sitting on the bench and pulling your knees to your chest. “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

He shrugged, taking a drag and exhaling slowly. “Suit yourself.”

The weight of everything began to crush you now that the adrenaline had faded. The silence stretched until it almost hurt.

He broke it first. “You look familiar.”

You blinked, surprised.

“We go to the same university. I work at the mart nearby campus. You usually come there to buy cigarettes.”

That made him chuckle—low and dry, like a sound he didn’t let out often. “So you do notice me.”

You looked up, cheeks flushed.

“Kinda hard not to. You ride a motorcycle through the parking lot like you’re in an action movie.”

His smirk curved into something warmer. “And yet, you still ran to me tonight. You must be more desperate than you look.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t know where else to go that time.”

Namjoon’s eyes flickered with something softer then. He stepped closer, the cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.

“Fair enough. So, what’s the deal? Why’s a girl in a wedding dress running like she’s got the devil on her heels?”

“Tell me what happened.”

So you did.

You explained—your uncle and aunt, the arranged marriage to a man fifteen years older, their obsession with his money.

“They’ve been controlling my life since my parents died. I couldn’t do it. I just… ran.”

You spoke in choked sentences, tears brimming again, and to your surprise, he didn’t interrupt. He just listened, really listened, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers, his whole body leaning toward you like you were the only thing anchoring him in the moment.

When you finished, he muttered, “That’s fucked up.”

But it wasn’t said with pity. It was said with rage. Quiet, smoldering anger that someone would dare treat you that way.

“What’re you gonna do now?” he asked.

You shrugged, swallowing hard. “Sleep in the storeroom at work, maybe. Just until I can find a place. I don’t have anyone else. I’ll figure it out.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head.

“The storeroom? You’re gonna sleep between bags of rice and mop buckets? No way.” He flicked his cigarette into the lake, the ember hissing as it hit the water. “You’re coming to my place.”

Your eyes widened. “What? No, I can’t—”

“Why not?” he cut you off, crossing his arms. “I live alone. Big apartment, plenty of space. You cook?”

You blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “Uh, yeah?”

“Then it’s settled. You cook, you stay for free. Call it a deal.” His tone was final, like he wasn’t about to argue with a runaway bride in a torn dress.

You opened your mouth to protest, but the thought of sleeping in a cold, dusty storeroom made you hesitate. “I… I don’t know you.”

He smirked, offering you his hand.

“Too late. You already came with me. Let’s go.”

Something inside you cracked open at his words.

You looked at his outstretched hand, calloused and steady, and for the first time that night, you didn’t feel like you were drowning.

You took it.

The first morning in Namjoon’s apartment was a whirlwind of sensory chaos. You woke up on his couch, drowning in one of his oversized t-shirts he’d tossed at you the night before, the hem brushing your thighs.

Morning sunlight poured through half-shut blinds, painting gold across his worn-out couch cushions and your bare legs.

The apartment was...a mess. A lived-in, rugged, bachelor pad disaster.

Beer cans littered the coffee table.

A motorcycle helmet perched crookedly on a stack of books.

The air held the ghost of cigarette smoke and something distinctly Namjoon—like cedar and sweat and that warm, earthy scent that made your stomach do funny things.

You padded toward the kitchen, determined to make a humble breakfast as a thank-you.

But the fridge greeted you like a slap: two energy drinks, a half-spoiled carton of milk, and one lonely egg looking as stressed as you felt.

“Perfect,” you sighed, cracking the egg into a pan, determined to make it stretch.

You were so focused on scrambling that one sad little egg that you didn’t notice Namjoon behind you until he spoke, his voice still rough from sleep.

“You gonna cook or just look cute in my shirt?”

You jumped, turning to find him leaning against the counter—shirtless, sleepy-eyed, and brushing his teeth like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Just a pair of black boxers riding low on his hips and the laziest smirk curling at his lips.

You flushed. Hard.

“Eat this and shut up,” you muttered, shoving a plate at him.

He accepted it, eyeing the slightly scorched egg with mock horror. “This is...well. It’s an egg. You tried.”

“You’re welcome,” you snapped, crossing your arms—but you couldn’t stop the shy grin sneaking in.

He took a bite, chewed, then chuckled softly. “It’s terrible. But thanks.”

And somehow, that warmed you.

Over the next few days, something shifted.

You started organizing his chaos—folding laundry, scrubbing counters, tossing out expired ramen and mystery tupperware.

You lit a cheap vanilla air freshener just to chase out the heavy smoke smell.

Namjoon grumbled about it sarcastically—“I don’t need my socks folded, wifey”—but you caught him sniffing the clean laundry with a sheepish grin when he thought you weren’t looking.

When he realized you were watching, he rolled his eyes and muttered, “I didn’t ask for a maid.”

But his cheeks were pink.

You began packing him lunch boxes—not fancy, just rice, stir-fried veggies, few snacks.

You didn’t say it out loud, but it felt good to care for someone.

To have someone come home.

To be someone’s home.

He never asked for it. But he always ate everything.

The first time he opened the box in the university cafeteria, his friends lost it.

“Wait, wait—Namjoon has a homemade lunch now?” Jin practically screeched, reaching for a chicken piece like a gremlin.

Namjoon slapped his hand away, protective and grumpy.

“Back off. She made this for me.”

Hoseok leaned in, mock-offended. “Bro. Are you in love or just being fed for the first time in your life?”

Yoongi didn’t say anything at first. Just sipped his coffee and raised an eyebrow like he was witnessing a rare eclipse.

Then, with his usual deadpan delivery:

“You realize you're blushing, right?”

Namjoon groaned, tugging his hoodie up to hide his ears, but he didn’t deny it. He just muttered something about “ungrateful bastards” and kept eating with a secret little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

That night, you found your phone buzzing.

Namjoon reposted a blurry photo from Jin—Namjoon holding the lunch box, trying not to smile.

Caption: “Our boy’s got a lunch fairy and she’s turning him into a simp 😌💗🍱”

You stared at the screen for a long time, heart stuttering.

You didn’t know what this was. What you were becoming. But maybe—for the first time in your life—you were starting to feel like you mattered to someone.

And maybe… he was starting to feel the same.

Living with Namjoon felt like sleeping next to a lit matchstick—one wrong move and everything would ignite.

He was always there—sprawled on the couch in sweatpants that clung sinfully low, stretching in doorways like he owned the space and your sanity, brushing past you in the kitchen just close enough to steal your breath.

Every time he walked in after a long ride, hair damp with sweat, lips parted, muscles taut from the wind—your stomach twisted with want, and your heart thudded loud enough you were sure he could hear it.

One quiet afternoon, you were folding laundry on the couch, trying to focus on separating socks and not your feelings, when Namjoon dropped down beside you. He reached into the pile and plucked up a delicate pair of your lace underwear, holding it up with a slow, teasing grin.

“Who you wearin’ these for, sweetheart?” he asked, voice dipped in mischief.

Your breath caught like a hiccup, and your face burned. “Namjoon!” you hissed, snatching them from his fingers. “Give them back!”

He laughed—deep and low—and leaned in, the scent of his cologne curling into your lungs. “Damn,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “You’re really cute when you’re pissed.”

His gaze lingered just a second too long—his smile fading into something quieter, something darker.

The air between you pulsed with tension, like it might crack open if one of you so much as breathed wrong. Then he leaned back, a soft exhale leaving him like he was trying to collect himself. You wished he hadn’t.

At the mart, he started showing up more often, always near the end of your shift. Sometimes he’d say he was “just passing by,” but the way his eyes scanned the place until they landed on you said otherwise.

One night, as he tossed his usual pack of cigarettes onto the counter, his gaze snagged on the display behind you—condoms lined up like temptation next to a different brand of smokes. You followed his line of sight and saw the tick in his jaw, like he'd caught himself thinking something he shouldn’t.

“You wanna try that?” you asked, voice light as you gestured vaguely to the shelf.

He blinked, startled, caught red-handed in his own thoughts. “Wh-what?”

You smirked, plucking the new brand of cigarettes from the shelf and tossing them at him. “These,” you said.

He caught the pack with fumbling fingers, a dry laugh escaping his lips.

“Fuck, what was I even thinking.” He muttered to himself.

Inside, he was cursing himself, his mind having immediately jumped to the condoms, his thoughts spiraling to you in ways that made his jeans feel tighter.

From then on, you could feel his eyes on you more often—when you bent to stock a low shelf, when you tucked stray hair behind your ear, when you smiled too long at a customer.

His stares were quiet but intense, like he was watching something sacred.

Then one night, some guy—an undergrad reeking of expensive cologne and overconfidence—leaned over the counter, flashing a crooked grin as he asked for your number.

You shut him down politely, but firm, and caught Namjoon watching from near the energy drink display, expression unreadable but eyes sharp.

Later, as you were locking up, he walked beside you in silence, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense. You didn’t expect him to say anything—but then he did.

“You ever been touched by a guy who actually gave a damn about you?”

You froze mid-step, your heart thudding so loud it echoed in your ears. His voice had dropped—low, gravelly, almost... tender.

You turned to him slowly. “No,” you whispered, honest and raw.

His jaw clenched, brows pulling tight for a second. Then he stepped closer, just enough for his body heat to wrap around you, not touching, but there—so there.

“Yeah…” he murmured, his voice almost pained. “Didn’t think so.”

And then he pulled back, slipping away before you could blink, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets like he didn’t trust them. Like if he stayed a second longer, he’d ruin everything.

You watched him walk beside you without a word, breathless and aching, feeling the weight of something that hadn’t happened yet but was already inevitable.

That night, you lay awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling fan spinning above, Namjoon’s words still echoing in your chest like a thunderclap: “You ever been touched by a guy who actually gave a damn about you?”

It shouldn’t have made your heart twist the way it did.

It shouldn’t have made you imagine what his hands would feel like if they did—slow and reverent, or rough and starved?

Would he kiss you soft and slow, like you were something he cherished? Or pin you to the wall, growling into your ear about how long he’s been fucking waiting?

God. You needed help.

You rolled onto your side and pulled his stupid blanket tighter around your shoulders, inhaling the faint scent of his laundry detergent and cologne. Everything in this apartment smelled like him.

Lived like him.

Lingered like him. And now… so did your thoughts.

Across the room, his bedroom door was cracked open, just a sliver. You could see the faint glow of his desk lamp, hear the soft clack of his keyboard.

Was he working on lyrics?

College Assignment?

Or was he lying in bed, shirtless and messy-haired, headphones on, trying not to think about what he almost said to you?

You should’ve closed your eyes. Should’ve rolled over. Should’ve pretended none of it meant anything.

Instead, you got up.

Quiet steps. Bare feet on cool floor. You reached the doorway and leaned your shoulder against the frame, fingers gripping the edge.

He looked up immediately.

No shirt. Just loose black joggers and messy hair, his silver chain resting against his collarbones. His gaze locked on yours, unreadable—but something hungry stirred behind it.

“…Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice low, hoarse from disuse.

You shook your head, heart thudding. “You?”

“Couldn’t.” A pause. “Too much on my mind.”

He didn’t look away. Neither did you.

And for one long, heavy moment, neither of you said anything. It was quiet—but thick, like the silence had teeth. It pulsed between you, hot and dangerous.

You swallowed. “What you said earlier… was that just…?” You couldn’t finish the question.

His eyes softened. Just a little. Just enough.

“Nah,” he murmured, voice rasping like he hated himself for being honest. “Wasn’t just talk.”

And then he turned away—breaking the moment, giving you space to walk away. Because if you didn’t, if you so much as took one step inside… there’d be no going back.

You stood there for a second.

Two.

Three.

Then turned and walked away—heart screaming, skin tingling, body lit with need.

But neither of you slept that night.

The tension snapped one night when Namjoon came home bruised, his bike scraped from a minor accident. You found him in the garage, cursing as he inspected the damage. Your heart sank—blood on his knuckles, a cut on his cheek, jaw tight with anger.

“Why do you do this?” you shouted, storming toward him.

“Riding like a maniac, getting hurt—do you even care about your life?”

He whirled on you, eyes blazing.

“What do you care? You’re not my mom. Or you really taking my nickname seriously. Wifey!”

“Don’t call me that!” you snapped, shoving his chest. “I’m serious, Namjoon. You act like you’ve got nothing to lose, like you don’t care about anything—or anyone!”

He grabbed your wrists, pulling you closer, voice raw.

“You think I don’t care? I started caring the night I saw you in that damn torn wedding dress, running like your life depended on it!”

The air stilled, your pulse hammering. His eyes locked on yours, fierce, unguarded, chest heaving.

Before you can process, he cupped your face, lips crashing into yours. The kiss was desperate—teeth, tongues, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you against him.

You kissed back just as hard, fingers in his hair, body pressed to his bike.

He lifted you onto the workbench, legs wrapping around his hips as he kissed down your jaw, neck, collarbone.

His hands gripped your thighs, your ass, breath hot.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice gravelly, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You moaned, head tipping back as his lips found the spot below your ear.

But he pulled back, forehead to yours, breathing hard. “We gotta stop,” he whispered, voice strained. “Not like this.”

You nodded, heart racing, knowing he was right but hating the distance.

The rain hadn’t stopped for hours.

The city was a blur of slick pavement, glowing headlights, and the kind of hush only storms could bring. Namjoon had taken you on one of his rides—wild and reckless—laughter spilling from your lips as he swerved through the empty streets, both of you soaked to the bone.

By the time you stumbled through the door of the apartment, breathless and drenched, your dress clung to every curve, and his white t-shirt left nothing to the imagination—muscles taut, skin flushed from the wind and rain. Your hair was plastered to your face, water dripping from your lashes.

You shook out your hair, giggling, eyes sparkling from the rush of it all, when you turned to find Namjoon standing perfectly still.

Watching you.

His gaze was molten—dark, focused, like he’d been starved and you were the first meal in weeks. Your laughter faded, breath catching in your throat as the air between you shifted. Heavy. Heated. Hungry.

He stepped toward you, slow, deliberate, until your back was pressed against the door and his arms caged you in. Rain dripped from his hair, trailing down his jaw and falling onto your collarbone.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, voice low, ragged. “Tell me now, or I swear I’ll ruin you for good.”

Your chest heaved. You knew he meant it—not just physically. He meant he’d ruin you emotionally. That this was the moment that changed everything.

And you wanted it.

You fisted the front of his soaked shirt, yanking him to you. “Don’t you dare stop, Namjoon.”

The kiss he gave you wasn’t soft. It was bruising, messy, wet. All lips and teeth and aching need. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your thighs. He lifted you with a frustrated growl and carried you to the kitchen counter, setting you down with a thud against the cold granite.

“Damn,” he breathed, yanking off his shirt and tossing it aside. He stared at you, hair dripping into his eyes, chest rising and falling like he was struggling to stay in control. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You shivered under his stare. “Show me.”

He did.

His hands slid under your soaked dress, tugging it over your head, the wet fabric dragging across your skin. When you were left in your clinging bra and panties, he groaned, running a hand through his hair like he was restraining himself.

“Look at you…” His voice broke a little.

“So fucking beautiful. And you don’t even know it.”

You reached for him, fingers tracing his chest, the water beading under your touch. “You always talk like that when you’re about to fuck someone?”

“No,” he whispered, lifting your chin. “Only you.”

Then he was kissing you again—slower now, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. His lips trailed down your jaw, your throat, pausing over your pulse.

He unhooked your bra, letting it fall, and his eyes went wide.

“Fuck…”

His hands cupped your breasts reverently before his mouth found one, lips warm, tongue teasing. You arched with a cry, fingers in his hair, holding on for dear life.

“Say my name,” he murmured against your skin.

“Namjoon…” It fell from your lips like a prayer.

He moaned into your chest. “Again.”

“Namjoon…”

He knelt then, pulling your panties down slowly, kissing each thigh as he went. When his mouth brushed between your legs, you cried out, hips jerking. “God, you taste like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You whimpered as his tongue stroked you, teasing, tasting. His grip tightened on your thighs like he was anchoring himself to the moment.

“You’re shaking,” he said, voice muffled. “Let go for me, baby.”

And you did.

You came with a gasp, body trembling, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he licked you through it, kissing the inside of your thigh like you were precious.

He stood, breathing hard, pupils blown. Fumbling for a condom, he ripped it open with shaking fingers, and you pulled him in, forehead to forehead.

“You sure, sweetheart?” he whispered.

“I want all of you,” you mumbled back.

“You already have me,” he breathed, voice breaking.

When he pushed inside, it was slow. Deep. His jaw clenched like he was holding back a thousand things he couldn’t say.

“Is this okay?” he asked, brushing your cheek.

“Better than okay,” you whispered. “Feels like coming home.”

He choked on a laugh that sounded like a sob and started to move, each thrust deep and deliberate, filling you in a way that made you feel seen. Worshipped.

“Fuck, I’ve never felt anything like this,” he murmured against your neck. “You feel so good. You’re… everything.”

Your body moved with his, the sounds of skin on skin, moans, soft gasps blending with the rain still hitting the windows. He touched you like he’d been dying to—hands mapping you, mouth claiming you, heart opening with every push of his hips.

And when you both fell over the edge, tangled together, he clung to you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

Namjoon didn’t move right away. His arms wrapped around you tighter as you caught your breath, lips still brushing your cheek, like he couldn’t get close enough.

You were still trembling—heart racing, skin buzzing, soul raw.

He finally leaned back just enough to look at you, brushing wet hair from your face. His eyes were glassy, filled with something so tender it made your throat tighten.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, fingers trailing your arm.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Better than okay. That was… more than I expected.”

His lips quirked up. “Yeah. Me too.”

He grabbed a soft hoodie from a chair and gently wrapped it around your shoulders. “You’re freezing,” he muttered. “Can’t have my girl catching a cold.”

You didn’t even flinch at the words. My girl.

He lifted you carefully into his arms, carrying you like you weighed nothing, and laid you gently on the bed. He vanished for a second and returned with a warm cloth, cleaning between your thighs with soft apologies.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he murmured, brow furrowed in concern.

“You didn’t,” you said, catching his hand. “You made me feel… safe. Wanted.”

He swallowed hard. “You are. I want you. Not just like that. All of you. Even the parts you try to hide.”

Tears stung your eyes, and you pulled him down beside you, curling into his chest. He held you like he meant it—like he was afraid he’d lose you if he loosened his grip.

“You’re dangerous, Kim Namjoon,” you whispered against his collarbone.

“Why?” he chuckled, rubbing your back.

“Because I think I’m falling for you.”

He stilled.

Then his arms tightened, and his lips brushed your hair. “Good,” he said, voice barely audible. “Because I’ve already fallen long ago.”

You fell asleep like that—his hoodie wrapped around you, his arms around your body, and his heart quietly laid bare for you to keep.

Weeks passed like fleeting dreams, every moment with Namjoon making the world feel a little less heavy.

One night, he invited you to meet his closest friends—Jin, Hoseok, and Yoongi—at a worn-down dive bar tucked behind campus buildings, all neon signs and the smell of cheap whiskey and warm fries.

Your nerves buzzed the whole walk there. You weren’t just meeting his friends. You were stepping into his world. The real, raw, unfiltered version of him he didn’t show anyone else.

But the second you entered, Jin was waving dramatically like an older brother. Hoseok beamed wide enough to light the street, and Yoongi gave you a small nod—cool and quiet but unmistakably kind.

You slid into the booth beside Namjoon, your thigh brushing his. He looked... soft. Soft in the way people do when they’re happy. Like his armor was tucked away for the night.

Jin leaned across the table with a sly smirk and snatched a fry from Namjoon’s plate. “So, you’re the reason our boy’s been bringing lunch boxes to practice and folding his socks like a goddamn housewife.”

Namjoon groaned, ducking his head with a flush that crawled up his neck.

Hoseok cackled, throwing an arm around your shoulder like you were already part of the crew. “He never shuts up about you. The girl in his shirt. The runaway bride. We thought she was a myth.”

Namjoon reached under the table and took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours with a quiet squeeze.

You looked over, and he just smiled at you—like none of the teasing mattered, as long as you were there.

In that moment, surrounded by his people, you felt it.

This wasn’t just a fling.

You were becoming part of his life.

And he wanted you there.

The illusion of peace shattered the moment Namjoon’s father came crashing through the front door like a storm in a tailored suit.

His presence was a tidal wave—clean-cut, sharp-voiced, face carved in stone. “You missed another board meeting,” he snapped before the door even closed. “Do you have any idea what’s at stake, Namjoon? Your inheritance, your future—everything we built—”

Namjoon tensed beside you, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides.

And you—God, you didn’t plan to speak. But something in you boiled over.

The way his shoulders curled inward like he was a little boy again. The way his father spat words like bullets, like love should come with an ultimatum.

You stepped forward, voice shaking but steady. “Your son isn’t a puppet. He’s not a replica of you, and he doesn’t need to be.”

You looked straight at the man who tried to control him. “He’s building something real. Honest. Something that belongs to him. Let him breathe.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened, like you’d ripped the air from the room. But then... you saw it. That flicker. That surge of pride.

He stepped beside you, a little straighter now. A little stronger.

“She’s right,” Namjoon said, voice low but sure. “If I’m gonna build something... it’ll be mine. Not a carbon copy of you.”

His father narrowed his eyes, but Namjoon didn’t flinch.

“I’m not stepping into a life that doesn’t fit,” he added, breathing deep. “I’m working on music. Producing. Writing. That’s what makes me feel alive. That’s my path.”

Silence.

Then his father turned, jaw clenched, and walked out without another word.

The door clicked shut. Namjoon didn’t move for a second—like he was waiting for something to fall apart. But when nothing did, he let out a long breath and turned to you, eyes burning.

Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice cracking. “No one’s ever stood up for me like that.”

You held him tighter, heart swelling, knowing this wasn’t just about a conversation.

It was the beginning of a man choosing himself.

And maybe, choosing you, too.

The golden light of early morning spilled across the bed, soft and drowsy like a lullaby. The world was quiet—no deadlines, no alarms, no expectations. Just warmth, tangled limbs, and the steady thrum of Namjoon’s heartbeat against your spine.

His arms were still wrapped around you, protective even in sleep, one leg tucked between yours, breath tickling your neck with every exhale. You didn’t move. Not yet. This moment felt sacred. Like the universe had hit pause just for the two of you.

Then his grip tightened, and a sleepy groan rumbled from his chest.

“Mmm... morning, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice gravel and honey, rasped against your skin like a kiss. His nose nuzzled into your shoulder. “God, you feel good. So warm…”

You smiled, eyes still closed, heart already fluttering. “You say that every morning.”

He cracked one eye open, his hair messy, his grin slow and soft. “Yeah, well… every morning it’s still true.” He kissed your shoulder, voice dipping into a teasing murmur. “You ovulating or something? You’re extra clingy today.”

You let out a breathy laugh, swatting weakly at his chest. “Shut up. You’re the one holding me hostage.”

“I’d kidnap you every day if it meant waking up like this.” His voice was still laced with sleep, but his fingers had begun a slow, lazy exploration—smoothing up the dip of your waist, brushing under your borrowed shirt like he needed to memorize the shape of you.

“You’re such a sap,” you whispered, eyes fluttering open as you turned to face him.

His gaze was heavy-lidded but reverent, eyes drinking you in like you were made of sunlight and poetry. “Only for you,” he murmured. “Just you.”

He rolled you gently on top of him, hands finding your hips like magnets to a compass. You straddled him, laughing softly as you leaned down to kiss him, your lips meeting his in a sleepy, slow-motion kiss that felt like home.

“Look at you,” he whispered against your mouth, thumbing your cheek. “So damn pretty. It actually hurts sometimes, you know? Loving you like this.”

You blinked, stunned by the ache in his voice—the honesty. “Joon…”

He chuckled, eyes sparkling with something deeper than lust. “Don’t look at me like that or I’m gonna get all emotional before I get hard.”

You giggled, but the sound was breathy, broken by the way he cupped the back of your neck and kissed you again—deeper now. Full of want. Full of something raw and tender.

His hands slid up under your shirt again, this time with more intent, thumbs brushing over your ribs, then higher—palms warm as they cupped your breasts. You arched into his touch, and he groaned softly, sitting up so your chests pressed together.

“I love the way you react to me,” he whispered. “Like your body knows mine.”

“It does,” you whispered back. “It’s yours.”

His breath caught, and he kissed you hard then, like he couldn’t bear another second of distance. You moaned into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair as he gently laid you down again, his weight settling between your thighs.

He paused only to roll on a condom, eyes never leaving yours. “Wanna take it slow today, baby?”

You nodded, pulling him down by the nape of his neck. “I want to feel all of you.”

The stretch was slow, delicious, a sigh leaving your lips as he sank into you inch by inch. He groaned softly, burying his face in your neck, lips brushing your collarbone as he began to move—gentle, unhurried, every thrust like a promise whispered into your skin.

“You feel like heaven,” he breathed. “Like you were made for me.”

You held him tighter, legs wrapped around his waist, eyes burning with unshed emotion. “Don’t ever leave me,” you whispered.

His rhythm faltered for a second, then deepened, the emotion too heavy to hide anymore.

“Never,” he said. “Not unless you ask me to. And even then... I’d still find my way back.”

The tears came softly, but so did the pleasure—building slow and full, like waves lapping at the shore. When you came, it wasn’t just physical. It was emotional. It was the kind of release that made you tremble, made you whisper his name like a prayer you didn’t know you believed in until now.

Namjoon followed with a soft, broken groan, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours. His eyes fluttered shut, and he kissed you through it—lips moving lazily, lovingly, like he couldn’t stop saying I’m here. I’m yours.

After, you stayed tangled up in each other, sheets twisted, breaths slowing in tandem.

He reached over and brushed a piece of hair from your cheek, eyes soft and vulnerable. “You wreck me, you know that?”

You smiled sleepily. “You started it.”

He laughed quietly, the sound warm against your skin. Then he peppered your face with kisses—nose, cheeks, chin—until you giggled and covered your face.

“Stop it,” you whined, hiding in his chest. “You’re gonna make me blush.”

“Good,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “I like you pink and flustered. Means I’m doing my job.”

You poked his side. “You’re impossible.”

He tucked you closer, nuzzling your hair. “Maybe. But now you’re stuck with me, baby.”

And honestly?

That didn’t sound so bad.

The sun filtered in through the curtains, a soft golden light settling over Namjoon’s room like a blessing. You were humming absently, lost in the rhythm of tidying up. His scent clung to everything—musky cologne, warm cedarwood, laundry detergent—and it wrapped around you like a second skin.

You opened one of his drawers and paused. It was overstuffed, nearly jammed shut. You tugged it open carefully… and your breath caught.

Notebooks. Crumpled napkins. A coffee-stained receipt. Random scraps of paper, all filled with his familiar, messy handwriting—chaotic scrawls that bled emotion.

And every word… was about you.

Your fingers trembled as you flipped through them—

Lines of longing, of admiration, of sleepless nights wondering if you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you.

Some were dark, aching. Others felt like sunrises, soft and full of hope.

You read a verse describing the way you looked that first night—mascara smudged, wild and radiant—and another about how your laugh made him believe in existence of innocence and love.

Tears stung your eyes. You pressed the papers to your chest, breath shaking, overwhelmed. This man… he had loved you before he ever touched you. Before you ever said yes.

You didn’t hear him come in until his voice cut through the silence—panicked, tender.

“Baby? Oh no, what’s wrong?”

You looked up through tears just as Namjoon dropped the grocery bags with a thud and rushed to you, hands instantly cupping your face, his brows drawn tight with worry. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, catching a tear.

“Did something happen?” he whispered, eyes scanning you like he was bracing for the worst.

But you only cried loud, ugly, breathless, tearful, radiant. You launched into his arms, pressing your lips to his, the lyrics crushed between your bodies like fragile wings.

“You wrote me love songs,” you murmured against his mouth, voice thick. “God, Namjoon… they’re beautiful. You loved me even when I didn’t know how to love myself.”

His breath stuttered, and a shy, almost boyish smile spread across his face. He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks flushed.

“Yeah, well… words were the only way I could breathe when you weren’t mine yet,” he said quietly, “You’ve always been in every beat I hear.”

You melted into his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapping around you like he was anchoring himself to something real. You traced your fingers over his chest, still sniffling, still smiling through tears.

“You’re such a softie,” you teased gently, voice wobbly with emotion.

He grinned, and flipped you onto the mattress without warning.

“Take that back, I have got bad boy reputation at University.” He demanded.

“No!!” You stucked your tongue out and teased back.

“Say that again and I’ll tickle you until you cry for mercy,” he growled playfully, fingers dancing over your sides. You squealed and squirmed beneath him, laughter erupting, warm and loud and healing.

“Stop! Stop!” you giggled, breathless. “Okay, okay—you’re the tough biker, I’m the softie!”

He leaned down, panting with laughter, and kissed your cheeks, your jaw, your lips like they were a promise.

“Damn right, I'm softie.” he murmured against your mouth. “But only you get to see this version of me. Only you get the songs, the softness. The forever.”

That night, he told you what he did weeks ago—how he filed that complaint, made sure your uncle and aunt wouldn’t ever touch your life again.

You stared at him, lips parted, stunned. “You did that for me?”

He just smirked, brushing your hair back. “You thought I’d let anyone mess with my girl? Not a fucking chance.”

Later, you lay curled into his chest, moonlight pouring through the window like liquid silver. His fingertips traced lazy hearts onto your back, and the silence between you was thick with comfort, heavy with love.

You tilted your head up, your voice a soft breath in the quiet.

“You saved me.”

He looked down, and something broke beautifully in his gaze. He kissed your forehead���slow, reverent.

“Nah, sweetheart,” he whispered, “You saved me first. The night you ran into my life like a fucking hurricane in white torn bridal dress.” His voice broke a little. “You made me want more. Made me believe in something real.”

He held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“You’re my home,” he said, low and certain. “My beginning and my end.”

You smiled into his chest, lips brushing the skin over his heart.

“And you’re mine.”

A/n: He a pro ridah... uhuu... huhu... 😈

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @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

[kittenan2]

I think I'm obsessed with Doc Jin 😩

The Naughty Appointment

Pairing: Gynac Doctor!Kim Seokjin x Reader Genre: Smut, Fluff, Established Relationship, Roleplay Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) Warnings: Explicit sexual content, roleplay, dirty talk, spanking mentions, fingering, teasing, pregnancy reveal, unprotected sex, emotional moments, soft dom!Jin, praise kink, body worship, pregnancy kink, lots of fluff and love. Word Count: ~5k

The clinic was silent, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the occasional rustle of papers on Jin’s desk. The clock on the wall ticked past 8 PM, well beyond regular hours.

The door clicked shut behind you. You twisted the lock with a deliberate flick, your pulse thrumming loud in your ears. The soft hum of the air conditioning couldn’t cool the heat between your legs. Every step toward the exam table felt like a promise—one you intended for Jin to keep.

You wore nothing but a skin-tight black dress and heels—no bra, no panties. Your pussy already slick from anticipation, the fabric clung to every curve like a second skin. You knew what you were doing. And so did he.

Dr. Kim stood by the desk, his white coat crisp, black shirt buttoned tight across his chest, sleeves rolled just enough to show off his veined forearms.

His gloved hands flexed at his sides, and his glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose as he stared at you like you were a problem only he could fix.

You stopped in front of the exam table and leaned back against it, pushing your tits forward as you crossed your arms.

“Doctor Kim…” you purred, voice syrupy and soaked in sin.

“I’ve been aching all day. Between my thighs. So swollen. So wet. Can you help me?”

His jaw twitched. “Strip,” he ordered, voice sharp, eyes flashing like a warning.

“That’s very serious, Miss Y/N. Please remove your clothing and lie down for a full pelvic exam. I need complete access to treat you properly.”

You peeled the dress over your head slowly, skin goose bumping in the cold air as your bare breast bounced free. The paper crinkled under you as you climbed onto the table and slid your feet into the stirrups, legs wide and dripping.

His gaze dropped straight between your legs, a low hum escaping his throat. “No panties,” he murmured, voice dark with approval. “You came for checkup like this?”

You giggled, lifting your hips just slightly, giving him a perfect view. “I wanted easy access. You always say patients should cooperate, right?”

He stepped between your thighs, gloved hands sliding up your legs until he gripped your inner thighs hard enough to bruise. He spread you wide open, pussy glistening in the fluorescent light, folds puffy and needy.

“Soaked already,” he muttered, dragging a single latex-covered finger through your slit.

You moaned as his finger circled your clit, slow and light, just enough to tease. “Is it… bad, Doctor?” you whispered, breath hitching.

“It’s severe, Miss Y/N,” he growled, leaning in closer. “Your pussy is pulsing like it’s starving. This much wetness? It’s leaking down the exam table. What a filthy mess.”

You whimpered, thighs twitching as he rubbed lazy circles around your clit. “Is it… contagious?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, dead serious. “I think I’ve caught it. My cock’s been aching ever since you walked in.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as he slipped one thick finger inside you, then another. He fucked them in slow and deep, curling them until your hips jerked. “Tight,” he gritted.

“I’ll do a thorough inspection,” he said, his voice low and controlled, but there was a growl beneath it.

“If I don’t treat this immediately, your pussy might never stop throbbing.”

“Maybe it’s just hungry for you, Doctor,” you whispered, biting your lip. “My husband hasn’t touched me in weeks. I needed a real man to fill me.”

His fingers stopped mid-thrust.

His other hand shot up and smacked your pussy—wet, loud, and deliciously filthy.

You gasped, back arching off the table.

“Don’t you ever mention another man when my fingers are stuffed inside you,” he snarled.

You were panting, head spinning, clit throbbing. “N-no, Doctor. I’m sorry…”

He leaned in closer, face inches from your pussy now, watching your folds twitch around his fingers.

You moaned loudly, your back arching as he curled his fingers inside you, hitting that spot that made your vision blur.

“Please, Doctor. Please fix me. I—I’ll beg if you want, I’ll suck you off right after, just please—”

He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear.

“Oh, I’ll fix you, alright. But bad girls like you don’t get what they want so easily.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles as his fingers pumped inside you, the slick sounds filling the room. “You’re gonna have to beg harder than that.”

You whimpered, your hands gripping the edges of the table as your hips bucked against his hand. “Please, Doctor… I’ll be good, I swear… just don’t stop.”

He chuckled darkly, his free hand sliding up to cup your breast, pinching your nipple. “Good girls don’t show up to my clinic without panties, dripping wet and begging to be fucked.”

The dirty talk sent you spiraling, your body trembling as he worked you closer to the edge. His fingers were relentless, his thumb circling faster now, and you could feel the coil in your belly tightening, ready to snap. “Jin—Doctor, I’m gonna—”

But then, suddenly, he stopped.

His fingers stilled inside you, his thumb lifting off your clit. Your eyes snapped open, a frustrated whine escaping your lips as you looked at him, panting. “Why’d you stop?”

Jin’s brow creased—not in mischief this time, but with a subtle tension that made your stomach twist.

You barely had time to process before he slowly pulled his fingers from you, his touch leaving a cold, aching absence behind. You whimpered, hips shifting instinctively, needing more.

But something was wrong.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he peeled off his gloves with a practiced snap and tossed them into the bin. Then, wordlessly, he reached for your wrist and pressed two fingers against your pulse point, his eyes scanning your face, jaw tight.

“Jin?” you asked, confused. “What… what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He was counting—lips pressed into a thin line, eyes clouded not with lust but concern. His other hand gently rested over your lower belly, just above your pubic bone.

There was no heat in his touch now.

Only focus.

Precision. Something… clinical.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and steady, devoid of the teasing edge from moments ago.

“How have you been feeling lately? Any changes? Fatigue, mood swings, weird cravings, anything unusual?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift, still hazy from the interrupted pleasure. A giggle slipped out, thinking he was leaning into the roleplay with a new, kinky twist.

“Oh, Doctor, that’s a new way to make it spicy. Okay, I’ll play along—keep going, you’re killing it.”

“Y/n,” he cut in, voice low. Steady. But… shaken.

The way he said your name—without any playfulness, no smirk, no filthy tease—made your blood run cold.

He met your eyes, and there was something in his gaze that made your breath catch. “Babe, Just answer me, okay?”

You pouted, squirming on the table, still caught in the heat of the moment.

“Jin, don’t break character! I’m needy right now, come on, stay with me here.”

“Y/N!” His voice sharpened, not harsh but firm enough to snap you out of your playful haze.

He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Listen to me first. This isn’t part of the game.”

The seriousness in his tone finally hit you, and your playful grin faltered.

You sat up slightly, the paper crinkling beneath you, your heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. “Okay, okay, what’s going on? Why are you being all… doctor-y?”

Jin exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly as he sat on the edge of the exam table, his hand still resting on your wrist.

“I’m serious, Y/N. Your cervix feels different—softened, higher. Your pulse is elevated, and your discharge… it’s consistent with early pregnancy. When was your last period?”

The world seemed to freeze. Your playful demeanor shattered, replaced by a rush of confusion and disbelief.

“I-I thought it was stress…” you stammered, your voice small.

“My period’s about a week late, but I didn’t think much of it. It happens sometimes, you know? I haven’t felt anything weird—no nausea, no tiredness, nothing.”

Jin’s expression softened, but the seriousness remained.

He moved his hand to your lower abdomen, his touch clinical but gentle. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with guilt.

“I’ve been so caught up with work these past two weeks—surgeries, seminars, endless reports. I haven’t been checking in on you like I should. I should’ve noticed something was off.”

You shook your head quickly, reaching for his hand.

“Jin, no, don’t do that. I didn’t notice anything either. I feel fine. I just thought… maybe I was stressed from work too, or maybe I was just horny because we haven’t had time for each other.”

You gave a weak laugh, trying to lighten the moment, but it came out shaky.

He exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly as he squeezed your hand.

“I know your body, Y/N. I’m your husband, but I’m also a gynecologist. The signs are there—your cervix, your pulse, the texture of your discharge. I’m almost certain you’re pregnant.”

His voice softened further, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But we’ll confirm it, okay? I need you to trust me on this.”

Your breath hitched, the reality sinking in. This wasn’t part of the game. This was real.

Your husband—your Jin—was telling you that you were carrying his child. The roleplay dissolved, leaving only the two of you in the quiet clinic, the weight of the moment pressing down on you both.

Jin moved with purpose, his doctor mode fully engaged despite the emotional storm brewing in his eyes.

He wheeled over the ultrasound machine, his movements precise but gentle, as if handling something sacred.

“Let’s be sure, okay?” he said, his voice trembling slightly, betraying the emotions he was trying to keep in check.

“I need to see it… for both of us.”

You nodded, your throat tight with unshed tears as you lay back on the table. The stirrups felt different now—less like a prop in your spicy game and more like a tether to this life-altering moment.

Jin squeezed your hand, his eyes locking with yours, and you saw the love, the fear, the hope all swirling in his gaze.

“I’m right here, babe,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

“Always.”

The cold gel hit your lower abdomen, making you flinch, but Jin’s hand was warm against yours, grounding you.

The screen flickered to life, and you held your breath, your eyes glued to the grainy image. Jin adjusted the wand, his brow furrowed in concentration, his lips moving silently as he searched.

And then—there it was.

A tiny blob, barely visible but unmistakably there, pulsing faintly with the promise of life.

“There,” Jin said, his voice breaking as a tear slipped down his cheek.

“That’s our baby. Five weeks.” He paused, swallowing hard, his hand trembling slightly as he pointed at the screen.

“That’s… our little one.”

You gasped, tears spilling over as you stared at the screen, your heart swelling with a mix of awe and disbelief.

Jin’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing away your tears as they fell. “Four years married,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “and I didn’t even notice my wife was glowing more than usual… God, Y/N, you’re carrying our baby.”

You laugh-cried, the sound raw and shaky, your chest heaving as the reality hit you.

“W-We hadn’t planned this… Jin… Are we ready?”

Your voice broke, and you reached for him, needing to feel him closer.

He leaned down, pressing a trembling kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as a tear dripped onto your skin.

“I didn’t plan to ever marry either,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “And yet you became the love of my life. This… this is just the next miracle.”

His hand cupped your cheek, his eyes searching yours, and you saw the depth of his love, the overwhelming joy and fear of this unexpected gift.

“I was about to rail you into oblivion, not knowing… fuck, I was this close to being rough with you.”

You shook your head, your tears falling faster now.

You placed your hand over his on your stomach, your fingers intertwining. “I’m scared, but… I’m so happy.”

He choked out a laugh, his own tears falling freely now as he kissed you, soft and desperate, pouring every ounce of his love into it. “Me too, baby. Me too.”

Jin wrapped your dress around you and carried you through the back door of the clinic attached to your apartment, his arms strong yet trembling.

His breath fanned across your forehead as he pressed a kiss there—quick, reverent—while the soft click of the apartment door closing behind you sealed off the chaos of the world outside.

This was home. Yours. His. Now someone else's too.

The living room greeted you with the grand wedding photo hanging above the fireplace. In the photo, Jin’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his smile radiant as you laughed in your white gown, petals scattered in your hair from the vibrant spring ceremony.

The frame was slightly tilted—Jin’s doing, because he swore it “looked artsy that way”—and it made you smile even now.

The apartment smelled faintly of lavender from the candle you’d lit earlier.

A small vase of wildflowers sat on the dining table, a gift from Jin last week when he’d apologized for another late night at the clinic.

Every corner of this space held memories of your marriage—the good, the chaotic, the beautiful. The shelf by the window displayed a tiny ceramic showpiece of a couple holding hands.

A cheesy anniversary gift you’d both laughed over but secretly cherished.

This was your home, your life together, and now, it was about to grow.

Jin laid you gently on the bed.

“We haven’t had time for anything in two weeks,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with frustration. “Meetings, surgeries, reports… and I missed you so much, baby.”

You pouted, sitting up on your elbows, your eyes tracing the familiar lines of his face. “That’s why when I saw you had no patients and I got off work early, I came and teased you… I didn’t expect to leave with a whole baby reveal though.”

Jin laughed, the sound warm and rich, filling the room with a lightness that eased the weight of the moment.

He tore open the buttons of his black shirt, revealing the smooth planes of his chest, and your breath caught at the sight of him—your husband, your partner, the man who’d just turned your world upside down in the best way.

“You gave me the best surprise of my life,” he said, his eyes softening as he climbed onto the bed beside you. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“I’m already picturing them, you know. Tiny hands, chubby cheeks. That ugly vase your aunt gave us getting smashed when they start running around.”

You giggled, swatting his arm. “Don’t diss the vase. It’s… antic.”

“It’s weird,” he teased, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched. “But I love this life we’ve built. And now… we’re adding to it.”

“I missed you,” you whispered. “I missed us.”

He nodded, voice hoarse. “Then let’s find us again. Not just as lovers. Not just as husband and wife. But as the mom and dad we’re about to become.”

He kissed you then, slow and reverent, no rush, no hunger—just love. A promise in every brush of lips.

A vow to stay.

A vow to grow.

A vow to be better husband. Better father.

The atmosphere shifted like sugar dissolving in warm tea—slow, sweet, and impossible to ignore.

You glanced up at him, your voice dipping into a curious whisper. “Umm… dumb question but… can sex hurt the baby?”

Jin raised a brow, crawling onto the bed with that lazy confidence that made your toes curl. He leaned down and pressed the softest kiss to your belly, his lips lingering like a vow.

“No, sweetheart. Baby’s snug in there. It’s got its own bubble. Daddy’s not poking anything. Don't worry”

Your cheeks flushed, but the brat in you emerged in a cheeky pout. “You sure? Because daddy’s… really big,” you said, your voice dropping into a sultry tease.

Jin's eyes flickered with heat, and he let out a low chuckle that vibrated in your bones. “Wanna test the theory, princess?”

He leaned closer, his voice a soft purr against your lips.

“And if you cry out too loud, we’re soundproofing this whole damn apartment. Don't want our kids to listen something unholy in future.”

His hands slipped under the hem of your dress, slow and deliberate, like he was unwrapping a priceless gift.

“Let’s get this off,” he muttered, lips brushing your skin with every inch revealed. “Can’t have my baby’s mommy hiding all this from me.”

You giggled, arching your back as he slid the fabric over your hips. “Didn’t you say we were too busy for this?”

“We were,” he replied, kissing just beneath your breast. “But now I’ve got you. And I’m not letting you leave this bed for the next three hours. Minimum.”

You gasped as he tossed his shirt off with one hand, the other cupping your cheek, his thumb sweeping across your lips. “Look at you,” he whispered, eyes roving over you like he was trying to memorize every curve.

“Glowing. Carrying our little bean. Fucking perfect.”

“You’re such a simp,” you whispered, but your smile was all warmth.

“For you? Always.”

He knelt between your thighs, hands gripping your hips with reverence and a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Spread those legs for me,” he murmured, voice thick with adoration. “Let me see how wet you are just from my words.”

You obeyed with a shy whimper, and he groaned at the sight of you—slick, swollen, already throbbing for him. “Damn,” he muttered, dipping his fingers into you, slow and languid. “This pussy loves me so much.”

You let out a breathy moan as his thumb brushed your clit. “Jin…”

“Hmm?” he smirked, mouth now kissing along your inner thigh. “You were saying something about testing theory?” You teased.

He licked a bold stripe up your core and grinned against you as your thighs trembled. “Let’s find out what you can take, yeah?”

His tongue moved with sinfully slow circles, teasing, flicking, sucking you into dizzy warmth while his fingers moved inside you with expert precision.

Every kiss was soft, every moan he drew from you was savored like a fine wine. He looked up at you with a messy, worshiping smile, chin glistening. “My favorite meal,” he whispered. “And it’s low-carb.”

You laughed through your moan. “You’re so dumb.”

“Yeah?” he said, kissing your clit again. “Still gonna make you cum so hard you forget your name.”

When he finally slid up your body, you grabbed his face and kissed him—hungry and unfiltered, tasting yourself on his lips.

“Need you,” you breathed.

“You got me, baby,” he said softly, lining himself up. “Every inch of me. Always.”

He pushed in slowly, teasing you with just the tip first before sinking all the way, inch by inch, watching your eyes flutter shut as your body stretched to welcome him.

“Oh god,” you gasped, nails biting into his biceps. “Still feels so full…”

“That’s because this pussy’s mine,” he groaned, rocking his hips in slow, indulgent thrusts. “Every time I’m inside you, it fits like it was made for me.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, hips tilting up to meet his. “You talk so much,” you teased breathlessly.

“And you love it,” he grinned, nipping your lower lip. “Love it when I fill you up, yeah?”

Your moan was the only answer he needed.

His movements were slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world just to love you. One hand caressed your belly, the other cupping your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple.

“Can’t wait to see you with rounded belly and breast swollen with milk,” he whispered.

“You’re already so beautiful… imagine when you’re feeding our baby.”

“Jin…” your voice cracked, overwhelmed by emotion, the way his body held yours, the way he looked at you like you were sacred.

He kissed the tear slipping down your cheek, his rhythm never faltering.

“My perfect wife. My baby’s Eomma. You’re doing so well.”

“I’m close,” you gasped, hips rolling to meet his. “Please don’t stop…”

“Never,” he whispered.

“Cum for me, baby. Let go. I’m right here.”

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave—warm, wet, breathtaking.

Your cry echoed in the room as your body trembled around him, and Jin followed with a groan of your name, burying himself deep as he came, his own release drawn out by how tightly your body gripped him.

He collapsed gently onto you, kissing your neck, your jaw, your lips. “I love you,” he breathed against your skin. “So damn much.”

You threaded your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. “Even when I randomly pop up in your clinic and tease you?”

“Especially then,” he whispered, pulling the blanket over you both. “You’re the best thing that have ever happened to me. You and that little peanut in there.”

You giggled sleepily, snuggling into his chest.

He kissed the crown of your head.

You lay curled against Jin’s chest, your cheek rising and falling with every steady beat of his heart.

It was quiet now—no more moans, no whispered promises of pleasure—just the soft, rhythmic hush of your breaths mingling, and the distant hum of the city beyond the windows.

A private little world, carved out between two souls.

His fingers threaded gently through your hair, slow and loving. His other hand rested over your belly, warm and tender, thumb drawing slow circles on the spot where life had quietly begun.

Then, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple… then your cheek… and finally, your barely-there bump.

“Hi, little bean,” he murmured, his voice so soft it could’ve floated. “It’s daddy. I didn’t know you were hiding in there… but I promise I’ll never miss another thing again.”

He gave your belly another kiss. “Mommy’s sneaky, huh? She kept you all to herself.”

You let out a watery laugh, blinking fast against the burn behind your eyes. “Jin… you’re making me cry again…”

He smiled gently and tilted your face toward him, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Then cry, baby. Cry in my arms. That’s exactly what they’re made for.”

He kissed you—soft, grounding, like a whisper of forever—and you melted into him, your tears quietly soaking into his skin.

Jin’s voice turned dreamy as he started listing names. “If it’s a girl… Haneul? Or Areum? Something soft but beautiful, like you.”

You hummed, snuggling closer. “What if it’s a boy? Seojin sounds nice… soft but strong.”

He chuckled. “What if they have your pout?”

“Then I’m doomed,” he said, his voice warm with affection. “I’ll say yes to everything and let them eat ice cream for breakfast.”

You laughed, poking his chest. “We’ll gang up on you. Me and baby, both bossing you around.”

Jin grinned, his eyes sparkling. “Can’t wait. Being bossed around by my favorite people? Heaven.”

He started planning out loud, his voice soft but determined.

“I’ll meal-prep soft rice and ginger for morning nausea. Keep your favorite ice cream stocked, even if you suddenly hate it overnight.”

You grinned, warmth spreading through you. “You already treat me like Queen.”

He kissed your shoulder, his lips lingering.

“Then they’ll learn from the best.”

His thoughts drifted, his voice growing softer. “If they wake up crying at 3 AM, I’ll handle it. You’ll be too tired. You grew them—I’ll do the rest.”

You whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re gonna be such a best dad, Jin.”

He looked at you, his eyes glassy with love. “Because I have you. My home. My heart. My whole damn world… carrying the other half of my soul.”

Silence fell, warm and comforting, as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, his heartbeat your lullaby.

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @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 . @bebabido

[kittenan2]

Until We Meet Again - PT. 2

[PART 2: I Found You Again, In This Lifetime]

Pairing: J-Hope(Dancer)!Hoseok x Interviewer!Reader Genre: Soulmate AU, Reincarnation, Fluff, Angst, Smut, Romantic, Healing Warnings: 18+ explicit content, mentions of terminal illness (past life), emotional trauma, intense yearning, unprotected sex, body worship, oral (m / f receiving), soft dom!J-Hope, aftercare, heavy angst with hopeful ending Word Count: ~4k

The dreams began when you were sixteen—soft at first, like whispers from a forgotten past.

Rain-soaked rooftops. A boy’s warm hands cradling your cheeks. Kisses stolen behind classroom doors. A voice—low, trembling with devotion—whispering, “You’re my home.”

You’d jolt awake, drenched in tears, your heart racing with grief so deep it made your bones ache. You didn’t know who he was, this boy with the kind eyes and heart smile—but his name, Hoseok, echoed inside you like it had always been yours to say.

You screamed it sometimes into the dark, your voice cracking with desperation. But only silence answered, cruel and empty, as your small apartment swallowed your cries.

The dreams didn’t feel like dreams. They were memories.

His face. His laugh. The way he held you like he was terrified you’d vanish. So vivid—so real—you’d wake up clutching your pillow, breathless, yearning for something... someone… who didn’t exist in this lifetime.

Until one day, he did.

You were seventeen, half-asleep on your couch, the TV playing in the background.

A dance show flickered across the screen—boys dancing under flashing lights—but then your whole world stopped. One of them smiled. That smile. That blinding, radiant smile you knew better than your own reflection. The host’s voice echoed:

“J-Hope of Neuron Dance Club.”

You sat up so fast the remote hit the floor. Your heart slammed against your ribs. There he was. Hoseok. Your Hoseok. Alive, laughing, dazzling in the spotlight. A universe away.

Tears blurred your vision as you whispered his name, stunned by the weight of knowing.

He was real—but untouchable.

A man on screen, while you were just a girl with a haunted soul and a broken heart for someone who didn’t even know you yet.

That night, you filled pages in your journal—his name scrawled again and again, his face sketched from memory and from the screen.

Sharp jawline. Crinkled eyes.

Lips you remembered kissing in another life.

You traced them with your fingertip like it could bring him back to you.

The dreams kept coming, sharper, heavier. Puzzle pieces of a life once lived. You tried to move on, tried dating—boys who were kind, boys who tried—but no one felt right. No hand ever made you feel home.

Because your soul already belonged to someone else.

Then came twenty.

It was a late night in your tiny apartment, midterms closing in. Exhausted, you passed out over your notes. And the dream that found you wasn’t soft.

It hit you like a storm—full, brutal, real. His laughter. His touch. The rain. The stolen kisses. Your shared promises whispered in the dark.

And then… the end.

Your body in his arms. His voice breaking as he begged you not to go.

“Please, don’t leave me.” “I’ll love you forever.” “I’ll love you in every life. Every damn version of me.”

The sound of his sobs echoing in your fading heartbeat.

You woke up screaming. “Hoseok!”

The name ripped from your throat as tears poured, soaking your notes. Your chest heaved with the weight of a thousand lifetimes. You remembered everything.

Loving him.

Dying in his arms. Leaving him behind.

And now… he was back. But didn’t know you.

You stumble to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face. The mirror reflects puffy eyes and trembling lips.

You gripped the sink, whispering, “Get it together. He’s not yours. Not here.”

But the ache in your chest didn’t listen. It’s been years of this—dreams so vivid they felt like wounds, his face so clear you could trace the pores on his cheeks.

You crawled back to bed, pulling the covers over your head, and prayed for a dreamless sleep. But deep down, you knew you’ll see him again. You always did.

Across the city, Jhope—now idol, dancer, hope of millions—was breaking, too.

The dreams haunted him.

A girl with laughter like sunshine. Hands that felt like home. Her body soft in his arms as rain kissed her skin. Her kisses, her giggles, her quiet “I love you” whispered against his lips.

But her face… her name… always just out of reach. Always lost.

He’d wake gasping, heart in his throat.

Sometimes sobbing.

Once, he woke screaming, shaking, his hand still clutched over his heart.

Yoongi, his flatmate appeared in the doorway, concern laced in his sleepy voice. “Hobi, you okay?”

Namjoon, another flatmate followed, brows furrowed.

“I… dreamed of her again,” Hoseok whispered, voice wrecked.

“She was dying. I couldn’t save her.” His whole body trembled.

Yoongi sat beside him, hand grounding him. “It was just a dream.”

“No,” Hoseok shook his head. “It wasn’t. It felt like I… lost her. Someone real. Someone I loved.”

Namjoon exchanged a glance with Yoongi, worried.

“You’ve been having these dreams for years now. Maybe it’s stress. You should take some break from your hectic schedule.”

“No,” Hoseok murmured, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers. “I feel, she’s real. Somewhere out there. I just… I don’t know how to find her.”

He didn’t know the truth.

But you did.

And it was killing you.

You buried yourself in your studies. Top of your class.

Internships. Job interviews. Rejections. Finally—Pulse Media.

Your first real job. A foot in the door of the fast-paced media world. You fetched coffee, took notes, learned to survive in rooms full of mics and cameras.

But you couldn’t outrun him. Not really.

You still saw him in your dreams. Still drew him on napkins, sketchpads, the corners of press briefs—his smile, the tilt of his jaw, the heart-shaped curve of his lips.

You tried telling yourself to let it go. That maybe it was just a dream. Maybe it meant nothing to him now.

But your soul whispered otherwise.

And every time you saw him smile on TV, or caught his laugh in an interview, that ache came back.

Because deep inside, you knew:

You had loved him once. You had lost him.

And now you had found him again. But this time… he didn’t remember you.

Your first big break came out of chaos. It was a hectic Tuesday at Pulse Media, the office buzzing with deadlines.

The senior host for a high-profile celebrity interview had been in a minor car accident—nothing serious, but she was out. Your boss, Soo-jin, cornered you at the coffee machine, clipboard in hand.

“Y/N,” she said briskly, not even looking up. “The senior anchor just got into a minor accident. She’s out for the day. You’re up for the 3 PM celebrity segment.”

Your stomach dropped. “Me? I’ve never—”

She barely heard you. “Everyone else is booked.”

“You’ve shadowed enough. You’re quick, you know the script. It’s a big name, but you’ll manage. Yes or no?”

A chance like this could make or break your career.

“Yes,” you said, heart racing.

“Good.” She shoved the file into your chest and added like an afterthought, “It’s J-Hope. Don’t mess it up.”

The name hit like a thunderbolt. J-Hope. Hoseok.

Your hands trembled as you flipped open the file. There he was—smiling up at you from a glossy photo, radiant and ethereal.

Those familiar eyes. That heart shaped smile. The face you’d dreamed of, ached for, cried for.

You barely breathed as you threw yourself into prep mode. You recited questions until your lips went dry. You practiced neutral expressions in the bathroom mirror.

But your heart betrayed you, beating louder and louder with every tick of the clock.

And then— He walked in.

The world seemed to stop.

He was... dazzling.

You stood, clipboard clutched to your chest, as the crew buzzed around. His eyes scanned the set, then landed on you.

He froze, just for a second, smile faltering.

You felt it—a jolt, a thread snapping into place. Your clipboard slipped, papers scattering.

“Shit,” you whispered, dropping to your knees.

Before you could reach for the first page, he was there beside you.

“Let me help,” he said gently.

His fingers brushed yours as he handed you a page.

A spark. A shock. A breathless silence.

You looked up.

And for a moment, you both just stared.

Searching. Remembering. Wanting.

“I—Thank you,” you stammered, forcing yourself to stand and smooth your skirt. “I’m Y/N. I’ll be your host today.”

“J-Hope,” he said, shaking your hand. His grip was warm, lingering. Too long. “Nice to meet you… Y/N.”

The way he said your name felt like a question.

The cameras rolled. You asked the questions you’d practiced a hundred times. He answered smoothly, charmingly, giving the fans what they wanted.

But his eyes… his eyes kept drifting back to you.

Like he couldn’t help it.

Like you were gravity.

And every time he looked, it unraveled you a little more.

When they paused filming for a commercial break, he leaned closer. His voice was low, intimate. Meant for your ears alone.

“Have we met before?” His eyes flicked across your face, almost shyly. “You just seem… familiar.”

Your throat went dry. “M-Maybe…” you whispered.

He tilted his head, a quiet laugh under his breath.

“Because I’ve seen you,” he said softly. “In dreams. Dancing barefoot on a rooftop. Kissing me behind a bookshelf… You even—”

He cut himself off, eyes wide like he’d said too much.

You blinked, your heart crumbling. The tears welled without warning.

You wanted to tell him everything, but the crew was back. He pulled back, apologizing.

“Sorry if that was weird. I… don’t know why I said that. I didn't want to make uncomfortable.”

You shook your head, throat tight. “It’s okay,” you whispered.

As he walked away for makeup touch-up, you sank into your chair, trembling. “I’ve waited for you,” you murmured, too quiet for anyone to hear.

You thought that was it. A fleeting moment, a brush with fate—he’d go back to his dazzling world, and you’d return to yours, carrying nothing but aching dreams and half-buried memories.

But Hoseok didn’t disappear.

Because this Hoseok—Jung Hoseok, J-Hope—he wasn’t the Hoseok from your past life. He wasn’t fading. He wasn’t vanishing.

This was a man reborn from the butterfly effect you had created—when you let him go so long ago, when you rewrote his mother’s story with your pain.

He was real now. Solid. Whole.

His life had been rewritten into permanence, stitched with laughter, love, friends, loving family.

But fate isn’t kind. Because the version of him that loved you deeply—fully, once upon a time—didn’t remember you now.

Not really.

Only in fragments. In dreams.

Still, he couldn’t stay away.

A week after the interview, he showed up at your office, unannounced, carrying coffee for your team. The room buzzed with excitement, but his eyes? They only searched for yours.

He found you in the corner, hidden behind your laptop. He walked straight up to you and handed you a latte, a delicate heart floating in the foam.

“You looked like you needed this,” he said, voice teasing, eyes too soft. Like he knew you.

You fumbled the cup slightly, cheeks warming. “Thanks,” you whispered, but he didn’t leave. He lingered—laughing with your coworkers, stealing glances at you like he couldn’t help himself.

And then it kept happening.

He showed up with signed merch for your juniors. Invited you to his charity event personally.

“Bumped into you” at cafés that were miles away from his schedule. He remembered your coffee order. Asked what song made you cry. What made you dream.

“I don’t know why,” he said one day, leaning on your desk, voice low like a secret, “but being around you feels like coming home. Like I’ve been looking for you… and didn’t know it.”

Your throat burned with unshed truth, but you couldn’t say it.

Because what if he didn’t believe you?

What if he laughed and walked away?

So you pulled back. Quietly, slowly.

Because he was he. And you were you. You both belonged to different worlds even when you existed in same timeline.

You stopped answering his texts. Dodged him at events. Lied about deadlines and headaches.

It wasn’t just fear. It was guilt. From a lifetime ago. When you had walked away first—to spare him the pain of watching you die.

And now it was happening again. The deja vu crushed you both. And he noticed it too.

And it broke him. Even if he didn’t know why.

One night, after another press event where you slipped out early, he chased after you—in the rain, like some twisted echo of a memory.

“Y/N, wait!”

You stopped under the flickering glow of a streetlight, soaked, shaking. He came running, his umbrella forgotten, rain slicking his hair to his forehead, eyes wild.

“Why are you doing this?” he cried, breathless.

“Why do you keep pulling away? Every time you leave, it feels like… like I’m losing something I can’t name. Like I’ve already lost you before, and I can’t go through it again.”

Your chest cracked wide open.

“Hoseok,” you whispered, barely breathing. “You did lose me… once. In another life. I remember it all.”

You choked on your own words.

“You were from the future… and I was dying. We were in love—madly, deeply. You tried to save your mother, and I let you go, so she could live. And I— I never got to tell you goodbye.”

He stood there frozen, rain carving lines down his face, lips parting in disbelief.

“I know it sounds impossible,” you sobbed, “but it was real. We were real.”

His eyes, wide and stunned, filled with tears. Then he whispered—broken, trembling, “I’ve seen you. In dreams. In shadows. Dancing in the rain… stealing kisses in empty classrooms… And I always wake up aching. Wondering why I feel like I’ve lost something I never had.”

He stepped closer, cupped your face with shaking hands, brushing your tears away with his thumbs.

“Then I must have loved you before I even knew what love was,” he said, voice wrecked. “Because I’ve felt you in every song, every step, every breath.”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You surged forward, and he caught you like a reflex.

You kissed him like you had a lifetime to make up for.

The rain didn’t matter. Your soaked clothes, the trembling sky—none of it mattered.

It was just his lips on yours, desperate and soft, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’d never let go again. Like time folded over itself just to bring you back here.

And in that kiss, you both remembered— not everything, but enough.

You had loved before. You would love again. And this time, you wouldn’t lose each other.

Not again. Not ever.

For months, you and Hoseok dated in secret, stealing moments between his hectic schedule and your work.

Late-night coffee runs, quiet walks in disguise, whispered phone calls where he’d tease you about your terrible cooking attempts or you’d mock his obsession with neon sneakers.

Each touch, each laugh, felt like piecing together fragments of your past life, but the world—his fame, your fear—kept you cautious, hidden.

Tonight, though, the tension had built too long, the longing too intense, and you found yourselves in his hotel penthouse, Seoul’s skyline glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows.

The second the door clicked shut, he had you in his arms, his mouth crashing into yours like a storm. His hands cradled your face like you were something fragile, something holy.

You tasted the salt of tears—his or yours, you didn’t know—between kisses that felt like goodbyes and homecomings all at once.

“You’re not a dream this time,” he breathed against your lips, voice trembling with something raw. “Right? Please don’t disappear.”

You shook your head, tears clinging to your lashes as you cupped his cheeks. “I’m real, Hobi. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You tried to smile and lighten the moment by saying, “Unless you keep talking like a cheesy drama lead.”

That grin—soft and radiant—crinkled his eyes. “Then shut me up.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was relearning you. Like he wanted to memorize your lips and taste and breath.

Rain still clung to your blouse, damp and cool, but his touch was warm, reverent, as he peeled it from your skin. His lips brushed the curve of your collarbone, his voice a murmur. “Still sensitive here, just like before.”

You gasped as he kissed behind your ear, the exact spot that always made you shiver. A memory flashed—stars above, his arms around you, a lifetime ago.

“You remember that?” you whispered, breath catching.

“I remember everything.” His voice broke as his hands ran along your sides. “Every sound you made. Every place you touched me. Every spot that makes you squirm.”

“You’re such a tease,” you huffed, but your voice was shaky, your body arching into his touch.

“And you love it,” he shot back, grinning as he slid your jeans down, his fingers brushing the inside of your thighs, making you tremble. “Look at you, already falling apart, and I’ve barely started.”

You grabbed the hem of Hoseok’s soaked black shirt and yanked, your fingers clumsy with lust. “My turn,” you breathed, grinning up at him like you were about to devour him.

He let out a low chuckle, raising his arms, obedient and smug, letting you peel it off slowly—so damn slowly you made him shiver.

And there he was—glorious in the dim hotel light. Golden skin damp with rain and sweat, abs glistening with every shallow breath he took. Your eyes trailed down his torso.

“God,” you whispered, palms splaying across his chest. His heart thudded fast beneath your touch—like it remembered every lifetime you'd ever loved him in. “You’re perfect.”

He grinned, but his voice came out low and rough. “Careful. Say that again and I might not let you leave this bed.”

“Good,” you whispered, pushing him backward until he collapsed onto the bed with a soft oof, eyes darkening as you climbed over him.

But before you could straddle him, he was already on the move—grabbing you by the waist, flipping you under him with practiced ease.

“Trying to take control?” he murmured, his face inches from yours. His breath was warm, lips ghosting over yours without kissing. “Cute. But not gonna work, baby.”

You barely had time to gasp before he kissed you—hard. Lips demanding, tongue licking into your mouth like he owned it.

And maybe he did.

Maybe he always had.

His hands roamed with greedy purpose—under your soaked bra, fingers brushing over your hard nipples. You arched with a whimper, the friction making you ache.

“Hoseok,” you moaned, your nails digging into his back.

He laughed softly, voice pure sin. “That’s it. Say my name like that again, baby. I’ll give you anything.”

With one hand, he unhooked your bra like muscle memory, slipping the straps off your arms with teasing slowness. Then he was kissing lower—dragging his lips down your throat, the curve of your shoulder, finally taking one nipple into his mouth.

“Fuck,” you gasped, his tongue swirling, then teeth grazing just enough to make your thighs clench.

“Knew you’d still be sensitive here,” he mumbled, flicking his tongue again.

You writhed under him. “Stop gloating.”

“You love when I do,” he smirked, kissing down your belly now, slow and hot, until he reached your lace panties. He hooked his fingers through them, but didn’t pull.

“Still a lace girl, huh?” His voice was teasing, but his eyes? His eyes were starving. “Some things never change.”

“Some things shouldn’t,” you whispered, breath caught in your throat.

He dragged the panties down achingly slow, kissing the inside of your thighs, teeth grazing your skin. “Let’s see if you still taste like heaven.”

You whined, shoving his shoulder weakly. “You’re awful.”

“And you’re delicious,” he shot back, before diving in.

His tongue flicked over your clit—once. Twice. Then he latched on, sucking with that devastating rhythm that had you crying out instantly.

Your hips jerked, his hands locking you in place as he moaned against your core.

“Still the sweetest fucking thing,” he muttered, tongue pressing deeper, nose brushing your folds. “Been dreaming of this since the moment I found you again.”

You clawed at the sheets, thighs trembling. “H-Hoseok—please, please.”

He slid two fingers inside you, curling them with precision, his mouth still working your clit. “So needy for me, baby. Look at you. So wet. Already clenching around me like you wanna pull me in and never let go.”

“Shut up... Hoseok... Don't tease me,” you gasped, but your voice broke with every stroke of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers. You came hard, back arching, body convulsing as he groaned against you, drinking in every bit of you like you were his last meal.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth glistened and his pupils were blown wide with lust. You pulled him up by the hair and kissed him—messy, desperate—tasting yourself on his tongue.

“My turn,” you whispered, flipping him onto his back.

“Ohhh shit,” he exhaled, staring at you like you were a goddess. “Think you can handle me, baby?”

You straddled him, rolling your hips over his obvious bulge, making him groan deep. “Think you can handle me?”

You tugged his pants down, freeing his cock—thick, veiny, already leaking. You ran your fingers along his length, teasing the head with your thumb.

“Still so sensitive here,” you mocked, echoing his earlier words. “Aww my poor baby.”

He groaned, eyes fluttering. “You’re evil.”

“And you like it,” you whispered, lining him up and sinking down.

He swore, loud and guttural, fingers digging into your thighs as he filled you. The stretch was perfect, so familiar your whole body sang with it.

“You feel like a fever dream,” he groaned, thrusting up into you. “Like a goddamn memory I never stopped craving.”

“Then don’t stop remembering,” you said, voice soft but ruined with pleasure, riding him slow at first. Grinding your hips, making him feel every inch inside you.

His hands traveled from your hips to your breasts, to your waist, to your ass—touching like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You leaned down, kissing him as you moved faster, moaning into his mouth.

“Touch me,” you whispered, and he obeyed, fingers circling your clit, messy and precise.

You came with a cry, trembling as you milked him, and he followed with a deep groan, emptying inside you, arms wrapping tight around your waist.

You collapsed on top of him, sweaty, trembling, full in every way.

“I’m not fading this time,” he whispered, lips at your temple.

“Don’t you dare,” you said, eyes wet. “You’re mine now. In this life.”

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, then reached for the room service tray beside the bed. You grabbed a strawberry, fed it to him with a smirk.

He nipped your fingers playfully. “You trying to start something again?”

“You started it,” you said, smearing juice on his nose.

His eyes gleamed. “Oh, baby, now you’ve done it.”

He tackled you, pinning you to the bed, tickling your sides until you were squealing, laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

You were a tangled mess of limbs and love, breathless and alive.

This wasn’t just sex. This was homecoming.

You were still catching your breath, sprawled lazily across Hoseok’s chest, the sheet barely covering your hips as the afterglow painted your skin in shades of gold and rose from the city lights bleeding through the hotel window.

His fingers trailed absentminded circles on your bare back, the rhythm slowing… until it didn’t.

You felt it—him—again, stirring beneath you.

You propped your chin on his chest, giving him a teasing, sleepy grin. “Again?” you whispered, your voice still hoarse from all the moans he pulled from your throat earlier.

He looked down at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide with something delicious and dangerous.

His lip curled slowly into a smirk. “I think,” he said, voice low and rough, “I won’t be gentle this time.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. The promise in his tone made your stomach twist in anticipation.

So you rose just enough to whisper back, eyes glinting as you straddled his hips, “Then don’t.”

Something snapped in him.

He gripped your thighs, flipping you onto your back in one swift motion. The sheet tangled around your legs as he leaned over you, jaw tight, his gaze raking over your body like he owned it—like he’d earned the right to be brutal and slow and reckless.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, sliding his hand between your legs, fingers finding how soaked you still were. “You’re already begging, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

You gasped when two fingers slid into you without warning, curling instantly, his thumb rubbing your clit with just enough pressure to make you tremble.

“Thought you said you wouldn’t be gentle,” you panted, back arching.

His eyes gleamed. “That wasn’t gentle.” Then he kissed you—messy, consuming—biting your lower lip as he pulled back. “This is me holding back.”

You moaned, dragging your nails down his back, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

“Then stop holding back,” you whispered, your lips brushing his, “and fuck me like you’ve waited lifetimes.”

That was all he needed.

With a growl, he lined himself up and slammed into you, hard and deep, making the headboard thud softly against the wall. You cried out, clutching his shoulders, and he grinned against your neck, panting, “You asked for it, princess. No mercy now.”

And he meant it.

You poured your soul into, a novel, Until We Meet Again, you wrote every sentence soaked in the grief and love you thought you’d buried lifetimes ago.

The pages bled with memory—his hands, his voice, the way it felt to lose him again and again and still choose him every time. Disguised as fiction, it was your truth laid bare. And the world devoured it.

It was the best selling, became a quiet anthem for aching hearts. Readers sent emails and letters in tear-streaked envelopes, thanking you for making them believe in love that stretches beyond time. But the only eyes you cared about were his.

You’d find Hoseok reading it alone at night, curled on the couch with a blanket over his lap, lips pressed tight, shoulders shaking silently.

Sometimes he’d stop on a passage and run his fingers over the words like they were too fragile to touch. And when you padded over, heart clenched in your throat, he’d look up with glassy eyes and whisper, “You wrote us perfectly, baby.”

His arms would open, pulling you onto his lap, holding you like you were something precious. “Every line feels like home.”

You never said it out loud, but you’d written the book to give your past selves the ending they never got.

That night, the sky wept softly over Seoul, rain gliding down windows like tears the sky forgot to hold in. Hoseok took your hand without a word, driving you somewhere secret.

You didn’t ask questions—you never needed to with him. But when he led you up to a rooftop, your breath caught.

The city sparkled beneath you, blurred by drizzle, and a soft melody hummed from a little speaker nearby, something wistful and slow. The kind of song that aches behind the ribs.

“You’re definitely up to something,” you said, narrowing your eyes, though your lips curved in a smile.

He grinned—god, that grin—and nudged his shoes off. “Guilty,” he said, holding out his hand. “Come on, you know what I am upto.”

You kicked your shoes away and let him pull you into the rain. The drops were cold on your bare shoulders, your sundress plastering against your skin, but his hands were warm—anchoring you.

You laughed, breathless, as he spun you into a slow sway, your arms around his neck, his fingers resting low on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this again,” you murmured against his collarbone, voice trembling. “We’re not College kids anymore.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “No. But I still want to dance with you in the rain until we're old.”

Your throat tightened.

He pulled you back to look at you, eyes searching—like he was memorizing your face for the hundredth time.

“You are my every lifetime’s home, Y/N,” he said, voice cracking at the edges, his forehead pressing against yours. “I don’t know what I did to find you again, but I swear to god, I’m never letting go.”

You cupped his face with shaking hands, tears spilling down your cheeks only to disappear into the rain. “You’re my home too,” you whispered, voice thick, breaking open. “In every life, it’s always you. It’s only ever been you.”

He kissed you like he was scared he’d wake up from dream. Like your lips were the only tether he had to this world. And you kissed him back with everything you’d never gotten to say before—with all the grief and hope and aching sweetness of second chances.

He twirled you again, both of you slipping a little on the wet concrete, your laughter rising like a prayer. It felt reckless, ridiculous, childlike—and perfect. The kind of moment that scars into the soul.

You stayed out there for hours. Kissing. Dancing. Making quiet, silly promises that felt like vows.

“I’m gonna write a song about you,” he whispered, nuzzling your wet hair.

“You better,” you giggled, swatting his chest. “I’ll bake you cookies.”

He pulled back, skeptical. “You burned them last time.”

“This time I’ll burn them with love,” you declared.

He laughed, and you swore the sky got brighter.

You tickled his sides just to hear him squeal, and suddenly he was chasing you barefoot across the slick rooftop, both of you slipping, falling, gasping for breath between helpless laughter.

He tackled you gently, rolling with you in his arms, rain falling all around as he cradled you close.

For the first time in too many lives, the rain wasn’t mourning. It rinsed away every goodbye, every heartbreak, every lonely year spent searching. And left you with this—

The feeling of being whole. Of being found. Of being his.

Hoseok’s schedule was brutal—days blurred into nights, his calendar a collage of airports, rehearsals, interviews, stage lights. But still, he carved out a weekend just for you.

No cameras, no chaos.

Just a quiet escape tucked in the countryside, far from the glitter and noise.

He booked a little restaurant nestled beneath a canopy of trees, where the wooden beams creaked with age and fairy lights blinked like stars overhead.

It smelled like warm spices and nostalgia, the air kissed with laughter and distant memories. The place was run by a gentle older couple, maybe in their late fifties, who moved in sync like they’d spent a lifetime dancing around each other in kitchens and quiet mornings.

You sat at a cozy corner table, your fingers laced with Hoseok’s, his thumb tracing circles on your knuckles like he was grounding himself in you.

He grinned as you clumsily tried to grip a slippery dumpling with your chopsticks, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You’re gonna drop that,” he teased, voice low and playful. “And just so we’re clear—I’m not sharing mine.”

“Rude,” you huffed, sticking your tongue out.

He laughed, so free and full it made your chest ache, then leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek.

Your skin flushed, heart skipping like it always did when he looked at you like that—like you were his whole damn world.

But the moment shifted when the woman who came to take your order froze. Her eyes locked on your face, her expression crumbling into something raw, bewildered, and fragile.

You assumed it was Hoseok—he was used to fans, after all—but her gaze didn’t leave you. Her lip trembled.

Then, without warning, she dropped her notepad and rushed forward, arms open, voice trembling. “I… I don’t know why, but…” Her breath hitched as she pulled you into a shaking embrace.

“You look like someone. You both, actually. Friends we lost… a long, long time ago.”

Your breath caught.

A man emerged from the kitchen—her husband, you guessed—with flour on his apron and confusion in his eyes. But the moment he saw Hoseok, something in him faltered. His steps slowed. He stared, stunned.

“It’s uncanny,” he murmured, voice thick with disbelief. “Like seeing our old college friends again… but that’s not possible.”

Your pulse roared in your ears.

You glanced at Hoseok—and in the space of a single look, it hit you. Minji. Seokjin. Not strangers. Not anymore. They weren’t reborn like you and Hoseok. They’d lived. Grown older. Built this life. And now here they were, standing before you again. Whole. Happy.

Your hand tightened in Hoseok’s. His eyes widened in recognition, breath catching in his throat.

Minji wiped at her tears, laughing shakily. “I sound crazy, I know, but… you feel familiar. Like the people we loved most when we were young. The ones who never got their happy ending.”

Seokjin stepped beside her, arm around her waist. His gaze softened as he looked between you and Hoseok. “They were inseparable,” he said quietly.

“Soulmates, really. We always said that. They were the kind of love story you don’t forget. But life was cruel with them.”

Hoseok’s voice was barely a whisper. “Maybe they found their way back.”

Minji blinked at him, her smile warm through the tears.

“Maybe fate did something right for once.”

You spent the rest of the evening curled in that golden pocket of time—sharing food, laughter, memories.

Minji and Seokjin spoke of their college days, of friendship and heartbreak, of weddings and lazy Sunday mornings and all the soft things in between.

You listened with tears in your eyes and a heart that beat with aching gratitude, knowing in some small way, you had helped this love survive the lifetime it was meant to.

You never said the truth aloud. You didn’t have to. It hung in the space between all of you, gentle and glowing.

When you stepped out into the night, the stars were bright and the air smelled like promise. Hoseok slid his arms around your waist from behind, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“See, baby?” he whispered. “Even fate ships us.”

You laughed softly, turning in his arms, resting your forehead against his. “Then let’s keep meeting,” you whispered. “Again and again. Lifetime after lifetime.”

He didn’t answer—not with words.

Just a kiss, so full of love and memory, it felt like coming home.

A/n: I hope you like the ending I gave to this story. 💜

[Part 1: The Past I Wasn’t Meant To Belong To]

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @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

[kittenan2]

Until We Meet Again - PT. 1

[Part 1: The Past I Wasn’t Meant To Belong To] Pairing: Time Traveller!Hoseok x terminally ill!Reader Genre: Angst, Slow-Burn Romance, Time Travel AU, Smut, Bittersweet Ending Warnings: 18+ explicit content, mentions of terminal illness, emotional trauma, parental neglect/abuse, heavy angst, unprotected sex, body worship, bittersweet ending Word Count: ~6k

The house was at war again.

Hoseok sat curled at the edge of his bed, knees pulled tightly to his chest, fingernails digging into the sleeves of his hoodie.

Outside his room, the living room exploded with venom and violence—his father’s cruel roars echoing the cracked walls, his mother’s tired voice trying, failing, to stand its ground.

Crash.

The sound of something breaking. A plate? A photo frame?

He didn’t flinch anymore.

He just stared at the floor, hollowed out. Twenty-two years old, and every corner of his soul felt bruised.

This wasn’t a home. It was a cage that wore him down day after day.

And her—his mother—Minji, once so gentle, now moved like a ghost. She cooked, she cleaned, she existed. That was all. Hoseok saw her smile maybe once a week, and even that smile was stitched together with pain.

He still remembered the day he tried to fight back. Fifteen years old, fists clenched, voice shaking. “Don’t talk to her like that!”

One slap. Just one. That was all it took to teach him what meddling tasted like.

He felt shameful. Useless.

Tonight, he didn’t even bother trying to drown out the shouts. He didn’t turn on music. Didn’t scream into a pillow.

He just… got up.

Something pulled him toward the storeroom, like gravity. Like fate.

He crept down the hallway, tiptoeing past the battlefield, and slipped into the cramped little space that smelled of mothballs and dust.

He flicked the light on, and a dull yellow bulb flickered to life. Spider webs in the corners. Old suitcases. Forgotten memories.

And then—a leather-bound book. Wedged between worn textbooks and old photos. Hoseok pulled it free, brushing off the dust.

A journal. The cover soft with age. Pages yellowed, the ink faded but familiar.

His mother’s handwriting.

But this wasn’t the writing he saw in her grocery lists or reminder notes. This script was younger, lighter—hopeful. Before the world ruined her.

He flipped it open, heart stuttering.

"Dear Diary... Jin helped me today. Right in the library. I thought I’d faint."

Each word cut deeper than the last.

This wasn’t the woman who cried herself to sleep every night. This was someone else—Minji, the girl, not the wife. She had dreams. She had love.

Seokjin. A boy who made her laugh until her sides hurt. Who snuck poetry into her textbooks. Who promised to build her a home full of sunflowers and music.

But then the pages grew darker.

"Appa says I have to marry Mr. Jung. I begged him, Diary. I begged.""But what can I do? I’m just a daughter. A tool for alliances."

The last entry was a heartbreak:

“I’ll always love you, Jin. But I have to let you go. I hope you find happiness, even if I never will.”

The journal fell from Hoseok’s trembling hands.

His breath hitched, chest aching with a grief he didn’t know he carried. All this time… he thought his mother had simply accepted her life. But she had sacrificed. Her love. Her future. Her soul.

Tears welled in his eyes. Hot, bitter.

She deserved better.

She deserved warmth and poetry. Not bruises and insults.

“If I could go back,” he whispered hoarsely, clutching the diary to his chest, “I’d fix everything for her. Even if it means I never get to exist.”

That night, Hoseok couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, her words looping like a lullaby written in heartbreak. When the noise of his parents’ fight finally faded into silence, he sat up and turned toward the window.

A breeze kissed his cheek.

And then—a flash across the sky.

A shooting star. Bright. Blinding. Burning through the night.

He didn’t hesitate.

“If you really grant wishes then take me back in the time,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Let me give her the life she deserved. Let me undo this pain.”

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again… everything was wrong.

The ceiling was unfamiliar. Pale blue. Cracks running across it like veins. The sheets beneath him were stiff and cheap. The smell—aged wood, instant coffee, and something sweet like soap.

He sat up with a gasp.

A dorm room. Small. Strange. Sunlight streaming through a cracked window. Posters of old K-pop idols and movie stars he barely recognized.

He staggered to his feet and looked around, breath catching.

On the desk: a landline phone.

In his bag: a student ID card.

Jung Hoseok. Age: 20. Transfer Student. Year: 1978.

His knees nearly gave out. It worked.

The journal. The wish. The star.

He was here.

Back when his mother was still Minji—the girl in love with Jin. The girl who hadn't yet been broken.

His heart thumped wildly. His hands shook as he dressed—baggy jeans, a hoodie with a faded print, sneakers that felt like retro.

He grabbed the ID and walked out into the sunlight, heart beating louder.

He had a plan. Befriend Minji. Get close to Seokjin. Gently, carefully, bring them together.

Rewrite the ending.

Give his mother a chance at the happiness she was robbed of. Even if it meant erasing himself forever. Because some people are worth disappearing for.

The university buzzed with life—a symphony of youth and sunshine. Laughter rang out across the courtyard like wind chimes, and bicycles darted past, trailing behind bursts of perfume, windblown hair, and conversation.

Hoseok stood still in the middle of it all, a time-traveler among the living. He scanned the crowd, fingers clutching the straps of his backpack a little too tightly. He didn’t know what he was looking for—until he saw her.

Minji. His mother. Young and radiant in a way he’d never seen. She stood near the library steps, her hair loose and shining, her smile real. She was laughing with a tall boy—Seokjin, probably. Broad-shouldered, charming, his eyes crinkled in amusement at something she said.

Hoseok’s breath caught.

They looked good together. They looked... possible.

But then—

There was you.

You stood out like sunlight on a cloudy day—so full of life, it made everything else around you seem faded.

You weren’t walking.

You were dancing.

Rain had started to fall—soft and sudden, a summer drizzle that should’ve made people scatter. But not you. You were in the middle of it, barefoot, laughing, twirling. Your sundress clung to your legs, soaked through, and your hair stuck to your face in dark, wet strands.

You turned, spinning toward Minji and Seokjin with outstretched arms. “Come on!” you laughed, dragging them into the rain, their groans fading into giggles as you pulled them under the open sky.

Hoseok stopped breathing.

There was something about you. Something wrong and right at the same time.

You didn’t notice him at first. But then you did.

You paused mid-spin, your gaze snapping to his. And just like that, the world tilted.

Your eyes sparkled, lips curving into a smile that felt too familiar. Too meant.

You headed toward him, splashing through puddles like they were stepping stones. Your bare feet left ghostly prints on the wet pavement, and Hoseok felt time stretch—like each second took a breath before it passed.

“New guy?” you asked, head tilted, rain sliding down your cheeks.

He blinked. Words didn’t come easily.

“Uh… y-yeah…” he stammered, voice cracking like it hadn’t been used in days.

Your grin widened—no walls, no filter, just raw sunshine. You reached out and took his wrist. Warm. Alive.

“Come on. Don’t just stand there. You’ve gotta earn your place with us.”

Before he could even form a thought, you were tugging him into the storm. His shoes squeaked. His hair stuck to his forehead. But he followed you without resistance.

Minji and Seokjin waved him over, completely at ease. But Hoseok barely saw them. He only saw you.

You grabbed both his hands, stepping backwards until he was spinning with you under the grey sky. You twirled him, laughed when he stumbled, and your fingers stayed laced with his as if they belonged there.

He didn’t remember the last time he laughed. Really laughed. But with you—it came easily. Unfiltered. Joyful. Freeing.

“I’m Y/N,” you said through giggles, your hands still in his. “This is Minji. That’s Jin. Stick with us, new guy. We’re chaos. But the good kind.”

“Hoseok,” he said quietly. And when your eyes lit up like his name meant something in your story too—he felt something shift inside him.

You were unstoppable.

A whirlwind of spontaneous adventures and sleepy smiles. You showed up outside his dorm room with a tote bag full of snacks and zero shame.

“Try these,” you grinned, tossing him spicy chips. He choked on the spice. You laughed so hard you spilled soda on yourself.

You dragged him through fountains, across grass fields, to secret book nooks where you’d whisper about your favorite stories. You laughed loudly, but you also listened quietly.

You danced barefoot whenever music played—street musicians, car radios, the hum of wind through trees.

To Hoseok, you were color in a black-and-white life.

And he was falling. Too fast. Too hard.

It was late afternoon when you found him—alone on a campus bench, sketchbook in lap, trying to blend in with the golden leaves and quiet breeze. His pencil moved in slow, thoughtful strokes.

You plopped down beside him with a dramatic sigh and peeked over his shoulder.

“Wow, new guy’s got actual talent,” you teased, eyes scanning his half-finished sketch of the campus trees.

You leaned in close—so close. He could feel your breath on his arm. Smell the shampoo in your hair. Your thigh pressed against his, grounding him.

You pointed to one of the trees. “This one’s dancing. Just like me.”

He chuckled, surprised by the sound of his own joy.

“You’re always dancing, Y/N.”

“Life’s too short not to.” Your voice was light, but there was something behind your words. Something deep and almost sad.

You nudged him with your knee.

“You should dance with me sometime. I bet you’re secretly good at it.”

His throat tightened. He ducked his head, pretending to focus on shading.

He didn’t know it yet, but he was already dancing with you.

Even when there was no music. Even when it would hurt later.

Weeks passed, and Hoseok slipped into his borrowed life like it was meant for him.

As a transfer student, no one questioned his sudden arrival, especially not when he carried himself with easy charm and quiet mystery. But beneath the calm, his mind raced with purpose: save Minji, fix the past, rewrite his mother’s broken love story.

He should’ve kept his focus. He really, really tried.

But then there was you.

You were gravity, pulling everyone into your orbit. A wildfire in human form. Loud, unpredictable, warm in a way that left people aching once you were gone.

You dragged the friend group to midnight diners just to order fries and milkshakes, dared Hoseok to sneak into empty lecture halls so you could play forbidden music through the speakers. You laughed too hard, loved too openly, lived like the clock was ticking.

And maybe it was.

He started noticing the little things. The way your fingers lingered when you handed him coffee. The soft hum you made when thinking. The way you always made space for him, even when he didn’t ask for it.

And God, how he noticed you.

He tried to stay the course—nudging Minji and Seokjin closer whenever he could. Suggesting they study together, stepping away so they’d be alone. But Minji always hesitated, eyes flickering with fear. And Seokjin… he was still oblivious to her feelings.

Meanwhile, you were seeing him.

One night in the library, your group was preparing for midterms. The others had gone in search of vending machine snacks, leaving just you and Hoseok in the dim quiet.

You sat across two chairs away, sketching flowers and stars into your notebook instead of studying. Your hair framed your face, and when you looked up, you caught him watching.

“What?” you teased, lips curving. “Got a crush on me, new guy?”

Hoseok fumbled his water bottle, choking embarrassingly. “W-What? No! I just—you're distracting, that’s all.”

You smirked, all mischief and warmth, and leaned in close—so close he could smell the faint vanilla of your shampoo. “Good,” you whispered, voice like velvet. “I like being distracting.”

Your fingers grazed his arm, leaving a trail of fire behind them. His heart stuttered. His breath caught.

And then you pulled away.

Your smile faltered just slightly. Like a curtain drawn too quickly. You always did that—gave him glimpses of something deeper, then snapped the door shut. It drove him insane. What were you hiding?

He didn’t press. Not yet.

A few days later, he stopped by your dorm to return a book you'd let him borrow. You weren’t there. Your roommate waved him in, too distracted by a phone call to care.

Your scent lingered in the room—soft, familiar now. He should’ve just left the book on your desk and gone.

But then he saw it.

Your journal. Pages Opened due to wind coming through window.

He told himself he’d just peek. Just a page.

But one page became two. Then ten.

And his world crumbled.

The pages were filled with your handwriting, raw and unfiltered, confessional. Every word was a wound.

You had an incurable disease—a rare neurological condition that was stealing your strength, your time. You didn’t have long, maybe less than a year.

The journal shook in his hands.

On the final page, ink blurred from what must’ve been tears, was a list. A simple, heartbreaking list.

Things I want before I go:

1. Experience true love, even if it breaks my heart. 2. Dance on a rooftop in the rain, in his arms. 3. Steal kisses in the library and empty classrooms. 4. Know what it feels like to be someone’s special person.

Hoseok’s knees buckled. He sank onto your bed, the journal trembling in his hands.

Tears slipped down his cheeks before he even realized they were coming.

All this time, your joy, your light, your recklessness—it wasn’t carelessness. It was courage. You were burning so brightly, because you knew how short the flame would last.

And now he understood the look in your eyes whenever you thought no one was watching. The sadness behind your laughter. The reason you flirted and then pulled away like you were afraid to be wanted too deeply.

You were dying. And no one knew.

Except now, he did.

And the ache in his chest was not just grief, but something softer. Stronger.

He loved you. And he didn’t know how to save you.

But he would make damn sure you never felt alone in the time you had left.

He found you the next day, sitting alone by the campus lake, your sketchbook open but untouched.

The autumn leaves fell around you, and you looked so fragile, like you might disappear with the wind. Hoseok’s heart pounded as he approached, the journal tucked under his arm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, voice breaking.

You looked up, eyes widening. “Hoseok, what—”

He held up the journal. “I read it. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, but… Y/N, why are you pushing me away?”

Your face crumpled. You stood, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Because I’m dying, Hoseok! I don’t want you to love me, only to lose me. I can’t do that to you.”

He stepped closer, cupping your face. “Then let me love you now. Let me give you everything I have before time runs out.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks.

“You don’t understand. It’ll hurt too much. I was reckless when I wrote that list. But when I finally fell in love with someone. I don't want that person to hurt when I leave.”

“I don’t care,” he said fiercely. “I’m already in too deep.”

He pulled you into his arms, and you broke, sobbing against his chest. He held you tighter, his own tears falling into your hair.

“There’s something else,” he whispered.

“I’m not from here. I’m from the future. I came back to fix my mom’s life—Minji’s life. To make sure she marries Seokjin, not… not the man who breaks her.”

You pulled back, eyes wide with shock. “What? Hoseok, that’s… are you joking?” You laughed, a nervous, disbelieving sound.

“You’re trying to make me laugh, right? To cheer me up?”

He shook his head, his expression serious. “I’m not joking, Y/N. I wished on a shooting star, and it brought me here. To 1978. To change things.”

You blinked, your laughter fading. “Hoseok, come on. Time travel? That’s… that’s crazy.”

“I know it sounds insane,” he said, gripping your shoulders gently.

“But think about it. I know things about Minji—her family, her fears—that I shouldn’t. I knew Seokjin was her first love because I found her diary in the future. I’m her son, Y/N. I came back to give her the life she deserved.”

You stared at him, searching his face for any hint of a lie. “You’re… serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his voice steady. “I don’t belong here. If I succeed, I’ll disappear. My future won’t exist anymore.”

Your breath hitched, and you shook your head, tears welling up again. “No, Hoseok, you can’t just… That means you’ll be gone? Forever?”

He nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah. But I don’t have anything worth living for in the future. For now atleast, I have got you.”

You laughed again, but it was a broken sound. “You’re telling me you’re from the future, and you’re in love with me, and you’re okay with vanishing? Hoseok, this is too much.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But it’s true. All of it.”

You stared at him for a long moment, your eyes searching his. Finally, you exhaled, your shoulders slumping. “I believe you,” you whispered. “God help me, I believe you.”

He kissed you then, soft and desperate, tasting the salt of your tears. You clung to him, and in that moment, you both decided to seize whatever time you had.

One night, you led him to the rooftop of the arts building.

Rain kissed your bare shoulders as a light drizzle painted the sky silver, cool droplets clinging to your white sundress until the fabric clung to you like it was in love.

It molded to your curves, sheer in the moonlight, each breath making the dress flutter like a secret. Hoseok froze, chest heaving, caught between reverence and raw hunger.

Your hair was soaked, curling around your cheeks in messy strands, your lashes wet and glistening. You looked like a dream. No—a storm. And he was willingly walking into the eye of it.

You stepped closer. Water beaded on his cheeks, slid down his jaw, soaked through the knit of his sweater. You curled your hands into it, fingers clinging to the damp wool like you were anchoring yourself.

“Love me, in every way,” you whispered. Your voice trembled, but your gaze didn’t. “Even if it’s just for now.”

He didn’t speak. Just grabbed your face and kissed you like the sky might fall.

His lips were warm even in the cold rain, tasting like need and storm. His tongue moved with yours, teasing you until a soft gasp slipped out, making his knees go weak.

You melted under his touch, but your hands were desperate, tugging at his wet sweater, the fabric heavy and clinging to his body.

He lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist as your lips met again, wetter, hungrier.

He carried you to a shadowed corner of the rooftop, behind a low wall.

The wind howled past you, but here, it was just him. Just you. Just the sound of rain and your quickening breaths.

“Y/N,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure,” you said, your eyes locked on his, burning with intensity.

He set you down gently, his hands brushing up your thighs, thumbs gliding over your skin as he knelt before you.

“God, you’re perfect,” he murmured, voice reverent, like he was praying. His lips found your knee first—then the inside of your thigh—each kiss branding you.

Your dress rode up with every touch, revealing the soaked lace of your panties, the faint shimmer of arousal clinging to your folds.

Your hips shifted toward him instinctively. “Hoseok,” you breathed, need strangling your voice.

He stood again, mouth meeting yours in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, all frustration and worship.

You tugged at his sweater, and he peeled it off, revealing the smooth planes of his chest, glistening from the rain. Your palms ran over him, thumbs brushing his nipples, feeling the way his breath caught.

He kissed your collarbone, dragged his tongue along the dip of your throat, tasting rain and your sweet, warm skin.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he growled against your neck, his voice low, rough.

You pushed him gently against the wall, straddling his lap as he sank down.

The concrete was cold beneath him, but the heat of your body made him forget everything.

Your dress was bunched around your waist now, your lace panties darkened and clinging to your slick core. You rolled your hips, grinding against the bulge in his jeans, and he moaned—deep, broken.

He slid your panties aside, his fingers finding you wet and slick, and you moaned, your head falling back as he teased your entrance. “You’re so wet,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, his fingers circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes.

You gasped, rocking against his hand, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Please,” you whimpered, your voice breaking. “I need you.”

“I need you inside me,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “Now.”

He fumbled with his belt, breathless, jeans shoved down just far enough. You reached into his boxers, your fingers wrapping around him—hot, thick, heavy in your hand. Precum beaded at the tip, slick under your thumb as you stroked him slowly. His head fell back, jaw clenched, muscles flexing under your touch.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he hissed.

He guided the head of his cock to your entrance.

The tip brushing against your folds, and you both groaned at the sensation.

You sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch, the stretch deliciously intense. He filled you completely, the heat of him overwhelming, and you clung to him, your breaths mingling as you adjusted to his size.

He held you tight, his hands trembling on your hips. “You feel—” he gasped, breath catching. “—so good. So fucking good.”

You began to move. Slow, grinding circles of your hips that had him cursing under his breath, thrusting up instinctively to meet you.

Each thrust dragged delicious friction through your core, each bounce of your hips driving him deeper, until you felt him in your gut. Skin against skin. Breath against breath. Rain pouring, thunder distant, but here—just heat.

The wet fabric of your dress clung to your breasts, your nipples hard and visible. Hoseok groaned and leaned forward, pulling one into his mouth through the wet cotton.

He sucked, tongue swirling over the peak, and your body jerked against him. You moaned, your nails sinking into his shoulders as he devoured you, hungry, desperate.

“You feel like fire,” he whispered against your chest.

He kissed you everywhere—your neck, your jaw, the sensitive spot behind your ear—his lips leaving a trail of heat.

“You feel like home.” Your walls clenched around him, and he groaned, his thrusts growing faster, more desperate.

You cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

Your hips snapped harder, faster. His hands gripped your ass, guiding your rhythm as he thrust up into you, deeper with every stroke. The wet slap of skin echoed under the rain.

You buried your face in his neck, teeth grazing his skin as the coil in your belly tightened.

He slid a hand between you, thumb pressing hard circles into your clit.

“Come for me, baby,” he murmured. “Let me feel.”

Your body clenched, and then—you broke.

You cried out, nails raking down his back as pleasure exploded through you, sharp and beautiful. Your pussy fluttered around him, milking him, dragging him under with you.

He cursed, gripped your hips hard, and came inside you with a groan that sounded like heartbreak and devotion.

You collapsed against him, bodies trembling, hearts thudding in sync. Rain poured harder now, cold on your skin, but you were warm—so warm—in his arms.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice broken. “Even if we don’t get forever.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes glassy, lips brushing yours with aching tenderness. His arms wrapped around your back, holding you close, like he never wanted to let go.

“We’ll find each other again,” he promised, voice cracked. “In every lifetime. I swear it.”

The months that followed were a delicate dance of love and purpose. Hoseok lived each day like it might be your last, and you… you lived like you were finally free.

You helped him push Minji and Seokjin together, gently guiding fate with a mischievous smile and a knowing wink.

You’d fake forgetting your notes so they had to share, create excuses to leave them alone after movie nights, and whisper, “I think she likes him,” just loud enough for Seokjin to hear.

Slowly, something bloomed—Minji’s nervous glances turned soft and bold, and Seokjin finally began to see the girl who had always seen him.

Hoseok watched with quiet pride, but it was you who kept his heart anchored.

And then, he devoted himself to your list.

One afternoon, you sneaked into an empty classroom after hours, the late sun casting golden streaks through the windows.

You giggled, tugging him inside, your fingers intertwined with his.

“Come on, Hoseok, live a little,” you teased, your voice a playful whisper. He followed, his heart racing as you pushed him against the chalkboard, the faint scent of chalk dust mingling with your lavender perfume.

You kissed him, soft at first, your lips brushing his with a teasing lightness that made him chase you.

He laughed against your mouth, the sound muffled as you deepened the kiss, your tongue sliding against his, warm and eager.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you giggled again, the sound vibrating through him. “Shh,” you whispered, your lips curving into a mischievous smile. “We’ll get caught.”

“Let them catch us,” he murmured, nipping at your lower lip, his hands sliding under your sweater to feel the warmth of your skin.

You gasped, your body arching into his, and the classroom filled with your shared laughter, breathless and giddy.

You stole kisses between giggles, your hands tangling in his hair, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine. Each touch was a promise, a moment stolen from time, and when you finally pulled away, your cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, you whispered, “You’re my favorite thief.”

Another night, you returned to the rooftop, the same one where you’d first made love.

Mist curled around your ankles as you spun in your sundress, barefoot, hair damp with drizzle. You looked ethereal.

He brought a little radio, the melody crackling through its tiny speaker. “Dance with me,” he murmured, holding out his hand.

You smiled through the tears brimming in your eyes and stepped into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. You moved slowly, cheek pressed to his chest, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like you could hold yourself together with him.

And maybe you could.

The rain kissed your skin, but his hands warmed you, steady on your waist. Each sway, each breath was a silent plea to time: slow down. Please, just a little longer.

“You’re my first love,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear.

“My only love.” You tilted your head up, kissing him softly, and for a moment, you weren’t sick, he wasn’t from the future, and time was kind.

He made sure you felt special every day. He’d leave little notes in your backpack, scrawled with silly doodles and words like, “You’re my star,” or “I’d choose you in every timeline.”

He carried you when your legs gave out.

He brushed your hair when your hands trembled.

He kissed your scars, your medicine-stained lips.

You were his special person—and he told you every day. Not just with words, but with the way he looked at you like he was already mourning the moment you'd slip away.

But your body, traitorous and tired, began to fade.

The vibrant energy that had drawn him to you dimmed, replaced by a fragility that broke his heart.

Your hands trembled when you tried to write, your steps faltered, and some days, you could barely stand. Hoseok was there through it all, his presence a constant warmth.

When you were too weak to walk to class, he’d scoop you into his arms, carrying you across campus with ease, ignoring your protests.

“I’m too heavy,” you’d mumble, your voice weak as you rested your head against his shoulder.

“You’re light as a feather,” he’d tease, though his throat was tight with worry. He’d carry you to your dorm, your arms loosely draped around his neck, your breath warm against his skin.

He’d lay you down gently, tucking a blanket around you, and sit by your side, reading aloud from your favorite books.

On the worst days, when pain kept you bedridden, he’d crawl into bed beside you, holding you close, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your back.

“I’m here,” he’d whisper, kissing your forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.” And you’d cling to him, your strength fading but your love burning bright.

When you finally told Minji and Seokjin the truth, they broke. Minji sobbed into your lap. Seokjin hugged you too tight and refused to let go. They held you like if they tried hard enough, maybe they could hold off the end.

Seokjin cursed the sky. But they stayed, they loved you harder, deeper. Hoseok had brought them together. You had made them family.

But it was Hoseok who held you through it all.

It was Hoseok who kissed your tears and whispered life into you. It was Hoseok who became your forever, even when time wouldn’t allow it.

Spring arrived, and with it, your final days.

You were admitted to the hospital, your body too frail to fight the disease any longer. The sterile room smelled of antiseptic, the beeping monitors a cruel reminder of time slipping away.

Hoseok barely left your side, sleeping in the stiff chair by your bed, his hand wrapped around yours, his thumb tracing circles over your knuckles.

Your skin was pale, your breaths shallow, but your eyes still held that spark he loved, even if it flickered now.

One evening, as the sunset painted the room in hues of gold and pink, you looked at him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t let me go after you,” you said, each word a struggle.

“Let me go first. It’ll hurt less if I know you’re still here, holding me.”

Hoseok’s face crumpled, tears spilling down his cheeks before he could stop them. “What about me?” he choked out, his voice raw with pain. “How am I supposed to do this without you, Y/N? You’re my everything.”

You reached out with trembling fingers, brushing his cheek, your touch light as air. He couldn’t bear it—how soft you were. How close to slipping through his hands.

He crawled into the bed beside you, careful not to disturb the tangle of wires and tubes. He wrapped you in his arms, your body so small against his, and you nestled into his chest, your breaths uneven.

“You’re strong,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

“You’ll keep your promise to Minji. You’ll give her the life she deserves. And you’ll carry me with you, always. In here.”

You placed a weak hand over his heart, and he sobbed, pressing his lips to your forehead, his tears falling into your hair.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice shattering. “I can’t do this. I can’t let you go.”

“You won’t lose me,” you murmured, your eyes heavy but filled with love. “I’ll be in the stars, Hoseok. Every night, look up, and I’ll be there, watching you. Waiting for you.”

He held you tighter, his body shaking with silent sobs, and you clung to him with what little strength you had, your fingers digging into his shirt.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice fading. “Thank you… for giving me everything.”

“I love you,” he choked out, his lips brushing yours, soft and desperate. “I’ll love you forever.”

“I’ll love you in every life. Every damn version of me.” He whispered again.

You smiled then—barely, but it was real. It lit your face like the sun, and then your eyes slipped shut.

Stillness.

Then the monitors screamed. A sharp, cruel wail that shattered the moment.

Hoseok screamed too—your name, over and over, like it could pull your soul back into your body. He clutched you tighter, rocked you in his arms as if refusing to let the world take you.

Nurses rushed in. But he wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t let go. Not when your body was still warm. Not when he still felt your scent on his skin.

Minji and Seokjin came, their faces already wet with tears. Minji dropped to her knees beside him, her hand stroking his back as he broke—completely, devastatingly, irreparably.

She didn’t know who he truly was, but in that moment, she didn’t need to. She held him like family, like the sister you asked her to become.

The world had ended. That’s how it felt.

Everything was too quiet now. Too wrong. And Hoseok… Hoseok felt like he’d been hollowed out.

Your absence wasn’t a silence.

It was a scream.

Months later, Hoseok stood at the edge of Minji and Seokjin’s wedding, watching from a distance.

The ceremony was beautiful, filled with laughter and love. Minji glowed in her white dress, and Seokjin looked at her like she was his entire world. Hoseok’s heart swelled with pride and pain.

He had done it.

He had rewritten her story. His mother’s story. Minji’s life had bloomed in this timeline—free from the shackles of a cruel marriage, no longer burdened by expectations.

And in the front row—her parents, sat, dressed in elegant pastels, faces softened with time and regret, they held Minji’s hands with pride.

They had finally seen it.

They had finally understood that love, real love, could never be controlled or dictated. In the end, they had accepted Seokjin. Not as the mistake. Not as the shame. But as the boy who had loved their daughter purely and endlessly.

As the stars began to appear in the night sky, he walked to a quiet corner of the venue, leaning against a tree. He looked up, searching for a shooting star, and whispered, “I kept my promise, Mom. You’re happy now.”

Tears fell as he felt his body begin to fade, the timeline rewriting itself.

He thought of you—your laugh, your touch, the way you’d loved him despite everything.

“Wait for me, Y/N,” he murmured. “Until we meet again.”

And then, under the blinking stars, he disappeared.

A/N: Phew… I genuinely cried while writing this. 😭 But some love stories aren’t meant to end in just one lifetime. Sometimes, they need a second chance—a new timeline, a new beginning.

STAY TUNED for PART 2!!

Will add link below after I finish writing part 2 and post. 👇

[PART 2: I Found You Again, In This Lifetime]

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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

[kittenan2]

We Will See... Daddy Kim [PT. 2]

Pairings:Yapper Secretary!Namjoon x Cold Doctor!Reader Genre: Romantic Comedy, Soft Dom/Sub Dynamics, Forced Arrange Marriage(Arranged by you), Enemies(ish)-to-Lovers, Pregnancy Fluff Word Count: ~4k Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, detailed sexual scenes, soft dom/sub dynamics, rough sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), kitchen counter sex, couch sex, shower sex, teasing, light angst, emotionally intense moments, pregnancy, strong language, chaotic fluff, Namjoon being a flustered dad-to-be.

The conference room at your dad’s company was a freaking palace—glass walls, a giant mahogany table, and windows that showed off the whole Seoul skyline like a flex.

Inside, Namjoon stood there, fumbling with papers, his suit slightly wrinkled and his glasses sliding down his nose from all the nervous fidgeting.

Your father and his business partner were deep into some intense discussion over contracts. Both of them were hunched over the table, arguing softly about numbers and deadlines, completely tuned out from everything else happening around them.

At the other end of the table sat the partner’s daughter—young, pretty, in early 20s, designer from head to toe, with a smile that screamed she always got what she wanted. And right now, what she wanted was your man.

She was all over Namjoon. Sitting way too close, brushing her nails against his sleeve as she leaned in. Her laugh was fake. Her intentions weren’t.

“These glasses are so cute,” she said, voice sweet and sugary.

“Are they designer? They make you look so… intellectual.” She tilted her head, flashing a smile.

“Are you single, by the way?”

Namjoon froze. Like someone hit pause on his entire soul.

“Uh, no, I’m—uh—married,” he stammered, backing away a little.

He pushed his glasses up in that nervous way he always did when stressed, trying to be polite but clearly uncomfortable.

But she didn’t care. She followed him anyway. Like she thought he was just playing hard to get.

“Oh, come on,” she said with a little laugh, twirling her hair. “Married guys can still have fun, right?”

Her hand stayed on his arm. Namjoon’s whole body stiffened. His eyes screamed somebody help me. And your dad? Still too busy with contracts to notice the social horror unfolding five feet away.

And that’s when you walked in.

Fresh from a brutal 36-hour hospital shift, you looked like beautiful chaos—white coat draped over your arm, hair in a messy bun that had clearly given up, stethoscope hanging from your tote bag.

And your expression?

Frozen. Sharp. Deadly.

You stopped in your tracks the second you saw them. The girl touching him. Namjoon trying to inch away. Your coffee cup nearly slipped from your hand as your eyes locked on the scene.

Namjoon looked up, saw you—and nearly died on the spot. His soul left his body. His life flashed before his eyes. All he could think was:

She’s going to kill me, for being too polite. For not being saying out loudly that I am uncomfortable.

I’m going to die in this room. Goodbye, world.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need to.

The temperature in that room dropped ten degrees just from your stare. You walked in slow, each step slow, your heels clicking like warning shots.

The business partner’s daughter blinked at you but didn’t move.

Big mistake.

You stopped right beside Namjoon. Looked at the girl. Then at Namjoon. Then back again. Your eyes narrowed.

Then you grabbed his wrist. Gently. But firmly.

“Dad,” you said, voice low and flat, laced with quiet fury. “I’m taking your secretary for the day. Wrap the meeting by yourself.”

Your father didn’t even look up. He just took a sip of his espresso and said, “Code Red.”

Namjoon gulped.

“B-Babe, I—” he started.

You silenced him with a single look. A death glare. He shut up immediately.

Your dad looked at the business partner, who was staring in confusion.

“He’s my son-in-law,” your dad explained casually, with a shrug. “They’re married. Please excuse the drama. My daughter’s… little extra sometimes.”

The partner laughed totally unaware of his daughter's mess. His daughter pouted.

But you didn’t care. You didn’t even glance back.

You pulled Namjoon toward the door without another word, fingers still wrapped around his wrist as he stumbled behind you.

The second the elevator doors of your apartment building slid shut, silence slammed between you.

Namjoon stood beside you, chest rising with shallow breaths, gripping his briefcase like it could shield him from the storm next to him. Your body was still.

But your glare? Blazing.

Your lip curled slightly, the only warning he’d get before—

You turned. Grabbed his tie. And yanked.

His breath caught as you slammed him against the elevator wall, your nose brushing his, lips close enough to taste his fear and arousal.

“You let her touch you?” you whispered, voice sharp and low, pure venom dipped in silk. “You let her breathe your air?”

“I—I didn’t want to make a scene,” he mumbled, but it was weak, already falling apart as your hand slid up his chest.

“Oh, baby,” you cooed, your hand slipping between his legs to feel the heat already throbbing through his slacks.

“You think this isn’t a scene?”

Namjoon gasped, hips jerking as your palm pressed harder, rubbing slow, punishing circles against his cock through the fabric. You watched him fall apart in seconds, his head dropping back with a groan, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re hard already?”

You licked your lips, voice rough. “From what?”

His eyes flew open. “Y-You,” he whispered. “Only you.”

“Damn right.” You grabbed his jaw, forcing his head to stay still as you leaned in and kissed him—biting his bottom lip until he whimpered into your mouth.

The elevator dinged.

You pulled back, smirking as you adjusted your shirt like nothing had happened. “Pick up your briefcase,” you said. “You’ll need something to bite on.”

And then you walked out without looking back.

The door of your apartment slammed shut behind you. Your heels echoed across the living room as you tossed your bag on the couch and went to kitchen. Namjoon followed like a nervous puppy—wide-eyed, lips bitten raw, tie askew.

You didn’t speak.

He hovered near the kitchen threshold like stepping further would set off a landmine.

“Are you mad?” he asked softly.

You didn’t answer.

You opened the fridge instead. Slowly. Deliberately. Pulled out a cold bottle of water, cracked it open, took a sip—your gaze never leaving him.

You finally set it down on the counter.

“Why didn’t you stop her, Namjoon?”

“I—” He sighed, shoulders curling inward. “It was your dad’s guest. I didn’t want to be rude. I—I felt trapped, babe, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know. I am not doubting you.” You rounded the counter slowly, until you were standing toe to toe with him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. But you forgot one thing.”

Namjoon looked up, hopeful. “What?”

You leaned in close, smirking, lips brushing his cheek.

“You forgot that I don’t share.”

He exhaled shakily. “You’re right. Fuck—I didn’t even look at her, baby, I swear.”

“I know,” you murmured, hands dragging down his chest. “I know you didn’t.”

Your fingers reached his belt.

“I saw you flinch when she touched your arm. I saw you look at the floor like it would swallow you whole.”

He closed his eyes, chest rising and falling fast.

You tugged open his belt with a snap.

“But still,” you breathed against his lips, “You let your comfort take a backseat. For my dad. Just for stupid business relationships.”

His lips parted to respond—only to let out a choked gasp when you dropped to your knees.

“Now,” you purred, fingers dragging down the zipper, “I’m gonna make sure you never put anyone above yourself again. Not when it comes to me.”

His cock sprang free, already painfully hard.

You didn’t even let him adjust. You took him deep, all at once—no teasing. No mercy.

Namjoon cried out—his head thunked back against the cabinets, hand flying to grip the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

You hollowed your cheeks and moaned—sending vibrations straight through his spine. His knees buckled.

“F-Fuck—baby, slow down—wait—” he whined, voice panicked and overwhelmed.

You popped off with a wet slurp, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you stood, just when he was close.

“No,” you said flatly. "Not yet."

You made your way to living room. Namjoon followed and gripped your wrist like his sanity depended on it. His eyes were wild—completely undone from the teasing you pulled in the kitchen.

"You really walked away when I was about to cum?” he growled, voice low and raw, his breath hot against your neck as he backed you into the couch. “Are you trying to kill me?”

You just smirked, eyes flashing. “Maybe.”

He growled. Actually growled.

Before you could blink, he grabbed your waist and threw you down onto the cushions, your back landing with a soft bounce. He dropped to his knees, removed every piece of cloth, ripped your panties off, and buried his face between your thighs without warning.

Your back arched instantly.

"Fuck—Namjoon!" You grabbed a fistful of his hair, your thighs shaking as his tongue drew tight, messy circles over your clit, relentless like a man with a mission.

“Not so smug now, huh?” he mumbled against your heat, licking you like a punishment. “You left me aching. I’m gonna leave you sobbing.”

Your moans turned into gasps when he slid two fingers inside you, curling just right. The room filled with wet, obscene sounds—his fingers, his mouth, your gasps echoing off the walls.

He pulled back after a minute, lips wet, eyes blazing. “Get on top.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You teased. You left me hard. Now ride me.”

That voice? Dangerous. Desperate.

He sat back onto the couch, undoing his pants fully, and pulled out his cock— still slick from your mouth, flushed deep red and angry with need.

“Now, baby,” he grunted, stroking himself slowly. “If I don’t fuck you in the next ten seconds I might die.”

You didn’t wait. You climbed into his lap, straddling him, dragging your soaked slit over his length, teasing him like you hadn’t just nearly ruined him in the kitchen.

“Beg for it,” you whispered against his lips.

He whimpered—fucking whimpered.

“Please. Please let me feel you. Please ride me, babe. I need it. I need you.”

You smirked as you sank down on him, inch by inch, watching his eyes roll back, his head thudding against the couch in raw relief.

“God—you’re so fucking tight—” he choked, hands flying to your hips, but you grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the back of the couch.

“I’m still mad at you,” you whispered, starting to move. “This is not for your pleasure.”

“Too late,” he gasped, hips jerking up helplessly. “I’d die like this. Fuck, baby, ride me—please—make me moan.”

You did.

You slammed down on him, hard, over and over, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding making you both lose it.

Your fingers dug into his wrists, your teeth nipped at his neck, leaving red trails down his collarbone. He was falling apart beneath you, moaning your name like a prayer turned curse.

“You’re mine,” you hissed into his ear, grinding deep. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” he gasped, his voice wrecked. “Fuck—I’m so yours—I don’t want anyone else touching me—I only want you—”

You let go of his wrists, and he immediately grabbed your ass, slamming you down harder, his moans turning guttural.

“Wanna cum inside,” he whimpered, biting your shoulder.

You kissed him hard, tongue filthy in his mouth, matching every thrust. “Then do it. Make a mess. Fill your fucking wife.”

That’s all he needed.

With a strangled groan, he thrust up once, twice—then came hard, spilling inside you, your name ripped from his throat as his hands clutched you like you’d vanish.

You followed with a cry, your body shaking through your orgasm, your walls squeezing him tight as he moaned through it.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you panting, soaked in sweat and sin.

His lips brushed your shoulder, voice hoarse.

“Still in trouble?”

You smirked, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“You’re always in trouble, baby. And we’ve still got a shower. And a bed.”

The moment the water hit your skin, warm and heavy, Namjoon stepped in behind you like a storm about to ruin everything gentle.

He gripped your hips—tight, bruising—as if you’d vanish the second he let go.

His pupils were blown wide with hunger, lips parted as he panted against your neck. “You’re still dripping,” he muttered hoarsely, voice low and ragged. “With me. All over your thighs.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling as water slid down every inch of you, mixing with slick arousal already painting your skin. He dropped his head to your shoulder, growling softly like he couldn’t believe it. “That’s all me, baby. That’s my mess on you.”

Then—he lifted you.

Just like that. As if you weighed nothing.

Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, arms clutching his soaked shoulders as he pressed the thick head of his cock against your entrance. No teasing this time. No sweet build-up. You were already swollen and aching, too needy to wait, and he knew it.

But before he thrust in, his voice cracked quietly against your ear. “I missed you all day, Babe,” he admitted.

“No teasing this time,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I need you, Joon. Please.”

He didn’t make you wait.

He slammed into you.

You screamed. A broken, shocked, gasping moan that echoed off the fogged-up glass.

He didn’t stop.

He fucked up into you mercilessly, lifting you with every thrust, slamming your body back into the wet wall with rhythmic slaps that echoed in the steamy space. His grip bruised your hips, holding you in place as your body shook with every deep, punishing stroke.

“Fuck—still tight,” he gritted out, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking tight around me. You wanted this, didn’t you? Walking in like that, dragging me out of Dad's office like I belonged to you.”

You sobbed, nodding helplessly, lips trembling. “Y-Yeah… Do you think I am crazy?”

“This is everything, baby,” he murmured. “You’re not crazy. You’re mine. My girl. My home.”

Then his voice dropped darker, filthier. “But do you think I’m gonna let you pull that stunt and not ruin you?”

He thrust harder, your head knocking softly against the wall as you clung to him. Pleasure curled in your stomach like fire, spreading too fast.

He groaned, rolling his hips up so perfectly you almost blacked out. “Say it,” he growled. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” you sobbed, eyes wet with water and heat. “Namjoon—I’m yours, always— but don't forget you are mine too.”

He slammed into you again, possessive and wild. “Damn right, baby,” he growled, biting your jaw as you shattered in his arms, clenching around him like your body knew no one else would ever do.

The sound of skin slapping against skin was drowned only by the sound of your moans, his curses, and the water pounding around you—washing away nothing.

Because you were still dripping.

And Namjoon wasn’t done.

By the time you made it back to the bedroom, you both were broken in the best way possible.

You collapsed onto the bed, both of you exhausted and blissed out. Namjoon pulled you close, his fingers stroking your hair as he pressed soft kisses to your bare shoulder.

He whispered, “You don’t know what you do to me. You make me insane. But you also make me feel like I can breathe.”

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice sleepy but warm.

You turned your face toward him, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. “Even when I’m jealous and irrational?”

He smiled, tired but soft, his dimples peeking out. “Especially then.”

You laughed softly, curling into his side. “Good save, noodle boy.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, pulling the blanket up around you both. “You think I don’t notice the way you protect what’s yours? It drives me crazy. But… I love it. I love you.”

The next morning, you woke up tangled in the sheets, Namjoon’s arm draped over you like a weighted blanket. His face was soft, peaceful, glasses missing, lips parted in sleep.

You stared at him for a long second, a strange ache in your chest that had nothing to do with last night. You brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, your voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t ever stop being mine.”

Namjoon stirred, eyes fluttering open. He looked at you sleepily, then smiled, and pulled you back into him.

“Never, baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse from sleep. “I belong to you in ways I’ll never belong to anyone else.”

You nuzzled closer, pressing your lips to his bare chest, and let the words tumble out in a voice even smaller than before.

“I love you.”

You didn’t say it often. Not because you didn’t mean it—but because it meant too much.

But with him, it didn’t feel scary. Just warm. Just right.

Namjoon didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His arms tightened around you, his lips brushing the crown of your head in silent reply—I know. I love you more.

You buried your face in his chest, heart full, body sore, soul somehow softer than ever before.

Maybe jealous you wasn’t so bad after all.

A few weeks later, you were at the hospital, powering through another long shift.

Lately, you’d been off—throwing up in the mornings, your breasts sore and sensitive, your mood swinging between grumpy and weepy.

You chalked it up to stress at first, but the bloating and missed period were harder to ignore. During a quiet moment in the locker room, you took a pregnancy test, more out of curiosity than anything else.

The two pink lines stared back at you, and you nodded, a smug little smirk tugging at your lips.

You just blinked at it, deadpan. “Of course."

You weren’t even surprised. You slipped the test into your pocket, washed your hands, and pulled out your phone to drop the most iconic text of your life to Namjoon:

Don’t freak out, but… I’m pregnant. ���

Then you tossed the phone on table and went back to work, casually reviewing patient charts like you hadn’t just dropped a life-altering bomb. You ran into Dr. Kim Seokjin, in the hallway, and he immediately clocked your smirk.

“Whoa, Ice Queen,” he said, leaning against the wall with a grin that screamed trouble.

“You’re looking suspiciously happy. Did you finally scare someone to death, or is this about that secretary husband of yours?”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your stethoscope. “Mind your business, Jin.”

He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Rude! I’m just saying, you’re glowing. Either you’re pregnant, or you’ve been stealing my skincare routine.” He paused, squinting at you.

“Wait, are you pregnant?”

You froze, then smirked. “Uh... What if I am?”

Jin’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide.

“No way! Noodle Boy’s gonna be a dad?

“He’s gonna malfunction. I have to be there when you tell him—can I be there?! Please?! I want to see his soul exit his body! I want to witness the exact second he realizes he’s gonna be responsible for another human.”

You snorted. “You need help.”

“I need popcorn,” he countered.

You rolled your eyes, walking off. “Go away.”

“Baby shower! Don’t forget! I’m bringing kimchi pancakes.’”

“Shut up, Jin. Go and check up on your patients.”

“I’LL BE THE COOL UNCLE, YOU CAN’T STOP ME!”

His voice echoed down the corridor like a deranged hyena as you walked away—already picturing Namjoon’s phone vibrating in his office across town… and the exact moment he saw your text.

Oh, this was going to be so fun.

Back at the company, Namjoon was in the middle of organizing your father’s schedule when his phone pinged with your text.

He opened it, read it.

One glance at the screen.

One sentence. He ignored first few words, focussing mainly on-

“I’m pregnant.”

And let out a scream so loud your dad choked on his espresso, spewing coffee all over his desk.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!”

“Namjoon!” your father barked, wiping his chin.

“What the hell—”

“I’M GONNA BE A DAD!” Namjoon yelled, bolting out of his chair and running circles around the office, his tie flapping wildly. He tripped over a chair, caught himself on a filing cabinet, and nearly broke his glasses in the process.

“SHE’S PREGNANT! OH MY GOD!”

Your dad’s eyes widened, then he burst out laughing. “Well, damn, son! Congratulations!”

Your phone was already blowing up with his texts, spamming continuously:

WAIT WHAT!! YOU’RE SERIOUS? YOU’RE NOT MESSING WITH ME? WITH THE FAKE PREGNANCY PRANK RIGHT I’M SWEATING WHY AM I SWEATING I’M GONNA BE A DAD I CAN’T EVEN DO MY TIE RIGHT I CAN’T EVEN COOK RICE PROPERLY DO I NEED TO BUILD A CRIB DO I NEED TO GO TO BUY BABY CLOTHES

He managed to send 23 messages in under 60 seconds before his phone overheated and crashed the app. Giving up, he slammed FaceTime.

You answered, sipping tea in the hospital break room, looking annoyingly calm.

“PREGNANT?!” he shouted, his face filling the screen, his glasses crooked. “ARE YOU OKAY?

SHOULD I QUIT MY JOB?

ARE YOU FEELING DIZZY OR ANYTHING ELSE?

WHAT IF IT GETS MY IQ AND YOUR ANGER ISSUES—OH MY GOD, WE’RE SO FUCKED.”

You raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of your tea. “Relax, I’m not in labor yet.”

“NOT IN LABOR YET?!” he repeated, his voice hitting a pitch you didn’t know was possible. “Babe, this is huge! I need to—I need to prepare! Do we need a nursery? A stroller? I don’t know how to change a diaper!”

You smirked, leaning back in your chair. “You’ll figure it out, noodle boy. You’re smart.”

You blinked again. “CALM DOWN... You’re spiraling.”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions. “You’re so calm! How are you so calm? I’m freaking out enough for both of us!”

You tilted your head. “You're the one having the emotional breakdown, not me. Maybe you’re pregnant.

“Because one of us has to be the adult,” you teased, your lips twitching into a smile.

He stopped mid-panic, staring into the screen. “This is real. Like actually real. There’s a fetus. Inside. Of. You.”

You facepalmed. “Go back to work. We’ll talk when I get home.”

He started pacing his office, which just made everything worse. “Oh God, what if it inherits my clumsiness and her terrifying death glare?”

Your father burst into laughter. “I hope it gets your big brain and not your ability to scream in seven pitches.”

That evening, he rushed home that evening, bursting through the door with a wild look in his eyes.

He immediately dropped to his knees like he was proposing again, wrapped his arms around your waist, and pressed his cheek to your stomach. “HELLO TINY CREATURE,” he whispered dramatically. “It’s me. Your mentally unstable father.”

You stroked his hair gently, trying not to laugh as he sniffled. “You okay, noodle boy?”

“I’m talking to your uterus, babe, please don’t interrupt this sacred bonding.”

He sniffed again, voice cracking with emotion. “Hi, little one. I’m your dad. I have no idea what I’m doing. But I promise I’ll try my absolute best and never drop you."

You ran your fingers through his hair, your heart swelling. “You’re gonna be great,” you said quietly, and for once, you didn’t hide the warmth in your voice.

He looked up at you, his eyes glassy with emotion. “Marry me again,” he blurted, his hands still on your stomach.

You laughed, pulling him to his feet and kissing him softly. “We’re already married, you dork.”

“Doesn’t hurt to double-check,” he mumbled, kissing you back, his hands trembling as they cupped your face.

You cracked up, pulling him in for a kiss. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot. And now I’m gonna be a diaper-changing, sleep-deprived, terrified father idiot.”

You kissed him again, laughing into his mouth.

“God help our child,” you muttered.

Your dad was over the moon, strutting around his office like a peacock, telling every business partner he met: “My daughter’s pregnant! Yes, my grandkid’s coming. Start lining up the luxury gifts, people!”

He clapped Namjoon on the back so hard the poor guy nearly faceplanted, but Namjoon just grinned, too happy to care.

Namjoon turned into the ultimate doting husband. Every morning, he’d kiss your stomach before heading to work, whispering little pep talks to the baby like, “Be nice to your mom, okay? She’s scary, but she’s the best.”

He’d leave sticky notes on your bathroom mirror, written in his messy handwriting:

Drink water, my sexy Doctor Wife 😘 Don’t fight anyone today. Unless they start it. Then finish it. Baby and I love you. Mangoes are in the fridge. You're welcome.

You found one stuck to the box of prenatal vitamins that just said:

You are doing so good, mama bear. P.S. You’re still hot.

But it didn’t stop there.

Namjoon created an actual Google spreadsheet titled “Operation Pregnant Wife: Level Expert”—color-coded tabs and all. 💛 One for cravings. 💚 One for “safe foods.” 💖 And a whole “Mood Tracker” with hourly updates like:

😡 Snapped at me for breathing too loud. 10:45 AM. Might deserve it. 🥰 Kissed me for mangoes. 10:52 AM. Best seven minutes of my life. 😴 Fell asleep with head on my chest. 8:30 PM. Sounded like a baby panda purring. Adorable.

One evening, you found him at the dining table, glasses slipping down his nose as he intensely googled:

“How to hold a baby without dropping it.” “Can babies smell fear.” “Best lullabies for genius children.”

You snuck up behind him, wrapped your arms around his shoulders, and rested your chin on his head.

“You’re gonna be the best dad,” you whispered.

He turned, his eyes wide and a little teary. “What if I drop the baby? Or forget how to swaddle?”

You smirked, kissing his cheek. “You’ll figure it out. You married me, didn’t you?”

He laughed, pulling you into his lap. “Yeah, but you’re scarier than a baby.”

You poked his dimple. “Keep talking, and I’ll make you regret it.”

He grinned, kissing you deeply, his hands resting on your barely-there bump.

“We’ll see,” he teased, mimicking your signature line.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was full. You ate mangoes straight from the container, passing him a slice as he yapped about baby names and crib safety ratings.

You kissed him to shut him up, the taste of mango lingering on his lips, and in that moment, you knew—

Baby or no baby, Namjoon was your home.

And you? You were his entire galaxy.

A/n: Well, Pt.2 of it was requested. So I tried it out. Hope it turned out well.

PART 1

@mytaegiheart Here you go!!💜

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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 . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria

[kittenan2]

Off-screen, Still Yours

Pairing: Actor!Kim Taehyung x Actor!Reader Rated: Explicit (18+) | Minors DNI Word Count: ~5k Genre: Established Relationship, Smut, Fluff, Happy married life, Media Drama, Pregnancy Announcement, Domestic Bliss, K-Drama Vibes, Intense Love Warnings: Explicit smut (bedroom sex, shower makeout, unprotected sex mentioned, breeding kink vibes, kitchen counter sex), media gossip and rumors, toxic fan behavior, pregnancy mention, language, 18+ only

The press conference room buzzed like a hive of desperate bees, camera flashes popping like paparazzi popcorn, journalists practically vibrating in their chairs.

Kim Taehyung sat at the center of it all like a bored Greek god, sculpted to perfection in a black velvet suit that probably cost more than someone’s entire K-drama budget.

He looked dangerously relaxed—ankle crossed over knee, cheek resting on his knuckles, the picture of married-and-unbothered royalty.

He didn’t just sit in his chair — no, he lounged.

His lips curled into that trademark smirk, the one that made fans swoon and his wife roll her eyes.

The air was thick with nervous anticipation, the scent of coffee, cologne, and chaos mingling together like a weirdly specific perfume.

Then it came.

A young reporter—bless her soul—stood up, clutching her notepad like it might save her from the heat of that stage.

“Taehyung-ssi,” she began, clearly trembling under his gaze, “your drama Eternal Flame is releasing the same week as your wife’s Whispers of Dawn. Was this a coordinated move between you two? Or is there a little friendly competition at home?”

The crowd collectively leaned in, jaws parted like they were waiting for a confession of murder.

Taehyung blinked. Then blinked again.

He tilted his head so slowly it was borderline offensive.

Ran a hand through his hair like he was being paid for it, his silver rings winking under the lights.

“Is it?” he said at last, voice low and velvety, the tone of a man who genuinely didn’t give a damn.

“I don’t even remember when hers is releasing.”

He shrugged lazy, and deliberate, a jab at the media’s obsession with pitting you against each other.

The room cracked into laughter—but deep down, Taehyung could feel the panic brewing in the editorials already being typed with sweaty fingers.

They were gonna spin this harder than a K-pop idol on a variety show wheel.

And sure enough, by sunrise the next morning, chaos reigned:

“TAEHYUNG IGNORES WIFE’S CAREER?!” “KIM TAEHYUNG TOO BUSY TO CARE ABOUT HIS MARRIAGE?” “LOOK AT HIS EYES—HE DIDN’T EVEN FLINCH. TRUE DETACHMENT.”

Twitter was ablaze. TikTok fan edits had already slapped melancholic piano over black-and-white clips of the interview.

“He didn’t even say her name!” one post sobbed. “They’re strangers now. I knew it.”

Next day. Your turn.

The set of Whispers of Dawn's press conference was dreamy, romantic, like someone had whispered “femininity” into a scented candle and exploded it all over the room.

Soft lighting. Warm tones.

You sat like the goddess, dressed in cream silk with your hair cascading like a shampoo commercial. You had seen the headlines. You had read the X threads. You had rolled your eyes into another dimension and back.

The interviewer, seasoned in nonsense, leaned forward with the hungry smile of a woman who’d been waiting all day for this exact soundbite.

“So, Y/N-ssi, Taehyung’s drama is airing the same day as yours,” she said sweetly, too sweetly.

“What if his gets better ratings? Any bets going on at home?”

You smiled.

Slowly. Dangerously. Like a woman about to say something that could end a war or start one.

You picked up your delicate porcelain teacup with all the grace of a chaebol daughter-in-law in a weekend drama.

You let the silence stretch a beat too long, then lifted the cup to your lips.

“We don’t discuss work at home,” you said, voice like silk over steel. “Our home is for us. Not... ratings.”

The way you sipped that tea? Illegal.

Wedding ring glittering like a subtle middle finger to the headlines.

The interviewer blinked. Disappointed. She wanted scandal. What she got was serenity with a blade edge.

But oh—the internet didn’t rest.

“Y/N SHADES TAEHYUNG?” “TROUBLE IN PARADISE... AFTER 7 YEARS?” “NOT EVEN A SINGLE MENTION OF HIS DRAMA? SHE’S OVER IT.”

One edit even added subtitles to your sip:

“I’m tired of carrying this marriage.”

You sent it to Taehyung. He sent back five crying emojis and a selfie of him shirtless in your bed holding your dog.

The next few days were a whirlwind of chaos.

The internet became a battlefield, of conspiracy theories and fan wars, with hashtags and Twitter threads stretching longer than Taehyung’s legs in tailored pants.

News outlets scrambled for clickbait, while bored teenagers in dark rooms crafted melodramatic edits like their lives depended on it.

And at the center of the chaos: you two, blissfully married and deeply unbothered.

A clip from Taehyung’s new drama, Eternal Flame, spreaded across the timeline like a scandalous grenade.

In it, his character grabbed his co-star, Park Ji-yeon, and shoved her against a wall before crashing his lips to hers in a kiss so heated it fogged up screens nationwide.

The moment was hot.

Too hot — and the internet treated it like a war crime.

The scene was looped, slowed, zoomed.

His hands on her waist. Her fingers tangled in his collar.

The groan. The way his jaw flexed.

One edit had black-and-white filters and melodramatic piano instrumental in the background. Another simply captioned:

“Is this acting... Sir? Did you forget you are married?”

Fans dissected every second like forensic experts.

“Look at the way his thumb moved. That’s not scripted energy.”“He kissed her like he forgot his wife existed.”“Someone check on Y/N.”

Then came, your drama, Whispers of Dawn.

It had its own viral moment.

A beautifully shot scene beneath a cherry blossom tree, where your character confessed her love to Lee Min-ho’s character with tears streaming down your cheeks.

He reached out, gently wiping a tear from your face, and whispered, “I never stopped loving you.”

The camera lingered on your face as your lip trembled, eyes shining. Then he leaned to peck your lips softly.

It was raw. Intimate. And suddenly, everyone was convinced you were glowing.

“She glows differently around him.” “That smile wasn’t acting. That was ‘I finally found someone who listens’ energy.” “Taehyung who?”

Within hours, fan cams were comparing your eye contact with Min-ho vs. Taehyung. Some fans started speculating that you and Taehyung hadn’t been seen holding hands in public for months.

Old interview clips resurfaced, cherry-picked to fuel the narrative.

A moment from three years ago where Taehyung dodged a question about your favorite movie, chuckling and saying, “I don’t know, she changes her mind a lot.”

A clip of you laughing off a question about Taehyung’s cooking skills: “Let’s just say I handle the kitchen.” Harmless at the time, but now? Treasure for making up the breakup theories.

But the true masterpiece?

A 15-tweet thread by a user named @taehyung4everwithme titled: “Evidence That Their Marriage is a PR Stunt and They Sleep in Separate Beds.”

Complete with bullet points. And Pictures.

Meanwhile, in your apartment?

Taehyung was barefoot in pajama pants, scrolling through his phone while laying on the floor of living room dramatically like a rejected second lead in a melodrama.

Your dog, Muffin, was asleep in the laundry basket. You were standing in the kitchen eating mango, watching him with amused disinterest.

The truth was, everything was perfectly normal.

The scenes were scripted, the emotions rehearsed, and the chemistry? Pure acting. All part of your job.

But according to the media? They twisted it so dramatically, it was as if acting itself had become a crime for the two of you.

“Glowing differently around Min-ho?” he said, waving his phone in the air like a sulking baby who didn't get his favorite candy.

“Do they even know the kind of afterglow I leave you in? You shine like a jellyfish just after one round with me.”

You popped a mango cube into your mouth. “Maybe Min-ho’s skincare is working better than yours. ”

“Also... That kiss scene looked so hot... in 4K.”

Taehyung gasped. Dramatically.

He clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him with a fork you were eating mango cubes.

“This is betrayal,” he declared. “I am being defamed in my own home.”

You didn’t bother responding. You just sauntered over, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and whispered, “Then go redeem yourself in the bedroom, method actor.”

Later that night, after an aggressive make out on-the-kitchen-counter, the two of you lay tangled in sheets, skin sticky with love and sweat.

You were both scrolling through hate comments together, rating them like a game show.

“This one says I haven’t kissed you this passionately in years,” Taehyung read aloud, mocking the tweet with a dramatic reading voice.

“Should I livestream our next kitchen performance just to shut them up?”

You snorted. “Only if you edit it in 4K like your drama fans do.”

He turned to you, hair a mess, wedding ring glinting under the dim light.

“For the record, babe... no one — and I mean no one — glows harder than you do after I’m done with you.”

You threw a pillow at Taehyung’s face and pulled him into your arms with a tired smile.

The internet could go crazy if it wanted. Let people make weird edits, let fans overthink everything, let the news keep making up stories.

Because behind the rumors, the kiss scenes, and the cherry blossoms? You were still right here, curled up in the arms of the man the world was convinced you had fallen out of love with.

You really didn’t discuss work at home.

You were too busy laughing, loving, and fighting over the last dumpling.

Your apartment was your haven. No cameras. No headlines. No rumors buzzing in your ears. Just dim lights, the soft hum of jazz in background, and the warmth of your husband’s scent on your skin.

You were curled up in bed, his oversized white shirt draping over your thighs, sleeves way too long for you but perfect. No bra. Just black lace panties underneath.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Taehyung stepped inside, his long coat dusted with the faintest hint of rain. His hair was damp, curling at the ends, and his eyes carried the weight of a long day.

But the moment they landed on you, sprawled across the bed like you owned it, they darkened with a familiar heat.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his lips curving into a lopsided grin.

“So,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing, “the world thinks I hate you. Should we stage a dramatic fight for the paparazzi?”

You snorted, tossing a pillow at him.

He caught it with ease.

“Fight? Please, Tae. I’d rather you fuck me senseless and give them something real to talk about.”

His grin turned wicked, and he tossed the pillow aside, stalking toward the bed like a predator.

“Oh, baby,” he purred, his voice dropping an octave, thick with promise. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”

“Regret?” you shot back, arching a brow as you leaned back on your elbows, letting the shirt ride up to reveal a glimpse of black lace panties. “I’m counting on you to make me scream, Tae.”

He growled, low and playful, and pounced, the mattress dipping under his weight as he crawled over you.

His hands found your hips, pinning you to the bed, and you laughed, the sound cut off by his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was filthy, all teeth and tongue, a messy collision of want that had you gasping into his mouth. His hands slid under the shirt, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your thighs, and you shivered, already aching for him.

“Fuck, you’re trouble.”

He muttered against your lips, his voice rough with desire.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes raking over your body like he was committing every inch to memory.

“Wearing my shirt, teasing me like this? You planned this, didn’t you?”

You smirked, running your hands up his chest, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. “Maybe I did. What are you gonna do about it, pretty boy?”

His laugh was dark, dangerous, and he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear.

“I’m gonna make you glow, baby,” he whispered, referencing your little inside joke from fan edits of your ongoing drama

“Let’s see how bright I can make you tonight.”

You laughed, swatting his chest, but the sound turned into a moan as he kissed his way down your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Big talk,” you challenged, your voice breathy. “Prove it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His hands yanked the shirt over your head, tossing it across the room, leaving you bare except for the lace panties.

His eyes darkened, reverent, as he took you in.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it hardened under his touch.

But he didn’t stop there. His lips followed, kissing a slow, deliberate path down your body, pausing to suck gently at your collarbone, your ribs, the dip of your stomach.

He knew all your sensitive spots very well.

Even after the 7 years of marriage the spark never left.

You squirmed, impatient, but he pinned your hips to the bed, his grin wicked.

“Oh, no, you don’t get to rush this,” he teased, his voice low and filthy.

“I’m taking my time with you.”

His lips brushed lower, hovering over the lace of your panties, and you held your breath, your body trembling with anticipation. He hooked his fingers into the waistband, dragging them down your legs with agonizing slowness, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Tae!! Stop Teasing.”

You whined, your hands reaching for him, but he caught your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.

“Patience, baby,” he purred, his free hand sliding between your thighs, parting them gently.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good you’ll be glowing for days.”

And then his mouth was on you—finally, torturously slow—his lips ghosting over your folds, hot breath teasing your swollen clit without mercy.

You squirmed, a desperate little whimper slipping out as you tried to tilt your hips up to meet him, but his strong hands pinned you down, spreading your thighs wider with a growl.

“So needy already?” he taunted, his voice muffled against your skin. “I haven’t even started yet.”

You gasped, your fingers fisting the sheets, every nerve ending on fire as he dragged his tongue up your slit in one agonizingly slow stroke, only to pull back just before reaching your clit.

“Tae,” you whined, the sound high and breathless, your hips bucking shamelessly. “Please...Stop teasing me.”

He chuckled darkly. “Oh, sweetheart, I live to tease.”

And then he dove in—his tongue flicking your clit in quick, maddening bursts, alternating between light, fluttery licks and deeper, languid strokes that had your toes curling.

When he finally wrapped his lips around you, sucking with just the right amount of pressure, your moan was so damn loud.

“Fuck—please—Tae,” you gasped, writhing beneath him, desperate for more.

He slid two fingers inside you, slow and deliberate, curling them just so—hitting that spot that made your vision blur.

Your back arched off the bed, your thighs trembling as he fucked you with his fingers and licked you like a man starved, savoring every shaky moan that fell from your lips.

“Such a pretty little pussy,” he groaned against you, his voice dripping with filth.

“Tastes even better than I remembered.” Your hands flew to his hair, tugging as you fell apart, hips stuttering against his mouth, the orgasm ripping through you in waves so intense it left you gasping and boneless.

He didn’t stop—not right away. He licked you through it, coaxing more sweet sounds out of you until you whimpered, “Too much, Tae, please,” your thighs trying—and failing—to close around his head.

He finally pulled back with a sinful smirk, his lips and chin glistening, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You always fall apart for me like this,” he murmured, voice low and satisfied as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh.

“So fucking perfect.”

“Fuck, Tae, you’re too good at this,” you said breathless and shaking.

He kissed his way back up your body, his lips glistening, his grin smug. “There’s that glow,” he teased, and you laughed, weak and blissed out, pulling him down for a kiss. You could taste yourself on him, and it only made you want him more.

“My turn,” you purred against his lips, your voice syrup-slick and smug as sin.

Taehyung’s eyes darkened, watching you with open hunger as you pushed him gently onto his back.

“Oh, baby… fuck yes,” he breathed, his brows lifting as he settled against the pillows, clearly not ready for the kind of destruction you were about to deliver.

You straddled his hips, grinding down slow and just enough to make him hiss, before sliding down his body.

His belt? Gone in a flash.

Jeans and boxers shoved down just enough to free him—and god, he was already hard, thick and pulsing, desperate for attention. You wrapped your hand around him, slow strokes that made him grunt, his thighs twitching as you leaned in, lips brushing the flushed head.

He moaned—already.

“Baby, don’t—”

A sharp inhale cut him off as your tongue flicked out, teasing the sensitive underside with a featherlight swirl. You pulled back slightly, your lips just ghosting over the tip. “What’s that?” you teased, voice dripping honey and filth.

“Don’t what? You think only you can tease.”

“Don’t tease,” he groaned, breathless, head pressing back into the pillow, one hand fisting the sheets, the other tangling in your hair.

“I swear, I’m already—fuck—”

You smiled, devilish, and licked a slow, wet stripe from base to tip before finally taking him into your mouth—just the tip at first, suckling like it was candy you didn’t wanna finish too fast.

He whined, deep and wrecked, his hand twitching in your hair but still letting you set the pace. “Shit… baby… that mouth…”

You moaned around him, letting the vibrations ripple through his cock as you took more of him, slow and deliberate. Your tongue danced along his length, your lips stretching, saliva spilling as you worked him over like a meal you’d been craving for days.

“Fuck—fuck—you’re gonna kill me,” he rasped, hips jerking just a little before you pushed him down with a palm to his stomach. “Stay still, baby,” you cooed, voice wrecked and teasing.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

His ring caught the lamplight as he gripped the sheets tighter, trying not to lose it.

“You want me to come already?” he panted. “Is that what you want, huh? That pretty little mouth full of me?”

You hummed again, then swallowed him deeper, taking him so far your eyes watered—and god, the way he cried out, head thrown back, his voice cracking?

You nearly came right then and there.

Your hands gripped his hips to hold him down while you sucked and licked and hollowed your cheeks, worshipping him like a god on his altar.

He was panting now, wrecked and sweaty, moaning your name like a prayer. “I’m—fuck, I’m not gonna last, babe,” he warned, voice high and shaky. “You’re gonna make me—oh fuck—”

And you pulled back just enough to lick the tip, lazy and smug, eyes locking with his as you whispered, “Then give it to me, Tae. Make a mess in my mouth.”

The sound he made when he finally came? Filthy. His hips jerked despite himself, hot spurts of cum spilling onto your tongue as he cried out your name like a broken man, his wedding ring still clutched in the sheets.

“Enough,” he growled, pulling you into a kiss, his lips desparate and hungry.

“I need to be inside you. Now.”

He reached into the bedside drawer, pulling out a condom and tearing it open with his teeth with so much ease. You watched, your mouth dry, as he rolled it on, his movements quick but deliberate, his eyes locked on yours.

“Classy!!” you teased, but your voice was shaky, your body aching for him. He grinned, pulling you onto his lap, your knees straddling his hips.

“You love it,” he whispered, and then he was kissing you again, deep and dirty, as he guided himself to your entrance and thrust up into you in one smooth motion.

You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, the stretch intense and perfect. He stilled for a moment, letting you adjust, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips as he started to move, slow at first, each thrust deep and deliberate.

You rolled your hips against him, finding a rhythm, your hands clutching his face, his neck, anything to anchor yourself.

His wedding ring pressed against your skin as he gripped your thigh, a constant reminder of the vows you’d made, the love that burned brighter than any headline.

“Harder,” you demanded, your voice breathy, and he laughed, low and teasing.

“Too needy tonight, huh?” he said, but he gave you what you wanted, his thrusts becoming rougher, more desperate, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit again, circling it with just the right pressure to make you cry out.

“Fuck, Tae, right there,” you gasped, your nails clawing at his back, leaving marks you knew he’d wear proudly tomorrow. He groaned, his lips crashing into yours, swallowing your moans as you both moved together, a perfect, frantic rhythm.

“You’re mine,” he growled against your mouth, his thrusts becoming erratic as he neared his release. “No matter what those fucking headlines say.”

You came first, the pleasure hitting you perfectly, your body shaking as you clenched around him, your moans loud and unapologetic.

He followed moments later, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat as he spilled into the condom, his hands holding you close, like he was anchoring himself to you.

You stayed like that for a moment, panting, tangled together, the world outside a distant memory. He pulled out carefully, disposing of the condom before collapsing beside you, pulling you into his arms.

His lips brushed your forehead, soft and reverent now, a stark contrast to the filthy things he’d whispered minutes ago.

“Still glowing like a jellyfish,” he murmured, his voice soft, and you laughed, nuzzling into his chest.

Later, in the shower, the steam wrapped around you like a warm embrace, the water cascading over your bodies. Taehyung brushed your wet hair back, his touch gentle, almost worshipful.

You lathered shampoo into his hair, your fingers massaging his scalp, and he closed his eyes, humming softly, a contented smile on his lips. He returned the favor, his hands careful as he washed your hair, his lips brushing your cheeks, your temples, in sleepy, tender kisses.

Wrapped in towels, you curled up on the couch, his arms around you, your head tucked under his chin. The jazz had shifted to something slower, more intimate, and you felt the weight of the day melt away.

“Jin Hyung offered you a drama,” Taehyung said suddenly, his voice soft. “I heard you declined it.”

You nodded, tracing lazy circles on his chest. “Mhmm. I need a break. And… I want to focus on us now.”

He pulled back slightly, his brows furrowing. “Us?”

You smiled, a little shy, your heart racing. “Tae, should we think about a baby? I mean, only if you’re ready too.”

His eyes widened, and then he laughed, a bright, boyish sound that made your heart soar.

“Woah! Then why didn’t you stop me earlier when I wasted a condom?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Well, we can do round two without it.”

You laughed, swatting his chest. “Nooo, I’m tired now.”

“Just one more round, babe,” he pleaded, his lips brushing yours, his hands already wandering. You giggled, melting into his kiss, the world fading away again.

Few weeks later, it was a lazy Sunday, the kind that felt like velvet against your soul. Phones off. Curtains drawn. No schedules. Just the two of you, the scent of soil and syrup in the air.

You’d started in the garden—barefoot, thighs bare under one of Taehyung’s oversized shirts, as you watered the flower pots. The morning sun warmed your skin, golden and slow.

Muffin, your furball, ran in chaotic circles chasing a butterfly, tail swiping over a flower pot with a crash.

“Muffin!” you scolded through a laugh, shaking your head.

Inside, Taehyung was “cooking” pancakes, which really meant shirtless chaos. The kitchen smelled of burnt batter and sugar.

You stepped in, wiping dirt on your thighs, only to find him at the stove—brow furrowed, tongue poking out, apron slung low on his hips, chest dusted in flour like powdered sin.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smirking. “Mr. Handsome can’t even flip a pancake?”

He turned to you, flour smudged across his nose and cheekbone like war paint. “I can flip you just fine,” he growled, a feral grin breaking out as he strode toward you.

You barely had time to breathe before he caged you against the fridge—one arm slamming beside your head, the other gripping your thigh. His lips hovered over yours, eyes dark.

“Wanna test that theory?”

You licked your bottom lip slowly, the air between you thick. “Maybe I should punish you for ruining breakfast,” you whispered.

“Oh, baby,” he chuckled, tilting your chin up with two fingers, “why don’t you try?”

Then his mouth was on you—hot, filthy, demanding. Tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owned it. He tasted like burnt sugar and black coffee, sinful and sharp.

You gasped, grabbing his shoulders, nails raking down his back. He groaned, deep in his chest, biting your lower lip until you whimpered.

You didn’t stand a chance.

His hands were under your shirt, roaming your bare thighs, gripping tight as he hoisted you onto the counter in one smooth lift. “No panties?” he growled, fingers slipping up between your legs, dragging through your slick folds. “You came in here like this?”

You grinned breathlessly. “Didn't wear any after last night.”

“Greedy, Mrs. Kim,” he rasped, mouth on your neck now, kissing, sucking, tongue flicking just below your ear until you moaned. “What should I feed you first?”

You tugged his apron strings loose, pulling him in, legs wrapped around his hips. “You.”

He kissed you like he was starving—licks, bites, messy sounds filling the air. Your shirt rode up with every grind of his hips, his cock hard against your core, only fabric separating skin from sin. He slid two fingers into you, groaning at the way your walls fluttered. “Fuck, you’re dripping.”

“Tae—”

“Say it,” he whispered, forehead against yours, breath heavy. “Say what you want.”

“You. Inside. Now.”

He didn’t wait. Just shoved his pants down enough to free himself and slid home in one deep, slow thrust.

You gasped, nails digging into his back as he filled you, the stretch perfect. His groan was low, guttural, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

“Apparantly, the internet doesn't think like this.” You teased.

The kitchen echoed with filthy sounds—wet kisses, skin slapping, your soft gasps turning into moans. He moved inside you with slow, brutal precision, every roll of his hips hitting just right.

Flour dusted the counter. The pancakes burned in the background, forgotten. You didn’t care.

You were gripping the edge of the fridge for dear life, thighs trembling, head thrown back as he bit down on your collarbone and fucked you harder.

“You gonna cum for me like this?” he growled, slapping your thigh. “All messy on the kitchen counter?”

You cried out, nodding frantically. “Tae—I’m close—”

“Then cum, baby,” he whispered, thrusting deep, “cum on my cock.”

You shattered, body arching, walls clenching tight around him. He followed with a groan, hips jerking, spilling into you with a kiss so deep it made your toes curl.

Moments later, you were both collapsed on the kitchen floor—sweaty, breathless, tangled in each other’s limbs, flour streaking your skin. You laughed until your stomach hurt, head on his chest.

“We’re such a disaster,” you murmured.

“The hottest disaster,” he replied, stroking your hair.

You turned, eyes soft, took his hand and guided it to your stomach.

“Tae,” you whispered. “It’s happening. I tested today early morning when I woke up.”

His breath hitched. He looked at you—really looked. “Wait—are you…?”

You nodded. “Yeah. We made more than a mess today.”

He stared, hand flat against your belly, then broke into a grin so wide it hurt. “We’re having a baby?” he whispered.

You nodded again, eyes watery.

He kissed you. Hard. Soft. Everything. “We’re gonna be the horniest, happiest parents ever.”

You burst into laughter again, curling into his arms, heart full, skin sticky, soul warm.

That evening, you both posted a photo dump on Instagram.

The first was of you in matching aprons, flour on your noses, grinning like idiots.

The second was a selfie, your cheeks pressed close, making heart fingers.

The third was Taehyung kissing your stomach, his eyes soft, his smile radiant.

The caption read: “We don’t discuss work at home. Cause we’re busy making family. ❤️👶 #ComingSoon”

The internet lost its mind. Twitter crashed for an hour. The headlines flipped overnight: “Taehyung and Y/N Expecting!” and “Korea’s Power Couple Shuts Down Rumors with Baby News!”

Two months later, the award show was a dazzling dream, fans screaming your names, and cameras flashing like a symphony of tiny fireworks.

You stepped out of the black car like a goddess incarnate, draped in a flowing blush-pink gown that shimmered with each step. The empire waistline fluttered over your barely-there baby bump, glowing under the spotlight like a secret being whispered to the world.

Taehyung was glued to your side in a perfectly tailored navy velvet suit, one hand proudly creating space among crowd as you walk, the other wrapped protectively resting around your waist.

Reporters were yelling questions, but one petite journalist, voice trembling with nerves and excitement, stepped forward holding a mic that matched her trembling hands.

“So… Taehyung-ssi, Y/N-ssi…” she began, voice rising slightly, “there’s been a lot of talk lately, and fans have been wondering…” She gestured subtly toward your midsection.

“Are the rumors true?”

You opened your mouth, but before you could speak, Taehyung brought your joined hands to his lips and kissed your fingers tenderly.

His smile was soft but smug, his eyes twinkling with unspoken joy.

“Well, I remembered this release date very well.” he said smoothly, brushing a thumb over your hand.

Your cheeks flushed, eyes meeting his, laughter bubbling up your throat. “And it’s one thing we definitely do talk about at home,” you added, voice teasing but thick with emotion.

A beat of stunned silence fell over the crowd—then the photographers lost their minds. Flashbulbs popped in a frenzy, reporters shouted follow-up questions, and Twitter instantly crashed.

Taehyung turned to you like the rest of the world didn’t exist, gently tucking a curl behind your ear, brushing a kiss to your temple.

“I hope they’re ready for the cutest baby ever. No one stands a chance.”

You smiled, tears prickling but refusing to fall under that much makeup. “They’ll have your smile. I’m doomed.”

“No,” he whispered. “You’re everything. They’ll have that.”

The internet? Silenced. The headlines? Exploded:

“Kim Taehyung & Y/N Confirm Baby News With The Softest Red Carpet Moment In History”“Actor Kim Taehyung Can’t Stop Looking At His Wife Like She’s His Entire Galaxy”“Forget Awards. They Already Won Tonight.”

And somewhere backstage, Muffin barked at the TV screen, tail wagging. Even he knew—Mom and Dad were stealing the whole damn show.

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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

[kittenan2]

Arrest Me, Officer [Pt. II]

Pairing: Cop!Reader x Cybersecurity Student!Jungkook Word Count: ~7k Rating: Explicit (18+) Genres: Romantic Comedy | Smut | Fluff | Angst | Noona Romance Warnings: Explicit sexual content, BDSM elements (handcuffs, light dom/sub dynamics), dirty talk, oral sex (female receiving), penetrative sex, mentions of criminal activity, emotional intensity, graphic depictions of violence (shooting, blood), injury, hospital scenes, strong language, intense angst, steamy make-out scene.

The precinct is a noisy mess—phones ringing, officers yelling, and the coffee machine hissing like it’s about to explode. You’re at your desk, surrounded by stacks of case files, your eyes tired from staring at confusing data for hours.

You’re chasing a black-market hacking ring that’s a big deal. It’s the kind of case that keeps you awake, your mind buzzing with determination.

Across the room, Jeon Jungkook—your annoying but charming neighbour who’s now a cybersecurity intern—sits at a desk full of computer screens, typing fast.

His usual ripped jeans and leather jacket are changed into button-up shirts and ties, but his ties always look like a mess. Today’s tie, a dark blue disaster, looks like it was tied during a storm.

He catches your eye and flashes a big, mischievous grin, the same one that used to make you roll your eyes back at your apartment building.

“Officer Noona,” he calls, voice teasing, “you staring at my code or my face?”

You snort, flipping through a file. “Your tie, actually. It’s a crime scene.”

He gasps, clutching his chest dramatically, the motion showing a bit of his tattoos under his rolled-up sleeves. You definitely don’t notice them, lie... you did. “Harsh, Noona. Fix it for me, then. I know you want to.”

You roll your eyes but walk over, your boots loud on the floor. His chair creaks as he leans back, smirking, watching you with those dark, playful eyes as you undo the messy knot and tie it properly. Your fingers brush his neck, and he breathes in sharply, just enough for you to notice. You step back, smirking.

“There. Now you look ok.”

“Only ok?” he says, winking. “Guess I’ll have to commit a few more crimes to get your attention.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile, and go back to your desk.

He’s not just the flirty guy who ran red lights to get you to cuff him anymore. He’s your co-worker now, still a bit of a brat but smart and focused.

He’s good at cracking codes and patterns, but he still has that spark that makes your heart race and your patience wear thin.

The case you are working on is tough. You’ve been following leads for weeks, talking to scared informants who know nothing, while Jungkook digs through hidden servers and shady online forums.

You’re both exhausted, but you’re too stubborn to say it, and he’s too proud to stop trying to impress you.

It’s late, the precinct almost empty, the lights casting long shadows. You’re hunched over your desk, sipping cold coffee, when Jungkook slams his laptop shut so hard it makes you jump.

“Noona,” he says, his voice serious, no hint of his usual playfulness. He’s standing, his chair pushed back, his eyes dark and intense. “You need to drop this case.”

You blink, surprised.

“What?”

He runs a hand through his hair, the motion sharp, his wrist still showing faint marks from last week’s fun. “I found something in the code trail. These guys… they’re not just hackers. They’re erasing people. Whistleblowers, informants, anyone who gets too close. I traced a thread to a hit list, and your name’s on it.”

Your stomach drops, but you lean back, crossing your arms.

“A hit list? Jungkook, I’ve been on those before. Comes with the badge.”

He steps closer, his jaw clenched, his voice rising.

“This isn’t a fucking game, Noona! These people don’t just threaten—they kill. I found out what they did to the last guy who got too close—wiped his entire digital life, then he was gone. No body, no trace. You don’t get how dangerous this is!”

You stand, meeting his gaze, your voice icy. “And you don’t get that I’m not dropping a case because some intern with soft hands tells me it’s scary.”

His eyes blaze, hurt and fury crashing together. “Soft hands? I’m not just some fucking intern!” he shouts, his voice echoing in the empty precinct.

“I’m the guy who’s been losing his goddamn mind watching you come home bruised and bleeding, acting like it’s nothing! I’m the guy who stays up all night tracing your cases to keep you safe! This is different, and you’re too fucking stubborn to see it!”

You step into his space, your voice low and cutting. “Then stop watching, Jungkook! Do your damn internship and stay out of my work! I don’t need you playing hero!”

He laughs, bitter and sharp, his hands shaking. “Hero? I’m not trying to be a hero, Noona! I’m trying to keep you alive! You think I can just sit here, coding like a good little intern, while you’re out there getting yourself killed? I care about you, damn it!”

“I’m a cop, Jungkook!” you yell, your voice breaking. “I don’t walk away because something’s dangerous! That’s my job, not yours!”

“And I’m not just some kid you cuff and tease!” he roars, stepping closer, his face inches from yours.

“You don’t get to tell me I can’t care about you! You don’t get to shut me out like I’m nothing! I’m not just your intern—I’m the guy who’s been in love with you since the day you slapped those cuffs on me, and you’re too damn blind to see it!”

The words hit like a punch, stealing your breath. You stare at him, your heart pounding, his confession hanging heavy between you.

His chest heaves, his eyes wild with anger and something deeper—fear, desperation, love. You open your mouth to respond, but the words choke in your throat.

“You have no right to interfere in my job or in my life,” you say finally, your voice cold, shaking with rage and fear. “You’re here to learn, Jungkook. Not to play boyfriend. Stay out of my business.”

He flinches like you’ve slapped him, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Fine,” he spits, grabbing his jacket, his voice breaking. “You want me out? I’m out. But don’t come crying to me when you’re bleeding out because you were too fucking proud to listen.”

He storms out, the door slamming so hard it rattles the walls. You sink into your chair, your hands trembling, your chest tight with a pain you can’t name.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening, and for the first time in weeks, you feel truly alone.

Days turn into a week, then two. The precinct feels like a warzone of silence, heavy with words you’re both too stubborn to say.

Jungkook sits at his desk, headphones on, eyes glued to his computer screens, his usual bright grins and playful winks gone. He doesn’t talk to you unless it’s about work, and even then, his voice is flat, like he’s reading from a script.

At your apartment building, he’s like a ghost—no more silly sticky notes, no toy sirens blaring at dawn, no bike roaring just to get you to look at him. The quiet where his chaos used to be hurts more than you thought it could.

Inside, you’re falling apart. Every time you walk by his desk, your chest tightens with guilt and a deep ache you can’t name.

You miss his teasing voice, his loud laugh, the way he’d call you “Officer Noona” like it was your secret code.

But you’re too proud to reach out, too scared of what it means to admit you need him. You tell yourself you’re okay, that you’re a tough cop who’s faced worse than a broken heart, but it’s a lie.

At night, you stare at the ceiling, his words—“I’m in love with you”—playing on repeat, cutting deeper each time. You wonder if you’ve ruined everything, if you pushed away the one person who saw you, really saw you, behind the badge.

Jungkook’s just as broken. He dives into his work, typing code like it’s the only thing keeping him sane, but his thoughts are on you. Every line he writes feels empty without your sharp comments or your annoyed eye-rolls pushing him to be better.

He replays the fight over and over, your cold voice—“stay out of my business”—like a knife in his heart.

He’s angry, hurt, but mostly terrified, the image of your name on that hit list haunting his dreams.

He wants to scream at you to listen, to beg you to let him in, but your rejection has left him hollow, wondering if he was just a game to you, a kid you teased but never really wanted.

Even in the silence, he can’t stop caring. One morning, he leaves a plain coffee cup on your desk, no “Noona” written on it, but you know it’s from him.

Another day, he slips a protein bar into your bag when you’re not looking, knowing you’ve been skipping meals.

He adjusts your chair when he sees you wincing from your old shoulder injury, moving it closer to your desk so you don’t have to reach. You don’t say anything, but you drink the coffee, eat the bar, and feel your anger soften, even as you hate yourself for it.

Each small act is like a quiet shout, saying I’m still here, but it hurts more than it helps, reminding you of the love you pushed away.

One afternoon, a co-worker, Officer Lee, notices Jungkook’s tie—a messy knot that looks like it was tied by a toddler. “Jeon, what’s with the tie? You get dressed in the dark?”

Lee laughs, smacking Jungkook’s shoulder.

Jungkook freezes, his hand halfway to fixing it, and his eyes dart to you across the room.

You’re sorting papers, but you look up at the same time, your gazes crashing together.

For a moment, the world shrinks to just you two, the memory of your hands fixing his tie, your fingers brushing his neck, flooding back.

His eyes soften, full of apologies and longing, and yours sting with everything you’ve buried—guilt, need, fear. You both look away quickly, the moment breaking, but the pain lingers, heavier than ever.

You’re not okay. You throw yourself into the case, chasing leads with a recklessness that makes your senior partner, Min, frown. “Slow down, kid,” he says one day, watching you gulp your third coffee. “You’re gonna burn out.”

“I’m fine,” you snap, but you’re not. Your shoulder aches, your sleep is filled with nightmares of blood and shadows, and every time you see Jungkook’s slumped shoulders or hear his quiet steps in the hall, your heart breaks a little more. You want to say something, to fix this, but the words feel like giving up, like admitting you’re not as tough as you act.

His friends, Taehyung and Jimin, notice the change, too. They corner you outside the apartment building one evening, Taehyung holding a bag of tteokbokki, his usual grin replaced with a scowl.

Jimin leans against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp eyes pinning you. “Okay, Noona,” Taehyung says, pointing a sauce-covered chopstick at you. “What’s with the cold war? Jungkook’s roaming like a kicked puppy, and you’re scarier than usual.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, brushing past them. “Mind your business.”

Jimin steps in front of you, his smile soft but insistent. “C’mon, we know you two. He’s not blasting that stupid siren anymore, and you’re not yelling at him for it. That’s not normal. Talk to him.”

“I don’t need to talk to him,” you say, voice sharp. “He needs to stay out of my work.”

Taehyung groans, throwing his hands up. “You’re both so stubborn! He’s just worried, okay? He’s got those big doe eyes all sad now, and it’s breaking my heart.”

“Then tell him to focus on his internship,” you snap, pushing past them. Jimin calls after you, but you don’t turn back.

You can’t.

Admitting you miss him, that his absence is a gaping wound, feels like surrendering the armor you’ve worn for years.

They try with Jungkook, too, dragging him to a karaoke bar to “cheer him up.”

You hear about it from a drunken text Taehyung sends you directly, a blurry video attached.

In it, Jungkook sits in a dim corner, staring at his phone, your contact open on the screen, his thumb hovering over the call button before he shoves it back in his pocket.

He downs a soju shot, sits through three songs, then leaves, muttering, “I’m not in the mood.”

You delete the message, but the image of his defeated expression burns in your mind, a splinter you can’t pull out.

The silence is brutal, a heavy fog that chokes you both. You catch yourself staring at the empty space where his sticky notes used to be.

Jungkook’s heart aches with every step he takes past your apartment door, knowing you’re behind it, out of reach.

He lies awake at night, replaying your fight, hating himself for pushing too hard, for letting his fear turn into anger. You’re both drowning in the quiet, too proud to break it, too scared to face what it means.

You’re chasing a lead—a shady warehouse in Gangnam, a tip from an informant who sounded more scared than reliable. You should’ve called for backup, but you’re pissed, restless, the case slipping through your fingers like sand.

The fight with Jungkook has left you raw, your heart a tangled mess of guilt and defiance. You tell yourself you’re fine, that you’ve handled worse alone, but deep down, a small voice whispers you’re wrong, and it sounds like his.

The warehouse is too quiet. Every step you take echoes in the stillness, your gun tight in your grip, but your head isn’t fully there.

You keep thinking about Jungkook—his broken face when he said “I love you”, the way you snapped back instead of saying what you really felt. Your heart isn’t just racing because of danger... it’s because of him. Of maybe never getting to fix what you shattered.

Then—it happens.

A sound, a sharp crack, and suddenly pain explodes in your shoulder, the old injury making it worse. White-hot, blinding.

You cry out as your body hits the concrete, your gun flying out of reach. You can feel the blood already—hot and sticky, soaking through your clothes, spreading way too fast. You try to move, to fight, but your arm won’t work.

Everything feels heavy. Distant. And just like that, the fear kicks in—not just that you might die, but that you’ll die without ever telling him how much you love him.

Your thoughts start to blur. Jungkook’s smile flickers through your mind. His terrible pancakes, his coffee, his stupid tie. The way he looked at you like you hung the moon.

You’re slipping.

Then—his voice.

“Noona!”

It’s sharp, panicked, real.

Jungkook’s voice cuts through the haze like a lifeline. And suddenly he’s there. On the ground next to you, his hands shaking as he tries to stop the bleeding. He presses his jacket to your wound, but the red soaks through instantly.

His face is pale.

He’s crying—actual tears streaming down his face, falling onto your skin.

“Stay with me,” he pleads. “Please, please, don’t do this. I told you not to go alone! Why didn’t you listen?!”

You want to speak, but your lips won’t move. He’s holding your hand so tight it hurts, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go. His forehead rests on your arm, and he’s breathing in short, shaky gasps.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” He chocks. “Backup’s here, just—fuck, stay with me, Noona, please.”

His tears fall onto your skin, hot and heavy, and you want to reach for him, to tell him you’re sorry, that you didn’t mean to push him away, that you love him too—but your voice is gone, your body heavy.

You hear sirens in the distance—faint, getting closer—you catch glimpses of other officers—Min, your boss, SWAT—storming the warehouse, but all you really hear is him.

“I’m sorry, Noona, I’m so sorry,” he sobs, his forehead pressed against your hand, his breath hitching. “I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve fought harder. I can’t—I can’t lose you.”

You look at him, as much as your blurry eyes allow.

You see it in his eyes—the love he confessed, the fear of losing you, the guilt he’s carrying like a weight. You want to tell him it’s not his fault, that you were the one who ran headfirst into danger, that you were too proud to listen.

His face—streaked with tears, raw with pain—is the last thing you see before everything goes dark.

But even as the world fades, you feel his voice, his hands, his love trying to hold you here. And you wish more than anything you’d told him the truth before it was too late.

You wake up to the steady beep of a heart monitor, the sharp smell of antiseptic filling your nose, and a deep, burning ache in your shoulder. It feels like someone lit a fire there and left it to smolder. Your body is heavy, your arm’s in a sling, and everything feels stiff and sore. The hospital room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of machines, humming quietly around you.

Then you see him.

Jungkook’s sitting in the chair right beside your bed. His head is hanging forward, resting on his folded arms. His hair is messy and tangled, his hoodie wrinkled like he’s been wearing it for days. His eyes are puffy and red, like he’s been crying. A lot.

He looks like he hasn’t left your side.

Your heart twists.

Your voice comes out as a rough whisper. “You look like shit.”

His head jerks up, his eyes locking onto yours like he’s not sure he’s really awake. Then all the tension breaks off his face, and a wave of pure relief crashes through him.

“Noona,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You’re awake…”

“Shall I call Doctor?” You shook your head.

He leans forward, one hand reaching toward yours—but stopping just short, like he’s afraid touching you will make you disappear.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispers.

You try to sit up, but pain shoots through your shoulder and makes you wince hard.

“Don’t move,” he says quickly, standing and helping you gently lie back against the pillows. His hands are so careful, like you’re made of glass.

“You’re injured badly.”

You swallow thickly. The memory comes rushing back—the warehouse, the gunshot, his voice screaming your name through the dark.

“What happened?” you ask, even though deep down, you already know.

He sits again, but there’s something tense in his posture, like he’s barely keeping it together.

“You got shot,” he says, his voice low and tight. “Shoulder’s dislocated. The bullet grazed your shoulder, messed up the muscles and ligaments. They had to pop the whole joint back in. The doctor says you need at least a month to rest. The case… it’s been reassigned.”

Your heart sinks. “A month? I’m fine—”

“You’re not fine!” he snaps, and the sharpness in his voice startles you. But his eyes are filled with fear, not anger. “You almost died, Noona.”

His hands tremble slightly in his lap. He looks away, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“I was there,” he says softly, voice breaking. “I saw you bleeding. You were so pale… so still. I held your hand and begged you to stay. I thought I was gonna lose you forever.”

Your heart shatters at the pain in his words.

And in that moment, everything hits you—the guilt, the fear, the memory of how you pushed him away when all he ever wanted was to protect you.

You reach out with your good hand, gently brushing your fingers against his arm. “Jungkook,” you whisper, tears stinging your eyes. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve listened to you. You were right—about the case, about the danger. I was too stubborn, too proud, and I… I almost lost everything because of it. I almost lost you.”

His eyes snap up to meet yours, wide and full of shock—like he didn’t expect to hear that. He leans in closer, his hand finally wrapping around yours, warm and steady, even though he’s still shaking a little.

“You don’t have to say sorry,” he murmurs. “I just… I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I kept thinking, what if she never wakes up? What if I never get to tell her again?”

“I heard you,” you whisper, a tear slipping down your cheek. “In the warehouse. Your voice—it kept me here.”

His jaw clenches, and he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

“I’d go through all of it again,” he says, eyes shining. “Every second. Every damn minute. I’d go through it all again if it meant keeping you safe. I just… I need you, Noona. I need you to be okay.”

Your heart aches in the best way—like it’s breaking open, just to let him in.

“I’m here,” you say quietly, voice thick with emotion. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He closes his eyes for a second like he’s trying to breathe through everything he’s feeling. Then he leans forward, gently pressing his forehead to yours, careful not to hurt you. His breath is warm against your skin.

“Just promise me,” he whispers, his voice shaking, “don’t ever do that again. Please.”

You nod, tears in your lashes. “Okay. I promise.”

And for the first time in weeks, the silence between you feels different—not cold, not angry. It feels full. Full of all the things you both were too scared to say before. Full of healing. Of love.

Jungkook moves into your apartment without even asking. One day he’s visiting, the next he’s everywhere—turning into a full-time nurse, part-time cook, and all-time chaos. He’s doing everything for you, and doing it in the most Jungkook way possible.

Mornings start with lopsided pancakes—some too thick, some too burnt—but he serves them like a proud chef.

“These are masterpieces, Noona,” he insists, flipping one dramatically with just one hand. “I’m just practicing for the cuffs.”

You try not to smile. You fail.

He makes you tea too. Way too sweet. But if you don’t drink it, he gives you the most dramatic pout known to mankind. “Excuse me,” he gasps. “I slaved over that. Respect the art!”

When he washes your hair, his touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. His fingers move slowly, careful of your sling, massaging your scalp while he hums some soft song you don’t recognize. “Gotta keep my favorite cop looking sharp,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” you grumble one morning, your shoulder throbbing as you reach for a glass of water, wincing. He’s there in a flash, handing it to you with a mock scowl.

“Stop being stubborn, Noona,” he says, his voice firm but warm, his eyes twinkling. “You’re hurt, and I’m your personal nurse now. Accept your fate and deal with it.”

You glare, but there’s no heat in it. “I’m not an invalid.”

“No, you’re my pain in the ass,” he retorts, grinning, his dimples popping. “Now drink your water, or I’ll sing you a lullaby, and trust me, you don’t want that.”

You roll your eyes. But it’s hard not to smile. His care is relentless—and it’s beautiful. He fusses over your pillows, arranges your blankets like you’re being tucked into a cloud, and even calls you a “cop burrito” when he wraps you up too tightly.

At night, he camps out in a chair by your bed, refusing the bed, his long legs dangling awkwardly, his hoodie bunched around his waist. He plays soft music on his phone, humming along until you drift off, his presence a quiet comfort that soothes your restless dreams.

One morning, you wake to find him sneaking a hot water bottle under your blanket, his cheeks pink when you catch him. “What’s this, Jeon? Planning to cook me?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks, unbothered. “Nah, just keeping my favorite officer warm. Can’t have you freezing on my watch.” Then his grin softens, his voice dropping.

“You okay? Need anything else?”

You shake your head, your throat tight at his quiet care, the way he’s always there, anticipating your needs before you even voice them.

A week into your recovery, your period hits, and the cramps make you curl into a ball, your mood sourer than usual.

You’re embarrassed, trying to hide the pain, but Jungkook notices instantly, his eyes narrowing as you wince. “Noona, what’s wrong? Is it your shoulder?” he asks, his voice laced with worry.

You mumble something vague, your cheeks burning, but he’s not having it. “C’mon, don’t pull that tough cop act on me,” he says, sitting on the edge of your bed, his tone gentle but firm. “Tell me.”

You sigh, muttering, “It’s just… cramps. You know, period stuff.” You expect him to back off, but he just nods, unfazed, and stands up.

“Got it. Stay right here, Officer,” he says, flashing a grin before disappearing into the kitchen.

He comes back with a heating pad, a mug of chamomile tea, and a bar of your favorite chocolate, plopping down beside you.

“Heard this helps,” he says, tucking the heating pad against your stomach with a careful touch. “And don’t even think about being embarrassed. I grew up with a sister, remember? I’m a pro.”

You laugh despite yourself, the warmth of the pad and his easy confidence easing your discomfort. “You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but your voice is soft, grateful.

“Ridiculously perfect, you mean,” he quips, nudging your good shoulder lightly. “Now eat the chocolate, Noona. It’s an order.”

You take a bite, the sweetness melting on your tongue, and he watches you with a proud little smile, like he’s just cracked a case. “See? Nurse Jungkook’s got you covered,” he says, winking, and you can’t help but feel lighter, the embarrassment fading under his playful care.

Taehyung and Jimin start coming over too, bringing noise, snacks, and the kind of chaotic energy only best friends can offer. They show up with bags of takeout and dumb jokes, making your apartment feel alive again.

Taehyung flops dramatically on your couch, tossing popcorn at Jimin, who is mid-lecture about how Jungkook folds your blankets wrong.

“It’s an art, not a wrestling match,” Jimin says with a serious face.

“Yeah?” Jungkook shoots back. “Says the guy who can’t fold a fitted sheet.”

“Neither do you!” Jimin yells, and they burst out laughing, dragging you right along with them.

Taehyung insists on making a “healing playlist” for you, blasting everything from heartbreak ballads to Jazz to cheesy K-pop hits.

“It’s science,” he says, handing you a plate of slightly-mangled kimbap. “My vibes cure everything.”

One night, they all squeeze onto the couch for movie night. Taehyung votes rom-com. Jimin wants horror.

Jungkook picks action and gives you a sly smile.

“Gotta keep the vibes badass for my cop.”

They take turns, bringing you snacks, refilling your water, and teasing Jungkook endlessly, saying he has gone full housewife mode.

Jimin leans toward you with a grin. “Admit it, Noona. You’re loving the pampering.”

You roll your eyes. But yeah. You are.

Because sitting there, wrapped in a blanket, shoulder still healing, surrounded by laughter, by love—you feel safe. You feel seen. And when Jungkook catches your eyes in the middle of all that noise and just smiles... you know he feels it too.

This isn’t just recovery.

It’s home.

It’s week three of your recovery, and something’s shifted between you and Jungkook.

He’s still taking care of you like always—making tea, fluffing pillows, staying up just to make sure you’re okay—but there’s a quiet tension now. Like something important is waiting to be said, hovering between every glance, every almost-touch.

He doesn’t tease as much. His bratty spark is still there, but it’s softer now. Like he’s holding back. And honestly… you feel the same. Your shoulder still aches, but it’s your pride that hurts more. Being stuck on the sidelines, depending on someone—it makes you restless. Unsteady.

That night, the apartment feels too quiet. You find Jungkook standing on your balcony, facing the city. The streetlights glow around him, casting shadows on his face. He doesn’t see you at first. His shoulders are tense, and his head is bowed. And when you step closer, you see the shimmer of tears on his cheeks.

Your heart breaks.

“Jungkook?” you say quietly, stepping out even though your sling tugs at your shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

He turns fast, wiping his face. “Nothing,” he says, but his voice is rough, a little cracked. “Just needed some air.”

You touch his arm, feeling how tight he’s wound. “Talk to me,” you whisper, gentle but steady. “Please.”

He breathes out slowly, eyes falling shut before he turns to face you. And then his walls fall away.

“I thought I lost you,” he says, voice shaking. “When I saw you bleeding on the ground... I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I was so scared. And I kept thinking... it was my fault. Because I couldn’t stop you. Because I wasn’t enough to protect you.”

Your throat tightens, and you shake your head, tears stinging your eyes.

“Jungkook, it wasn’t your fault. I was reckless. I should’ve listened.”

He looks at you then—really looks. His eyes are red, his face streaked with dried tears, but there’s something else there too. Something softer.

You take a deep breath, and the words fall out before you can stop them. “Why do you care so much? I’m not used to this, Jungkook.” you whisper. “I pushed you away. I told you to stay out of my life. But you stayed. You still care. Why?”

He blinks, like he didn’t expect that. But then he steps a little closer.

“Because I love you,” he says simply.

Your heart stutters.

“I tried not to,” he adds, his voice quieter. “Tried to let you go. But I can’t. I love you, Noona.”

You’re frozen, breath caught, chest aching.

“I’m scared,” you admit, the words small but honest.

“I’ve been hurt before. Someone made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. Like my feelings didn’t matter. I thought if I let someone in again, I’d just get crushed. So I pushed you away before you could hurt me.”

You pause, voice trembling.

“But I love you too, Jungkook. I’ve been so afraid. But I really see you as a man. I never played with you and your feelings.”

His eyes go wide, like he doesn’t believe what he just heard. But then he steps even closer, gently cupping your face in both hands. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away a tear that’s escaped.

“Fuck, Noona, this is the first time I’ve seen you cry. Who’s the bastard who hurt you this bad? My badass officer can cry too, huh?” His lips quirk into a small, teasing smile, trying to lighten the moment, but his eyes are still heavy, full of love and pain.

You choke out a laugh through your tears, the sound shaky, as he steps closer.

“You’re more than enough,” he whispers. “You always have been. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”

You press your forehead to his, your good hand clutching the front of his hoodie, holding onto him like your life depends on it. Because maybe it does.

“I don’t want you to go,” you whisper. “I want you here. With me.”

His lips tremble, and he smiles—a small, shaky smile full of love and relief.

“Good,” he breathes.

Then he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the soft curve of your jaw. Every kiss is slow, gentle, like a secret promise. Like he’s telling you he’d do anything to protect you. To love you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin. “So much.”

You pull him closer. And this time, you don’t hold back. No fear. No walls.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

And just like that, the quiet tension breaks.

And all that’s left is you. Him. And the start of something soft, real, and finally, finally safe.

Weeks after your recovery, your shoulder is still healing, but you can move it slightly now, the stiffness easing with each careful stretch.

The confession on the balcony has changed everything, knitting you and Jungkook closer, your days filled with quiet touches and soft smiles, the air between you charged with a new, tender intimacy.

Tonight, your bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. He’s standing by the door, his grey sweatpants low on his hips, his hoodie discarded, leaving his tattooed arm bare, the ink catching the light as he shifts, his eyes locked on you with a hunger that makes your breath catch.

You’re sitting on the bed, your sling off for the night, your shoulder tender but manageable. The heat in your core is undeniable, a slow burn that’s been building for weeks, fueled by his gentle care, his lingering glances, the way he calls you “babe” now, the word soft and possessive, making your heart race.

“Jungkook,” you say, your voice low, steady despite the ache in your body. “I want you.”

He steps closer, his eyes darkening, but his hands hover, cautious, always mindful of your injury. “Babe,” he murmurs, his voice thick with concern, “you’re still hurt.”

You shake your head, your good hand reaching for his, pulling him closer until he’s standing between your legs. “I can handle it,” you say, your voice firm, a spark of your old defiance shining through. “Touch me. I need you so bad.”

He swallows hard, his gaze searching yours, his hands settling lightly on your thighs, careful to avoid your shoulder. “Where?” he asks, his voice a low growl, rough with want but tempered by worry.

You smirk, your good hand sliding up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart. “Everywhere.”

He groans softly, his restraint fraying, but he’s still gentle, his hands sliding up your thighs with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. He kneels on the bed, his lips brushing your collarbone, featherlight, mindful of your healing shoulder.

“Gotta take care of my girl then,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin as he kisses down your chest, over the thin tank top you’re wearing. He pushes the fabric up, revealing your stomach, his lips worshipping every inch of skin, every scar, every bruise, his touch soft but deliberate, like he’s memorizing you.

He moves lower, his fingers hooking into your sweatpants and panties, pulling them down with a slow, careful motion, his eyes flicking up to yours for permission.

You nod, your breath hitching, and he dives in—no hesitation.

“Fuck, babe…” he groans the moment his tongue meets you, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your core.

Your gasp escapes before you can stop it, hips jerking.

“Jungkook—oh my god,” you whisper, your good hand flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands.

He groans again, the sound muffled against your heat, the vibrations shooting straight through your spine. “Taste so good,” he pants, licking you again, slower this time. “Missed this. Been dreamin’ about it, babe.”

“Please,” you whimper, your thighs trembling, “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

His chuckle is dark, low, sexy as hell. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

His lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently—then harder, pulling a loud moan from you. His fingers slide inside, curling just right.

“There,” you cry out, head tipping back, “Fuck—right there!”

“Yeah?” he growls, fingers stroking deeper, tongue working faster now. “That spot right here?”

“You taste so fucking good, babe,” he moans, his voice muffled, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open, his eyes dark with want as he looks up at you.

“Let me make you feel good, yeah? Just let go.”

You tug his hair, guiding him, your hips rolling against his mouth as he doubles down, his tongue relentless, his fingers thrusting in perfect rhythm.

“Yes—yes, Jungkook, fuck—you’re gonna make me—” you gasp, your voice breaking, your body trembling as he pushes you closer, the pleasure so intense it’s almost overwhelming.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispers against your core.

You come hard, a cry tearing from your throat, your good hand clutching the sheets, your body shaking as he works you through it, his lips never leaving you until you’re gasping, oversensitive.

He pulls back, lips glistening, eyes dark and wet with emotion, his breath ragged as he looks up at you like you’re the only thing that exists. “Fuck, babe,” he pants, voice hoarse. “You’re perfect… like that. Falling apart for me.”

You try to catch your breath, chest rising and falling, your thighs still trembling from the high he just pulled you through.

But your eyes drift down, and there he is—sitting on the edge of the bed, hard and straining against his sweatpants, the outline so obvious it makes your mouth water.

He notices your gaze, and a flush rises to his cheeks—unexpectedly shy for someone who just had his mouth between your thighs.

“Can you…?” he starts, voice suddenly quieter, more hesitant. He shifts, guiding your hand to the thick length in his sweats. “Just your mouth, maybe? Don’t wanna hurt your shoulder.”

You shake your head, your good hand sliding down his chest, feeling the heat of him, the need pulsing between you. “No,” you say, your voice firm, desperate. “I need you inside me, Jungkook. Please.”

He hesitates, his eyes searching yours, worry flickering in his gaze. “Babe, your shoulder—”

“I can handle it,” you insist, your good hand cupping his face, pulling him closer until your lips brush his. “Need you. Now.”

He groans, his restraint finally snapping, and nods, helping you shove his sweatpants down. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking—and your breath catches at the sight.

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes dragging over him. “Do you expect me to walk tomorrow?”

He chuckles, low and breathless, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “You won’t. I’m carrying you everywhere, remember?”

His arms wrap around you as he lifts you gently—so damn gently it makes your chest ache—like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever touched. He settles you onto his lap, your thighs spread around his hips, his hands steady on your waist, careful to avoid your sore shoulder.

“Ready, baby?” he whispers, voice low, checking your eyes one last time.

“Hmmm...” you murmur. “Now, Jungkook. Please.”

He guides himself to your entrance, eyes locked with yours, sliding in inch by inch—slow, controlled, watching your every twitch, every breath.

“Fuck, babe,” he groans, teeth gritted, trying not to lose it. “You’re so tight… and warm… feels like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, digging your good hand into his shoulder. “God… you’re so deep, Jungkook. Don’t stop.”

His hands grip your hips, steadying you. “Tell me if it hurts, okay? ”

You nod, your good arm wrapping around his neck, your lips finding his in a deep, hungry kiss as you move together, slow at first, his thrusts deep but gentle, mindful of your body.

His forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling in the charged air.

“You’re mine, baby,” he whispers, voice cracking as he speeds up just slightly, his restraint barely holding. “Mine. I’m never leaving you.”

“You better not,” you breathe against his mouth. “Or I’ll cuff you to the bed.”

He laughs through a groan, biting your lower lip gently. “Kinky and injured. Dangerous combo.”

The words, the feel of him inside you, the way his hands hold you like you’re precious—it’s too much. You cry out, your good arm tightening around him, your tears mixing with his as you come again, your walls clenching around him, the pleasure crashing through you.

He follows, his thrusts stuttering, finishing inside you with a broken moan, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

He holds you close, his hands stroking your back, careful of your shoulder, his lips pressing soft kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your lips.

You stay there, tangled together, your breaths slowing, the intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

He reaches for a warm cloth, cleaning you up with gentle touches, his eyes soft but still carrying a flicker of worry. He tucks you into bed, sliding in beside you, his hoodie draped over your shoulders, his scent enveloping you.

As he pulls you close, mindful of your shoulder, you notice a shadow pass over his face, his eyes distant, like he’s replaying the warehouse again, the blood, the fear.

You cup his face with your good hand, making him meet your gaze. “Jungkook,” you say softly, your voice steady but firm, “I’m okay now. But you need to hear this. I’m a cop, and soon you will be a part of cybercrime unit too, after you finish your internship.”

“This—danger, injuries, tough cases—it’s part of the job. We don’t drop cases just because they’re dangerous. We can’t. It’s who we are, what we do. You’re strong, but you need to be stronger, to face this kind of thing, because it’s normal for officers like us.”

He looks at you, his eyes searching, the weight of your words sinking in. For a moment, he’s quiet, his thumb brushing over your hand, his expression thoughtful.

Then he nods, slow and deliberate, his voice low but resolute. “You’re right, babe. I get it. I was scared, but… I need to be ready for this. For you, for the job, for us. I’ll be strong. I promise.”

You smile, your heart swelling with pride and love, and you lean in, kissing him softly, a quiet seal on his promise. “I know you will,” you murmur, your voice warm. “You’re already halfway there.”

He pulls you closer, his arms a safe haven, his lips brushing your forehead as he whispers, “I love you, baby. I’m not letting you go.”

You pout playfully, your lips curling as you tease, “No more Officer Noona now? Only babe?”

He laughs, the sound bright and warm, his eyes crinkling with that familiar mischief. “Oh, don’t worry, Officer Noona’s still in there,” he says, his voice dropping to a playful growl as he nuzzles your neck. “But ‘babe’ feels right, yeah? My badass cop, my babe.”

You laugh softly, the sound easing the last of the tension between you, and you kiss him again, your heart full.

“I love you, too,” you whisper, the words a vow, the crack in your armor now a wide-open door letting him in. You drift off together, his warmth and love anchoring you, stronger than any badge or bullet.

You return to work after a one and half month, your shoulder still stiff but healing, the case reassigned to Min.

After few months, Jungkook graduates, his internship turning into a full-time role in the cybercrime unit, his badge gleaming with a pride that mirrors your own. You can’t help the swell in your chest when you see him in his crisp uniform, his tie still a little crooked, his grin as bratty as ever.

He’s still undergoing physical training, a requirement for all officers, and he’s been whining about the early morning runs and push-up drills, but you catch the spark in his eyes when he talks about it, the same determination that made him your partner in every way.

“Officer Noona,” he says, sauntering over to your desk, dangling a pair of handcuffs with a mischievous wink. “Ready to follow my orders now that I’m official?”

You snort, snatching the cuffs from his hand, your lips twitching. “Dream on, Jeon. You’re still in training—don’t get cocky.”

He gasps, clutching his chest dramatically, his eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. “Cocky? Me? Babe, I’m just trying to keep up with my badass cop girlfriend.” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a playful whisper.

“Bet I could outrun you in PT, though.”

You roll your eyes, standing to meet him, your hand playfully shoving his shoulder. “Keep talking, rookie. I’ll have you doing laps around the precinct just to shut you up.”

His laugh is bright, infectious, and you can’t help but grin, your heart full of pride and something softer, warmer. He’s come so far, from the flirty neighbor who’d tease you into cuffing him to this—your partner, your love, standing tall in his uniform, still a little rough around the edges but undeniably yours.

You pull him into the interrogation room, the door clicking shut behind you, the precinct’s hum fading to a dull buzz.

The small space feels charged, the air thick with the history of your fights, your confessions, your love. Jungkook’s still holding the cuffs, his grin wicked as he steps closer, his eyes glinting with that bratty spark you adore.

“Gonna arrest me again, Officer?” he teases, his voice low, his hands twirling the cuffs like he’s daring you to make a move.

You smirk, stepping into his space, your hand grabbing his collar to pull him closer. “Maybe I should,” you murmur, your voice playful but edged with heat. “You’re looking way too smug for a rookie.”

You cuff his hands and he chuckles, but before you can pull away, he moves fast, looping the cuffed hands around your head and pulling you in, his cuffed hands resting at the small of your back, trapping you against him.

His forearms lock you in place, and suddenly you’re caged in, your body flush against his chest.

Because what he does is curve his cuffed hands around the small of your back, tugging you in tighter. You’re trapped between his arms, your bodies pressed close, your faces just inches apart.

His smirk deepens. You can feel his breath fan across your lips as he leans down, eyes gleaming, voice low and cocky.

“Didn’t know you liked being caught in your own cuffs, Officer.”

You can’t back away. His cuffed arms are keeping you exactly where he wants you.

The cold metal brushes your skin through your shirt, and you gasp, your heart racing as he presses himself closer, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath warm and teasing.

“Got you now, babe,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl, his eyes dark with want. “What’s my sentence?”

Your hand slides up his chest, feeling the crisp fabric of his uniform, the hard lines of his body beneath, honed from weeks of training. “Life,” you whisper, your lips brushing his, “with me.”

He crashes his lips against yours, the kiss deep and hungry, all teeth and tongue, a desperate edge to it that makes your knees weak.

You grip his uniform tighter, pulling him closer, your arms looping around his neck as he presses himself against you, the cuffs digging into your back, a reminder of his playful trap.

His lips move to your jaw, your neck, sucking lightly, leaving heat in their wake, his breath ragged as he murmurs, “Fuck, baby, you drive me crazy.”

You tilt your head back, giving him more access, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Careful, Officer Jeon,” you tease, your voice breathy, “you’re still on probation.”

He laughs against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, his kisses growing more insistent, his cuffed hands pulling you impossibly closer.

“Then you better keep me in line, babe,” he says, his voice rough, his lips finding yours again, the kiss slower now but no less intense, a promise in every brush of his tongue, every press of his body against yours.

The interrogation room feels too small, the air too hot, but you don’t care, lost in him, in the way he makes you feel—safe, loved, alive.

You pull back just enough to catch your breath, your forehead resting against his, your eyes locked on his, sparkling with mischief and adoration.

“Proud of you, Jungkook,” you whisper, your voice soft but heavy with truth, your heart swelling with it. “My officer.”

His grin softens, his eyes crinkling, and he kisses you again, gentle this time, like he’s savoring every second. “Love you, babe,” he murmurs, his cuffed hands still holding you close, his voice warm and sure.

“Love you, too,” you say, your heart full, your armor cracked but stronger for it, his warmth filling every space you used to guard so fiercely.

And as you uncuff him, his laughter echoing in the small room, his fingers lacing with yours, you know this—him, you, the playful chaos and the steady love—is exactly where you’re meant to be.

A/n: I had this plot in my mind since I posted Part 1. I know it's little cliche but I hope you guys enjoy it. 💜 Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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 .

[kittenan2]

Let's Interact!

Hey everyone! 💜 I wanted to ask you a quick question because I’ve been thinking about the kinds of fics I usually see and read on here!

There are usually two types of stories:

Smut with plot 🥰– there’s a story, feelings, angst or fluff, along with some spicy scenes.

Pure smut 🔥– just straight-up filth, no real storyline, just heat from the beginning to end.

I usually write smut with some plot/storyline because I like building emotions and tension... but I know a lot of people love short, dirty fics too!

So I wanted to ask:

Let me know in the replies or poll, so I can get a better idea of what you enjoy! 😉

I want to keep improving and experimenting with different styles based on what you guys love reading.

Thank you always for reading and supporting! 🥰💜

[kittenan2]

We Will See... Secretary Kim

Pairings:Yapper Secretary!Namjoon x Cold Doctor!Reader Genre: Romantic Comedy, Soft Dom/Sub Dynamics, Forced Arrange Marriage(Arranged by you), Enemies(ish)-to-Lovers, Office Romance Word Count: ~6k Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, detailed sexual scenes, soft dom/sub/switch dynamics, Chaotic Wedding, Fluffy Smut, Domestic Softness, Mutual Pining, oral sex (both receiving), teasing, emotionally intense moments, forced marriage (arranged by you), alcohol mention

The ballroom sparkled like a jewellery store, with a huge chandelier hanging above that probably cost more than a house.

Glasses clinked, people laughed too loudly, and the air smelled like expensive perfume and champagne. You stood in a corner, holding a glass of sparkling water, wearing a sleek black dress that fit you perfectly. It screamed I’m here, but I’m not impressed. You scanned the room, bored out of your mind.

These parties were your dad’s thing—his way of showing off his business while calling it “networking.” You’d rather be home, reading patient files or eating ice cream straight from the tub.

And then you saw him.

Across the room, standing awkwardly by a wine bar, was a man who looked severely out of place. His black suit was decent, but clearly worn.

He was cute, though. Soft jawline. Full lips. Glasses perched on his nose like a finishing touch on a painting he didn’t know how to price. And those dimples—god, those dimples were trying to save him from the social hell he’d clearly been thrown into.

Too bad they weren’t working on the heiress currently pawing at his bicep.

She was some rich heiress—you didn’t care to remember her name—and she was all over him, touching his arm and slurring something about her yacht. He looked trapped, smiling nervously and nodding while she babbled on about her yacht and her father’s new casino in Macau.

You took another sip of your water. Pathetic.

Your heels clicked as you crossed the floor, your face as cold as ever. The heiress barely noticed you approaching—until your voice sliced through the air like a scalpel.

“Back off, princess,” you said coolly, “before you end up in the champagne fountain.”

The woman blinked at you, confusion battling with intoxication. “Excuse me—?”

“I said,” you added, stepping in beside the guy and placing a gentle but very possessive hand on his chest, “Trust me, it’s not as fun as it sounds.”

The guy made a startled noise. The heiress frowned, swaying slightly. “Ugh, whatever,” she muttered, stumbling away with her drink sloshing like a bad life choice.

You dropped your hand and looked up at the guy. He was blinking rapidly, mouth parted in surprise.

“Thanks,” he said, then in one breathless stream, “She said something about taking me on her yacht and introducing me to her Maltese and I—look, I’m scared of open water and I don’t even know how to swim that well, plus boats make me seasick.”

“And did you know this chandelier is from Prague? Which honestly is excessive, like—who needs that much crystal above their heads? What if it falls? Everyone here is acting like that thing isn’t one aggressive violin solo away from homicide—oh god, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”

You tilted your head, looking at him. He was cute—messy dark hair, glasses slipping down his nose, and those dimples that wouldn’t quit.

But wow, he talked a lot. His words just kept coming, like he was trying to fill the quiet you left behind. He was interesting. Annoying. Cute.

“…You talk too much,” you said flatly.

His jaw clicked shut.

Your lips curved—just slightly—into the faintest smirk. You turned and walked away without another word, your dress sweeping behind you like the final stroke of a perfect mic drop.

He just stood there, blinking after you, still holding his untouched wine glass.

“…Wait, what’s your name?” he called, voice rising over the string quartet’s latest dramatic swell.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t turn. You simply melted into the glittering crowd, untouchable, unbothered, unforgettable.

Namjoon stood there in a daze, hand still awkwardly mid-air like he meant to offer it to you but forgot how hands work.

He was pretty sure his heart had done a weird jump thing. Like a hiccup. Or a seizure.

“Who was that?” one of the bartender asked, passing him a new glass.

“I don’t know,” Namjoon whispered, wide-eyed. “But I think I’m in danger.”

The next time Namjoon saw you, he nearly dropped his coffee mug. He’d been called to your father’s office, expecting a boring talk about schedules or contracts.

Instead, he walked in to find you perched on the edge of your father’s big wooden desk, legs crossed, sipping a black coffee like you owned the room. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and that same smirk from the party danced across your lips.

“You must be the secretary with opinions about chandeliers,” you said, your voice dry as you raised your cup in a mock toast.

Namjoon choked on air, his glasses fogging up a bit as he tried to figure out what was happening. “I—uh—what?”

Your father, a big guy with a laugh that could shake walls, chuckled from behind his desk. “Namjoon, meet my daughter. She’s... a handful.”

Namjoon’s brain stopped working. Daughter? The woman who’d saved him from a drunk heiress, who’d looked at him like he was an interesting puzzle, was his boss’s daughter?

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, looking like a confused fish.

You raised an eyebrow, still poker face, clearly enjoying his panic. “Close your mouth, Secretary Kim. You’ll catch flies.”

He snapped his jaw shut, his ears turning red. “I—I didn’t know. I mean, I’m sorry if I said anything weird at the party. I just—chandeliers, you know? They’re... shiny.”

Your father laughed again, clapping Namjoon on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to her. She’s cold as ice, but she’s got a good heart. Right, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes, sipping your coffee. “Don’t start again, Dad.”

The meeting was about a potential partnership between your father’s company and the hospital where you worked as a doctor.

They were discussing funding for a new research wing, and you were there to provide input on the medical side, scribbling notes about equipment costs and staffing needs.

Namjoon tried to focus on your father’s words, but his eyes kept drifting to you. You were writing furiously, your expression unreadable, but every now and then, you’d glance at him, and he’d feel like he was being studied. It was scary. It was... kind of exciting?

Later that week, your father called you into his office for one of his usual “talks.” You slumped into the chair across from him, already bracing for the lecture, but he had a playful glint in his eye.

“Okay, kiddo,” he started, leaning back in his chair with a grin.

“You’re 28, and I’m not getting any younger. I want to have grandkids someday, you know? Time to find a nice guy.”

You snorted, crossing your arms. “Dad, I’m fine. Love’s a scam, and I’m too busy saving lives.”

He chuckled, wagging a finger at you. “Oh, come on, don’t give me that. You’re my brilliant, beautiful daughter, but you’re living like a grumpy cat lady. I’ve got a list of guys—good ones, not just my golf buddies’ boring sons. Pick one, or I’ll start playing matchmaker.”

You smirked, leaning forward. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” he said, mimicking your smirk. “I’ve got a guy in mind already. He’s got a yacht.”

You gagged dramatically. “Gross. I’d rather marry a random stranger.”

He laughed, throwing his hands up. “Fine, find someone by the end of the month, or I’m setting you up. Deal?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “You’re the worst, Dad.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.” He turned to Namjoon, who’d been quietly sorting files in the corner, trying to blend into the wallpaper. “Namjoon! Back me up here. Tell her dating’s great!”

Namjoon froze, his eyes darting between you and your father. “Uh... I... dating is... nice?”

You shot him a look that could’ve frozen a volcano, but your lips twitched with amusement. “Wow, Secretary Kim. Thanks for advice.”

That afternoon, you cornered Namjoon in the break room. He was heating up a sad container of noodles, his tie a bit crooked, muttering to himself about work. You leaned against the counter, watching him for a moment before speaking.

“Let’s get married,” you said, like you were asking him to grab you a coffee.

Namjoon dropped his noodles. The container hit the floor, splashing sauce on his shoes. “What?”

You didn’t even blink, your expression as cold as ice.

“You heard me. My dad’s on my case about finding a boyfriend, or he’ll set me up with some yacht-owning loser. I’d rather marry you. You’re cute, and you’re the only one who said ‘dating is nice’ in front of him, so this is your fault.”

Namjoon’s face turned bright red, his glasses slipping down his nose. “I—I—I’m your father’s secretary! I can’t just—marry you! And I didn’t mean to—dating is just—argh!”

You shrugged, sipping your coffee. “We’ll see.”

He stared at you, his mouth open, as you went out of the room, your smirk practically a weapon.

A week later, you struck again. Namjoon was in the company break room, nervously heating up another batch of noodles (someone needed to teach this man to cook).

You walked in, fresh from a hospital shift, still in your scrubs but looking like you’d stepped out of a drama. He froze, clutching his chopsticks like they’d protect him.

“Hey, Secretary Kim,” you said, your voice smooth and teasing. “Still thinking about my proposal?”

“Y-Yes? I mean, no!” he stammered, his glasses slipping further. “You’re not serious, right?”

You leaned against the counter, twirling a pen between your fingers. “Marry me. It’ll save me from my dad’s terrible taste in men. Plus, I bet you’d look cute in a tux.”

He choked, coughing as a noodle went down the wrong way. “WHAT?! No! I mean, no offense, you’re cool and beautiful and kind of scary, but no??? I’m not falling for this!”

You smirked, sipping your coffee. “We’ll see, noodle boy.”

Namjoon groaned, his face burning. “Noodle boy? Really?”

You winked. “It’s cute. Like you.” You left him standing there, muttering to himself about noodles and terrifying heiresses.

Later that night, he googled “can you accidentally agree to marriage in Korea by just existing near a rich heiress?” The internet was no help.

Next threat came few days later in elevator.

The elevator was a bad idea.

Namjoon should’ve taken the stairs, but he was late for a meeting, and you were already there, looking like a spy in a tailored blazer. He pressed the “close” button a dozen times, his hands shaking.

“I’ve been thinking about your... joke,” he said, his voice high-pitched. “You’re not serious about the marriage thing, right? Because marriage is a big deal, and you’re way out of my league, and—oh god, why am I still talking?”

You turned to him, your eyes glinting with mischief. “So you’re saying you won’t marry me?”

He laughed nervously, adjusting his glasses. “No! Haha! I mean, no.”

You stepped closer, your voice low and teasing. “We’ll see, Secretary Kim. I’m very persuasive.”

Namjoon, in a panic, hit the emergency stop button, then froze when the elevator jolted to a halt. You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Uh... oops?” he said, his ears glowing red.

You leaned in, smirking. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered. Makes me want to marry you even more.”

He squeaked, pressing himself against the wall. “Please don’t!”

The third time was at another company party. You were there, looking like a goddess in a deep blue dress, winking at him from across the room as he tried to balance a tray of snacks. He spilled wine all over his shirt, his friends laughing as he muttered, “I think I’m getting married against my will.”

His friend Hoseok clapped him on the back. “To that scary hot heiress? Lucky you!”

Namjoon groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “She keeps saying ‘we’ll see’ like it’s a threat! And she called me noodle boy!”

Hoseok cackled. “Noodle boy? Oh, you’re so married.”

Namjoon stood at the altar clutching the bouquet like it had just whispered a threat.

Clad in a painfully well-fitted tux that he may or may not have been bribed into trying on with the promise of free pastries.

His glasses were fogged. His palms were sweating. His brain had long since left the building.

Namjoon was trying to calm his spiraling thoughts, but it wasn’t going well.

Breathe, Kim Namjoon. You’re smart. Logical. You don’t get manipulated by tall women in thousand-dollar heels with the emotional range of a paperclip and the eyes of a panther.

Wait.

His brain suddenly screeched to a halt.

“Did I… did I actually agree to this because she promised me free pastries?”

His inner voice answered way too quickly: Yes. Yes, you did.

“AND THEY WERE THE STRAWBERRY MOCHI CREAM ONES—MY WEAKNESS.”

He groaned under his breath, adjusting his glasses and muttering, “How am I this soft? How did I trade my freedom for a box of flaky, strawberry-filled lies? She even knew they were my favorite. She’s a tactical genius. A villainess in heels. I’m just a pastry-hungry peasant boy.”

How did I get here?

Now here he was, in front of 200 guests—half of them your dad’s business partners, half of them probably just here for the cake.

Your father, seated proudly in the front row with a silk handkerchief, sniffled into his champagne and whispered, “That’s my baby. She threatened him just like her mother threatened me.”

Namjoon’s gaze flicked across the crowd. Yoongi and Hoseok were in the back row. Yoongi looked like he was at a funeral. Hoseok was recording everything on his phone and whispering a live commentary.

“She really did it,” Hoseok whispered, eyes gleaming. “Is it legal?”

“She kidnapped him,” Yoongi replied flatly. “This is a hostage situation with floral arrangements.”

“She looks so hot doing it though—”

“Shut up, Hoseok.”

Namjoon’s eyes finally landed on you—and that’s when everything short-circuited.

You were walking toward him, designer gown cascading behind you like a fog of intimidation and expensive fabric. You weren’t smiling. Of course not. You were composed. Cold. Gorgeous. Looking like you were about to sell him into marriage and then short a billion-dollar stock.

He blinked rapidly. Did she just wink?

You did. He almost dropped the bouquet. She winked. She’s doing the “evil queen wink.”

Namjoon turned to the officiant. “I think I’m in the wrong venue.” The officiant chuckled. “No, you’re just in love.” “No, I’m being blackmailed,” Namjoon muttered to himself.

The ceremony started. You stood across from him, regal and composed, holding your vows like they were divorce papers you hadn’t decided to file yet. You cleared your throat.

“I vow…” Namjoon braced. “…to tolerate you yapping.” Rude. He pouted.

Namjoon blinked at you, caught off guard. You were being nice… in your own cold, "I might still kill you" kind of way.

Then it was his turn.

He panicked.

“I promise to… be, um… emotionally available? Even though I’m not sure how we got here. I think there was some light manipulation. Possibly blackmail. I’m still not convinced I’m not in a fever dream?”

You tilted your head slightly, as if debating whether to let that one slide.

“I—I mean, marriage is like… a well-organized filing system, right?” he stammered. “Also, your dad said I was perfect and threatened to disown me if I run away, so… yeah?”

You raised one elegant brow.

He cleared his throat and added, softer now, “You terrify me. But you also look hot doing that…” He winced. “That sounded better in my head.”

You blinked. Then smirked.

The officiant didn’t even ask. He just said, “You may now kiss the bride.”

Namjoon panicked again. “Wait, we didn’t—did we say ‘I do’? I didn’t hear it—was there a form?!” You grabbed his tie, pulled him down, and kissed him. Right on the lips. In front of the crowd. The cameras. His ancestors.

The bouquet hit the floor with a defeated thud. Hoseok cheered. Yoongi didn’t blink. Your father sobbed into his champagne, “Just like her mother.”

When you pulled back, Namjoon was redder than the bouquet roses.

“I—uh—do,” he wheezed. You smiled softly, for just a second, not even noticieble. “Took you long enough.”

Namjoon stood awkwardly in your shared apartment on your wedding night, still fully suited like he’d forgotten how clothes worked. His ears were practically on fire as he clutched a glass of water like it would protect his virtue.

“I just want to make it clear,” he said, voice cracking slightly, “don’t expect anything from this marriage, okay? This was... a situation. An emergency arrangement. A mutual understanding.”

You, reclined on the couch in a silk robe, hair messy and legs crossed like a queen waiting for someone to fan her with palm leaves, raised an eyebrow. “Noted, noodle boy.”

He blinked. “Noodle b—what—Stop calling me that.”

You turned back to your phone, completely unbothered. He stared a moment longer, then stomped off to the guest room muttering, “What did I sign up for?”

But Namjoon was the softest liar. He went full cinnamon-roll husband mode, doing the sweetest things like:

Organizing your closet by color and season, knowing your OCD would love the neat rows of blazers and scrubs. He even labeled the shelves with cute little tags that said things like “Scary Doctor Outfits” and “Ice Queen Essentials.”

Making your coffee every morning—black, one sugar, hot enough to burn a hole through the table. He’d hand it to you with a shy smile, muttering, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

Filling your car’s gas tank without being asked, leaving a sticky note on the dashboard that said, “Drive safe, meanie.”

Driving you to the hospital every day, waiting until you were inside before leaving, sometimes waving like an overexcited puppy. Once, he accidentally honked the horn while trying to adjust his glasses, startling a group of nurses.

The kicker? Every lunchbox he packed had tiny kimbap with heart-shaped carrots. HEARTS. SHAPED. BY. HAND.

You’d open it, smirk, and mutter, “This is barely edible.”

He’d gasp dramatically. “I SLAVED OVER THOSE CARROTS. You know how hard it is to cut the carrots.”

You’d reach across the table and pat his cheek. “You’re cute when you’re dramatic.”

Namjoon.exe rebooted with hearts in his eyes.

One morning, you were in a rush, bolting out the door in a flurry of scrubs and coffee, forgetting a patient file you’d been studying at home.

Namjoon found it on the kitchen counter, next to your half-eaten toast and a smudge of strawberry jam. He cursed under his breath, clutching the file like it was a top-secret mission. “She’s gonna murder someone if she doesn’t have this..”

He drove to the hospital like he was auditioning for an action movie, dodging traffic and muttering pep talks to himself.

When he arrived, he spotted you in the hallway, deep in conversation with Kim Seokjin, the hospital’s unfairly handsome neurosurgeon. Seokjin was leaning close, his hand brushing your arm as he pointed at a chart, laughing at something you said.

Namjoon’s vision went red, his inner romantic jealous hero taking over. He marched over, grabbing your wrist with a dramatic flourish that would’ve made a K-drama director proud.

“Sweetheart,” he said, loud enough to make nearby nurses jump, “you forgot your super-important file at home. Lucky for you, your husband saved the day.”

Seokjin blinked.

You blinked, your face blank but your eyes glinting with amusement. “Are you okay? You’re sweating like you ran a marathon.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a possessive but still adorable growl. “You’re my wife. I’m jealous, okay? That guy’s too handsome to be trusted.”

For the first time, a real smile broke across your face, soft and a little shy, like the sun peeking through clouds, that stayed for more than one second. “You said not to expect anything, noodle boy. But I knew you didn’t mean it.”

His voice cracked. “I panicked. You were standing next to a Disney prince with a stethoscope.”

Seokjin, sensing he was third-wheeling a rom-com climax, raised his hands and backed away. “I’ll... uh, check on my patients. You two are cute.”

Namjoon’s ears were practically glowing. “I’m fine,” he muttered, shoving the file into your hands, then adjusting his glasses to hide his embarrassment. “Just... don’t flirt with hot doctors, okay?”

You tilted your head, your smile growing. “No promises. But you’re cuter when you’re jealous.”

He groaned, covering his face. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You patted his arm, smirking. “Good thing I’m a doctor, then.”

That night, the air in your apartment was thick with unspoken tension, a delicious electricity that made your skin hum.

Namjoon sat on a bed, glasses low on his nose, buried in a book titled How to Love Cold People Without Melting. It would've been adorable if your thighs weren’t already clenching just from watching his mouth shape each word.

You stood there in the doorway, arms folded, heart beating in a rhythm you didn’t recognize. You weren’t a woman who swooned—but hell if this man, this sweet idiot who made your coffee perfect every morning, didn’t make you burn in silence.

You padded over silently and shoved the book out of his hands. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

He blinked up at you, lips parted slightly. “Uh—?”

You didn’t answer.

You pushed him flat onto the bed, straddling him with a slow, possessive grace. His glasses slipped crooked on his face, his hands instinctively landing on your thighs before jerking back like he’d touched fire.

“Y/N…?” His voice cracked, small and unsure. “What are you—?”

“Namjoon,” you purred, hands pinning his wrists above his head. “Wanna make this marriage… real?”

His pupils dilated like you’d injected something straight into his bloodstream.

“I—uh—what do you mean by real?”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a ghost of a kiss. “You know exactly what I mean, noodle boy.”

You kissed him then—hard, wet, no mercy. Tongue sliding against his with filthy, open-mouth hunger. His lips were so soft, already swollen as you bit into his lower one, dragging it between your teeth until he whimpered into your mouth.

You ground against him slowly, deliberately, letting him feel the heat radiating from you. He groaned, hips twitching under you, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re evil,” he breathed, voice ragged. “Fucking evil.”

“And you love it.”

He nodded like he was hypnotized. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

The kiss grew hungrier, messier, your lips moving against his with a pace that made your head spin. You nipped at his lower lip, earning a soft whimper that sent a thrill through you.

“You’re too cute when you make those noises,” you murmured against his mouth, pulling back to see his flushed face.

“I’m not cute,” he protested, his voice breathy. “I’m... manly. Very manly.”

“Sure, noodle boy,” you said, smirking as you kissed him again, your hands tangling in his hair.

You yanked off his shirt, tossing it over your shoulder like it offended you. Your nails scraped down his chest, leaving faint red marks that had him gasping.

His fingers tightened in the sheets as you kissed down his throat—nipping, sucking, leaving purple bruises along the side of his neck with slow, claiming pleasure. “You’re mine,” you whispered against his pulse, licking over the bite. “Say it.”

“I—I’m yours,” he gasped.

“Good boy.”

He whined. Actually whined. You could feel how hard he was through his boxers, the tip already dark and leaking, desperate.

You kissed him again, your mouths crashing. It was messy—tongues battling, teeth clashing, lips swollen and spit-slick. You let out a breathy moan into the kiss and he lost it, rutting up into you like he couldn't help it.

“Y/N, please…” His voice cracked, needy, almost fucked out already.

You slid down, slowly licking and kissing your way down his chest, teeth grazing his abs. When you reached the waistband of his boxers, you looked up.

“Don’t cum until I tell you to,” you warned.

He choked on air. “Fuck—o-okay—yes, ma’am.”

You pulled him out, his cock flushed and twitching in your grip. You licked the tip slowly, letting your spit drip down the shaft, watching him fall apart.

Then you took him fully into your mouth, deep and slow, your throat relaxing around him like a promise.

“Shit—oh my God,” Namjoon groaned, fisting the sheets. His thighs trembled as your head bobbed, your tongue swirling, lips stretched wide and obscene. You moaned around him just to hear the noise he made—high and broken and beautiful.

“Y/N—I’m gonna—I need to—fuck—”

You pulled off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting you to his cock.

“Not yet,” you smirked. “You don’t get to cum until I say.”

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he whimpered.

You climbed back up, kissed him hard—making him taste himself on your tongue—and stripped out of your clothes slowly. His eyes never left you. His mouth parted in pure awe.

“You’re unreal,” he breathed, dragging his hands over your bare thighs like he wasn’t sure you were real.

You gripped his hair and shoved his face between your thighs.

“Make me cum and I’ll let you fuck me.”

He didn't need to be told twice.

Namjoon’s tongue was tentative at first, soft flicks and kisses—but your gasps spurred him on. He licked harder, deeper, his hands gripping your ass as he pulled you closer, burying himself in your heat. His moans vibrated through your core, your thighs tightening around his head.

You pulled his hair as your hips rolled against his mouth. “Fuck, yes—don’t stop, baby.”

He didn’t. He ate you like he owed you orgasms, tongue and lips relentless, eyes glazed with desperation.

You came hard on his mouth, hips bucking, body arching as you cried out his name.

And still—he licked until you were overstimulated and panting.

When you pushed him back, he looked wrecked. Lips swollen, chin soaked.

“Come here,” you whispered, climbing over him again.

You straddled his lap, teasing him with your soaked entrance. His hands trembled as he held your waist.

“Please,” he begged. “Please let me inside.”

You sank down slow, inch by inch, watching his face crumble into bliss. His head fell back, throat tight with a groan.

“You’re tight—shit—you feel so fucking good—”

You started riding him, slow at first, grinding your hips with control. His hands clung to you like a lifeline, like he was scared you’d vanish.

“Namjoon…” you moaned, rolling your hips deeper. “Fuck, you feel so good inside me.”

“Y/N—please—faster—I’m gonna lose it—”

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear.

“Be a good boy and make me cum again first.”

He came with a strangled cry the moment you clenched around him.

You gasped as you followed, the pleasure crashing over you in waves, your hips stuttering as you moaned into his mouth.

You collapsed on his chest, both of you sweaty, shaking, and utterly ruined.

He was still inside you, cock twitching weakly, hands stroking your back.

“You’re gonna have to marry me again after that,” he mumbled, wrecked and smiling.

You kissed his jaw, then his lips.

“We’ll see,” you whispered, smirking.

The room was still thick with the heat of Round One. Sweat-slick skin, bitten lips, trembling thighs—you lay half-sprawled across Namjoon’s chest, heartbeat slowly returning to normal as your fingers traced lazy circles over his ribs.

But the man beneath you? Was still hard.

Still twitching inside you.

Still very much not done.

You let out a soft breath, about to shift off him, when his arm locked around your waist and flipped you in one swift move. You landed on your back, startled, wide-eyed, staring up at your previously flustered husband.

His hair was a mess. His lips were red and wet. His chest heaved as he hovered over you, pupils blown wide with want. And oh—those glasses? Gone. Just dark, focused Namjoon.

“You said I was cute,” he growled, voice thick and low as he kissed your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse. “Said I was your good boy. But now…” His hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. “…I wanna see how good you are at taking what you give.”

Your breath hitched. Heat exploded low in your belly.

“Namjoon—”

“Shh,” he muttered, biting your collarbone hard enough to make you gasp. “You’re gonna take everything I give you, sweetheart. No teasing. No smirking. Just you. Under me. Dripping. Begging.”

He reached down and shoved two fingers into you without warning—your soaked pussy greedily taking them with a wet squelch that made both of you moan.

“Still so wet for me,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “God, you like it when I take control, huh? You wanna be ruined by the man you married out of spite?”

You whimpered, hips grinding down against his hand. “Y-Yes…”

“I couldn’t hear you.”

“Yes, fuck, yes—Namjoon please.”

“That’s better.”

He pulled his fingers out and dragged them up your stomach, watching the slick shine in the dim light. Then—he pushed the wet fingers past your lips.

“Suck.”

You obeyed instantly, moaning around them, eyes fluttering shut as you tasted yourself. Namjoon’s jaw flexed. His cock twitched against your thigh.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he said, voice like velvet-wrapped sin. “Hard. And you’re not gonna run. Got it?”

You nodded, throat dry, lips parted. “Yes—please—I want it.”

He aligned himself at your entrance and slid in all at once—rough, deep, making you arch up with a cry. His hands grabbed your thighs, pushing them up, open, exposed.

He pulled out slowly, just the tip inside, then slammed back in so hard the bed creaked.

“Shit,” you cried out, nails digging into his arms.

“That’s right,” he grunted, hips snapping in a brutal rhythm. “You take it so well. All that attitude—where’s that cold little smirk now, baby?”

You whined, your voice breaking. “F-Fuck—so good—Namjoon—”

He slapped your thigh lightly. “What did I say about calling me cute?”

He gritted his teeth and thrust deeper, angling up until he hit that spot that made your legs shake. “This is what ‘cute’ gets you.”

Every thrust was filthy, punishing, perfect. Your moans echoed in the room, high and needy, body trembling as he fucked you into the mattress.

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head again.

“You gonna cum for me like this?” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple. “All tied up and spread for your secretary husband?”

You nodded wildly, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Say it,” he demanded, rolling his hips deeper. “Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Y-Yours,” you gasped. “Yours, Namjoon—fuck—please—I’m gonna—”

He kissed you hard and filthy, tongues clashing, teeth dragging across your lips as he pushed you over the edge with one final thrust.

You came with a scream, your body seizing under his, muscles clenching so hard around him he nearly came too.

He pulled out just before he could finish, panting hard.

“Turn over. Ass up.”

You blinked, still dazed, but obeyed.

“You think I’m done?” he muttered. “You made me lose my mind. Now I’m gonna make you forget your name.”

He spread your legs, dragging his cock through your folds before thrusting in again from behind, this time deeper, rougher. One hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so he could kiss your throat.

Your screams were muffled into the pillow. He pounded into you, cock so thick, so deep, you felt him everywhere. He reached around to rub your clit again, not even letting you recover.

“C’mon,” he rasped. “Give me another one. Be a good girl.”

And like a good girl—you did.

You came again, shaking, sobbing, back arching as the pleasure ripped through you.

Namjoon groaned your name, pulled out, and jerked himself quickly before painting your back and ass with thick ropes of cum, his hips stuttering as he collapsed over you.

You both lay there, tangled, sweaty, your breaths mixing in the silence.

He nuzzled against your shoulder, still dazed. “Holy shit…”

You giggled. “Still think you’re more cute!!”

He slapped your ass playfully. “Shut up.”

You turned to look at him, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?”

“I might need a Round Three.”

He groaned into your neck. “You’ll kill me, woman.”

You smirked. “Don't worry I am Doctor.”

Life with Namjoon settled into a strange, beautiful rhythm. He bragged about you to your child patients while handing them Marvel and Anime stickers, his eyes lighting up as he told them, “My wife is scary but brilliant. She’s the best doctor you’ll ever meet.”

The apartment was cozy, dimly lit with the warm glow of fairy lights strung along the curtain rod like you were too romantic to admit, and too lazy to take them down after your birthday.

You were curled up on the couch like a burrito in one of Namjoon’s oversized hoodies, legs tucked under you, a pint of ice cream in your lap. Namjoon was sprawled beside you, wearing his “husband cardigan” and gesturing wildly at the TV screen.

“I’m just saying,” he ranted, mouth full of stolen spoonfuls, “if the male lead had common sense, he would’ve known she was his long-lost childhood friend! I mean, how many people own that exact bunny keychain??”

You let your head drop against his thigh with a dramatic sigh. “You are far too emotionally invested in this drama.”

He sniffed, scooping more ice cream. “I’m just saying it’s bad writing.”

You smirked and leaned up to kiss his cheek mid-rant. It was soft. Quick. A little smug.

Namjoon froze.

“...What was that for?” he whispered, blinking like you’d just handed him a Nobel Peace Prize.

You shrugged, wiping ice cream off the corner of his lip with your thumb. “You looked cute. Like an angry literature professor.”

He blinked. And blinked again. Then his dimples made a slow, lovesick appearance like they were clocking in for duty.

“Sooooo...” he dragged out the word with a shit-eating grin, “do you love me?”

You stretched like a cat, placed the ice cream tub on the coffee table, and smirked. “We’ll see.”

He let out a scandalized, full-body gasp and dramatically flopped back on the couch like a man wounded in battle. “RUDE.”

“Adorable,” you corrected, climbing over him like a smug little gremlin and kissing his lips, slow and soft and sweet enough to make his brain melt.

“You always do that,” he mumbled against your mouth. “Kiss me to shut me up.”

“It works, doesn’t it?” you purred.

He narrowed his eyes, dimples threatening to take over again. “You’re impossible.”

You curled up on his chest, tugging his cardigan sleeve over your fingers like a menace. “But I married you.”

He chuckled, arms wrapping around you, dropping a kiss to your forehead. “Fair point.”

You both returned your attention to the terrible drama on screen. You took another bite of ice cream and wordlessly handed him the spoon.

He took it, then yapped again about how the second lead deserves rights and how justice for that dog subplot was non-negotiable.

You leaned over and kissed him again, just to shut him up.

“Do you ever plan to say it?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Say what?” you murmured, pretending not to know.

“That you love me.”

You smiled, your heart full. “Eventually.”

He groaned, pulling you closer. “You’re impossible.”

And in that moment—soft, ridiculous, wrapped in sweater sleeves and spoon-sharing—you knew something you’d never say out loud.

Not yet, anyway.

“We’ll see.” was just your way of saying I love you.

A/n: I can listen to yapper Namjoon whole day. He is such a cutie.😭

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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 . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria

[kittenan2]

Love on Call

Pairing: Doctor!Seokjin x New Intern!Reader Genre: Rom-Com | Fluff | Smut | Workplace Romance Tropes: One Night Stand, He Remembers/She Doesn’t, Forced Proximity, Medical Setting, Slow-Burn Word Count: ~6k Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, detailed and raw smut, workplace romance, mild angst, alcohol use, power dynamics (boss/intern), kinks (praise, light dominance, rough and deep intimacy), emotional depiction of patient death.

The neon glow of the bar buzzed against your skin, the air heavy with the scent of spilled beer and cheap perfume.

Graduation day was supposed to be your triumph, a glittering moment of celebration with your boyfriend of three years by your side.

Instead, you stood outside the bar, your phone still warm from the call that shattered your world.

“I’m leaving for my Ph.D. abroad,” he’d said, his voice flat. “This… us… Long Distance... it’s not gonna work.”

Three years, gone in a single sentence. He didn’t even have the guts to face you. The cheers of your classmates faded into a dull hum, and all you could feel was the hollow ache in your chest, the weight of betrayal sinking like a stone.

So, you did what any heartbroken 25-year-old would do: you stormed into the nearest bar, ordered a raspberry-pink cocktail that tasted like regret, and then another, and another, until the edges of your pain blurred into something softer, something reckless.

That’s when he walked in.

Kim Seokjin, a man in early 30s. Tall. Broad-shouldered.

He looked like trouble wrapped in a blazer, eyes sharp but kind, lips curved into something cocky yet curious. His dark hair was a little messy—like he'd run his hands through it between saving lives.

And when his gaze landed on you?

It felt like gravity shifted. Like something inside you remembered how to want again.

He sat next to you. Close. His knee brushed yours under the bar.

“Rough night?” he asked, sliding onto the stool beside you, his voice smooth as the whiskey in his glass, his knee brushing yours under the bar.

You laughed, too loud, the alcohol loosening your tongue and your inhibitions. “Rough? Try catastrophic. My boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—dumped me on my graduation day. Said he’s off to Europe for his Ph.D. Who the hell does that?”

Seokjin’s eyebrow arched. His smile faded. His jaw flexed.

“A coward, that’s who. A spineless idiot who doesn’t know what he’s throwing away.”

His eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, lingering on the curve of your neck, the sequins catching the light. “A girl like you? He’s gonna regret that for the rest of his life.”

You snorted, sipping your drink, your head spinning from the alcohol and the heat in his gaze. “Yeah? And what’s a guy like you doing here, looking like you just stepped out of a cologne ad?”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “I'm a doctor. Just finished a 12-hour shift. Thought I’d treat myself to a drink before I crash. But then I saw you, and…” He paused, his eyes locking onto yours, dark and intense. “I’m not tired anymore.”

The banter flowed like the drinks, sharper, flirtier, your heartbreak dissolving with every laugh he coaxed from you.

He was witty, charming, and dangerously attentive, his fingers brushing yours when he reached for his glass, his thigh pressing against yours under the bar. By the fourth cocktail, you were both drunk, leaning into each other, the space between you nonexistent.

“So, what’s a freshly graduated like you gonna do now?” he asked, his voice dropping low, his lips so close you could feel his breath.

You grinned, all tipsy and the way his eyes devoured you. “I don’t know, Doc,” you teased, your voice slurring slightly as you poked his chest. “Maybe something stupid. Something… unforgettable. My ex should go to hell, right?”

His eyes darkened, a low growl rumbling in his throat as he leaned closer. “Oh, princess, you have no idea how much I’d love to help you with that.”

Before you knew it, you were stumbling out of the bar, his arm around your waist, your lips crashing into his in the back of a cab.

The cab ride to the hotel was a blur of heat and motion and breathless kisses that tasted like tears and tequila.

Your giggles filled the car like static, your fingers twisted in his hair.

“You’re trouble,” you whispered against his neck.

“So are you,” he breathed, his hands on your thighs. “But fuck, I like trouble.”

He pressed you against the wall, his lips frantic, like he had to consume every sound you made before it disappeared. Your dress slipped off your shoulders. His fingers fumbled, impatient, worshipful, undoing you piece by piece.

“You’re a fucking goddess,” he growled. “And that idiot? He’ll spend the rest of his life regretting you.”

You moaned, your head thrown back, your fingers clawing at his shirt, buttons popping as you tore it open.

“Fuck him,” you slurred, your voice thick with alcohol and lust, your hands roaming his chest, nails scraping his skin. “Fuck that prick. You’re so much better, Doc—shit, so much better.”

He laughed, low and filthy, lifting you roughly and tossing you onto the bed, his eyes dark with hunger as he stripped you bare, your bra and panties gone in seconds.

“Damn right I am,” he growled, his lips trailing fire down your body, nipping at your collarbone, sucking hard on your nipples until you were writhing beneath him.

Your chest heaved. “I want to forget him.”

“Then let me help,” he whispered, kissing down your neck like a prayer.

And then he dropped to his knees.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget his name, princess.”

His mouth found your core, his tongue relentless, lapping at you like a man starved, his fingers digging into your thighs as he spread you wide.

You called him “Doc” again, your voice a drunken, desperate moan, your legs trembling around his head as he sucked your clit, his tongue flicking with ruthless precision.

“Scream for me,” he growled against you, his voice muffled, his fingers plunging into you, curling hard and fast. “Let the whole fucking hotel know who’s making you feel this good.”

“Doc—fuck, Doc!” you cried, your hands fisting the sheets, your body bucking as he pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you, leaving you shaking and gasping.

You were still panting when you yanked him up, your drunken giggles spilling out as you fumbled with his belt, freeing his cock—hard, thick, and leaking.

“Let’s call this my graduation gift.” you slurred, grinning wickedly as you took him in your mouth, your lips stretching around him, your tongue swirling, your giggles vibrating against him as he groaned your name.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, his hands tangling in your hair, his hips jerking as you took him deep, gagging slightly but pushing through, your eyes watering as you looked up at him. “You’re gonna fucking kill me, princess.”

He pulled you off with a rough tug, flipping you onto your stomach and yanking your hips up, his cock teasing your entrance. “You want this?” he growled, his voice raw, his hand smacking your ass lightly, making you moan. “Beg for it, baby. Tell me how bad you want it.”

“Fuck me, Doc,” you gasped, your voice needy, your hips pushing back against him. He slapped the tip of his cock at your entrance.

“Fuck me hard. Make me forget that bastard. I’m done being sweet. Ruin me instead.”

He didn’t hold back, thrusting into you with a single, brutal thrust that made you scream, his cock filling you so completely you could barely breathe.

“So fucking tight,” he growled, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts rough and relentless, the bed creaking under the force.

“You’re mine tonight, princess. He was a fucking fool to let you go. I’d fuck you every night if I could.”

“I always wanted a doctor… you know, for stress relief.” You moaned.

You clung to the sheets, your moans loud and shameless, each thrust driving you higher, his filthy praises making your head spin. “Harder Doc... Fuck yes,” you gasped, and he obliged, fucking you so deep you felt him everywhere, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles that had you seeing stars.

“Guess I needed a real man to remind me what good feels like.”

He made you come again, your body convulsing, your walls clenching around him as you screamed louder, and he followed, his release hot and messy inside you, his groans raw as he held you tight.

You collapsed together, tangled in the sheets, your body warm and sated, your drunken mind empty of everything but him.

The next morning, you woke with a pounding headache and a body that ached in places you didn’t know could ache.

Your thighs burned with each step, sore from how tightly you’d wrapped them around him—how he’d spread you open like a secret meant only for him.

Your hips throbbed, bruised where his fingers had gripped too hard, and your core pulsed with a dull, sweet ache that screamed how deeply he’d filled you.

Your neck and chest was wearing a necklace of love bites and, marks that made you blush just looking at them.

You were a mess—hair tangled, makeup smeared, dress crumpled like last night’s memory on the hotel floor. Panic flared in your chest as your gaze flicked to the man in bed, face tucked into the pillow, his broad back rising and falling slowly.

You didn’t know his name. Didn't remember his face. Didn’t want to. This wasn’t love. It was chaos. A perfect, reckless mistake, where you were too drunk to remember anything after being sober.

You slipped out quietly, wincing at the soreness between your legs, leaving behind nothing but tangled sheets and the scent of your perfume.

Seokjin? He was wrecked.

Few minutes later, he reached out for you but his arms felt nothing.

Empty. His eyes opened fully, heart lurching.

Gone.

You were gone.

He sat up. Looked here and there. In hope of anything you left behind. His heart dropped through the mattress.

“Fuck…” he muttered, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. “She left.”

You hadn’t even given him your name. Number. Anything.

But your face? He remembered it in crystal clarity.

No one had ever moaned the way you did—breathless, broken, desperate. No one had tasted like you, sweet and intoxicating, giggling with his cock in your throat like sin was your favorite flavor.

Since that night, he had been a man on mission. He went on countless blind dates in hoping to see you again.

Every date felt sparkless. Smiles forced. He laughed outside, but inside he was haunted—by the sound of your laugh, your giggles, your moans, the way you looked up at him with that mix of mischief and fire.

He’s touched himself in the shower more times than he’d admit, whispering “Princess” into the steam, chasing a ghost in cherry lip gloss who vanished before the sunrise.

Some nights he’d grip the edge of his sink, water dripping down his chest, head bowed as he tried—unsuccessfully—to scrub you off his skin. The way your lips had stretched around him, the way you whispered “Doc…” in his ears.

He wanted to hate you for leaving.

But mostly?

He just hoped—prayed—that one day, fate would put you back in his path.

Because one night wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

And now? He’s been searching every room, every face, for a spark that only ever existed with you. Three months later, he’s still chasing a ghost.

And he’d do anything to see you again.

Seokjin sat in the hospital cafeteria, picking at a sandwich while his colleagues teased him mercilessly.

“Don’t call me for dinner tonight,” he said, tossing a fry onto his plate. “I’ve got a blind date.”

The table erupted in laughter, his fellow doctors and nurses exchanging knowing glances. “What’s so funny?” Seokjin asked, feigning offense, though his lips twitched with a smile.

“Oh, come on, Jin,” Dr. Park, a cardiologist with a penchant for gossip, said, leaning forward. “We’re betting you’ll ditch this one by dessert. You’ve ghosted, what, five dates in the last two months?”

“Six,” Nurse Min corrected, smirking. “He’s chasing a ghost, that’s what it is. Some mystery girl from a few months back. You should see him when he thinks no one’s looking—staring off into space like he’s reliving the best night of his life.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes, but his chest tightened. They weren’t wrong. No matter how many dates he went on, no one compared to you. He didn’t even have your name, just the memory of your face and the ache you’d left behind.

You adjusted your crisp white coat, your heart pounding as you stepped into the bustling ER of Seoul General, one of the most prestigious hospitals in the city.

Your first day as an intern was a whirlwind of anxiety and excitement, your stethoscope heavy around your neck, your clipboard clutched like a lifeline. You’d worked your ass off to get here, and you were determined to make a good impression.

The orientation room was packed with other interns, all wide-eyed and eager, but your attention was drawn to the man at the front of the room.

Dr. Kim Seokjin. Head of Emergency Medicine.

He was professional and commanding in his navy scrubs, but with a playful smirk that made your stomach flip. His broad shoulders filled out his lab coat perfectly, his dark hair swept back, and his eyes… God, his eyes were sharp and warm all at once, like he could see right through you.

“Good morning, interns,” he said, his voice smooth and authoritative, though there was a hint of mischief in his tone.

“Welcome to Seoul General. I’m Dr. Kim, and I’ll be overseeing your training. Buckle up—it’s gonna be a wild ride.”

You smiled, scribbling notes as he outlined the program, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was staring at you.

Every time you looked up, his eyes were on you, intense and unreadable, his lips twitching like he was holding back a secret. You brushed it off.

Meanwhile Seokjin was spiraling.

The moment you walked into orientation, all bright-eyed and confident in your crisp white coat, his entire world stopped.

It was you.

The girl he hadn’t stopped dreaming about for three months. The girl who left his bed before sunrise—and left him hard and haunted every damn day since.

And now you were here, standing in front of him like nothing ever happened. Like you hadn’t ridden him into the mattress whispering “Doc” in his ear, like you hadn’t disappeared without a name or number.

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as he tried to keep his voice steady.

You’re here. Fuck, you’re really here… and you don’t even recognize me.

He screamed in his mind.

He dropped his pen. Fumbled the papers. Nearly knocked over the projector.

You tilted your head, confused but polite, watching him with innocent curiosity while he scrambled to collect himself.

Get it together, Jin, he thought, forcing a smile as he continued the orientation.

But every time you tucked your hair behind your ear, every time you bit your lip in concentration—he was back in that hotel room, your thighs squeezing his waist, your moans screaming into his soul.

She doesn’t remember. She really doesn’t fucking remember.

And it is driving me insane.

How am I supposed to teach her how to stitch a wound when all I can think about is her moaning in my ear?

He wanted to pull you aside, pin you to the wall, and demand answers—Why’d you leave? Why didn’t you stay? Did it mean nothing to you?

But instead, you raised your hand and asked a question about night shift schedules. Your voice calm, professional.

Does she have any idea what she’s doing to me? Just standing there, existing, looking like that?

He answered, somehow, though his grip on the clipboard was white-knuckled.

On the outside, he was Dr. Kim—cool, composed, in control. Inside, he was unraveling.

How the hell am I supposed to mentor her when all I can think about is how she tastes, how she sounds when she begs, how she felt wrapped around me like she was made for it?

He was screwed.

Entirely. Completely. And the worst part? You had no idea.

The weeks that followed were were a slow, delicious kind of torture.

Working under Seokjin was both exciting and infuriating. He was brilliant, patient with patients, and quick with a joke to lighten the mood during tense moments.

But with you? He was a menace, a total menace.

He’d lean too close during rounds, the brush of his shoulder against yours sending sparks down your spine. His voice would drop just enough to make your stomach flip as he murmured, “Careful, Dr. Y/N… don’t get too distracted.”

Your pen slipped. Your cheeks burned. And he smiled like he knew.

“Nice form,” he’d say with a smirk as you practiced stiching drills, his eyes lingering on your hands, his tone dripping with double meaning. “You’ve got a… steady grip.”

You’d glare, muttering, “Focus, Dr. Kim,” but your heart would race, and he’d chuckle, knowing exactly the effect he had on you.

And your coworkers weren’t subtle about it either.

“Girl, he’s so into you,” Mina whispered one afternoon in the lounge. “Have you seen the way he looks at you? How are you not seeing this?”

“He tripped over a supply cart yesterday,” Hana added, grinning. “Why? Because you were talking to the child patient in ER ward and he couldn’t look away from the way you were smiling while treating him.”

You choked on your coffee. “He did not.”

“Oh, he did,” Mina confirmed, laughing. “He’s whipped. You’re the main character, babe. Just jump in story already.”

You rolled your eyes, but truthfully? You felt it. In every subtle touch. Every darkened glance. Every time his hand lingered just a beat too long when he passed you a chart.

You were spinning.

One brutal overnight shift, the ER finally silent. Exhausted, you collapsed onto the break room couch, sipping vending machine coffee like it was life support. Seokjin joined you, thigh pressed to yours, the silence between you warm.

“You okay, rookie?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

You nodded, too tired to speak, and before you knew it, your head tipped onto his shoulder, your body sinking into his warmth.

You were half-asleep, your breathing slow and steady, and Seokjin froze, his heart pounding as he watched you. You were so close, your lips parted, your face peaceful, and he couldn’t help himself when you breath out a low tired whimper.

“You still moan the same when you sleep,” he whispered, barely audible, his voice thick with memory.

Your eyes snapped open, your body jerking upright. “What did you just say?”

He cursed under his breath, his face flushing as he scrambled for an excuse. “Nothing, I—uh, you were snoring. Loudly.”

You narrowed your eyes, your heart racing. “I don’t snore. And you said something about… moaning?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his usual confidence faltering. “Fuck it,” he muttered, his eyes locking onto yours. “You really don’t remember, do you? That night, three months ago. Graduation night. The hotel room. You and me.”

Your jaw dropped, your mind racing as fragments of that night came rushing back—the bar, the drinks, warm hands, the way you’d felt so safe, so wanted, tangled sheets, his voice rasping “princess” against your skin.

“That… that was you?”

He nodded, his expression a mix of hope and frustration. “I woke up and you were gone. No name, no number. Just… gone. I’ve been looking for you ever since, Y/N. Every date I’ve been on, hoping it would turn out to be you.”

You stared at him, your chest tight with a mix of emotions—shock, embarrassment, and a flicker of fear. “I… I was drunk that night,” you admitted, your voice trembling.

“I barely remember anything. And after my ex… I’m scared, Dr. Kim. I don’t know if I can do this again. Relationships… they hurt. I don’t want to get burned like that again.”

His eyes softened, the teasing edge gone, replaced by something warm and steady.

He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, gentle and grounding. “Y/N, I’m not him,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I’m not going anywhere. That night… it wasn’t just a fling for me. I felt something real, something I haven’t felt with anyone else.”

“And these past weeks, working with you, seeing your smile, your fire, the way you care about your patients—it’s only made me want you more. I don’t care if you were drunk. I don’t care if you don’t remember every detail. I remember enough for both of us. And I’ll wait, however long it takes, for you to trust me.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. His words were soft, but they hit like a tidal wave, washing away the fear that had been holding you back.

“You’re too much, you know that?” you whispered, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the tension breaking. “Too much for you to handle? I doubt it, princess. You handled me just fine that night.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly, the warmth of his confession settling into your bones. “Shut up, Doc,” you muttered, but your voice was soft, your hand still in his, and for the first time in months, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you could let yourself fall again.

The hospital never really rested. Never slept. Even after the world outside had gone quiet. But ever since Seokjin confessed that night—the hospital had changed for you. Not in its structure or sound, but in its soul.

Suddenly, the ER didn’t feel so cold. The corridors didn’t echo loneliness. Now, they echoed with something softer.

Him.

Late-night shifts with Seokjin became your favorite kind of quiet chaos.

In the rare moments you both weren’t elbow-deep in emergencies, you’d slip into the break room like two kids sneaking candy. The fluorescent lights hummed above, vending machines blinking tiredly in the corner.

You’d sit beside him on the small couch, your head resting on his shoulder, his fingers brushing your hair as he leaned in to whisper nonsense just to make you laugh.

“I swear the chocolate tastes better if you feed it to someone you like,” he’d murmur, breaking the bar in half with dramatic flair.

He'd press the bigger half between your lips, his eyes staring into yours, and smirk.

“You’re stealing my heart and my snacks, princess.”

You’d roll your eyes, but your heart couldn't ignore the feeling. Because it wasn’t about the chocolate. It was him choosing you in a thousand quiet ways. Again. And again.

One evening, you were scrubbing in for a surgery—heart racing, adrenaline rushing under your skin. Your coat was twisted, the collar popped awkwardly. You didn’t even notice until you felt warm fingers brushing your neck.

“Hold still,” Seokjin murmured behind you, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t just adjusting your coat—he was touching your soul. The way his fingers brushed the curve of your throat, lingered for half a second too long, made your knees threaten betrayal.

He leaned in, mouth so close to your ear his breath ghosted across your skin.

“What’s got you so flustered, rookie?” he teased, voice low and dangerous. “I’ve already seen you fully—every gorgeous inch.”

Your cheeks burned.

“Jin, we’re in the OR prep room!” you hissed, but you couldn’t help the way your lips twitched.

He just gave you that smug, devastating smirk, eyes full of sin and adoration.

“Just reminding you who you’re dealing with.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, fighting the grin that stretched your lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it,” he shot back, already slipping on his gloves, but not before winking over his mask.

And God help you… you really did.

But not every moment was playful.

Some nights were harder than others. Some broke more than bones.

That night, a young boy was wheeled into the ER. Pale. Limp. Blood drying on his cheek like a whisper of something already fading. A car accident. Severe internal bleeding. You were assigned to his OT.

You’d done everything. Your hands steady as you worked to stabilize him, but his injuries were too severe. Despite your efforts, his vitals crashed, and you watched, helpless.

The heart monitor flatlined. The room fell silent, the weight of failure crushing you.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

You stepped back from the table like it burned you, your hands trembling as you ripped off your gloves. The little boy’s face stared back at you, empty. Innocent. Gone.

You stumbled out into the hallway. Cold. Quiet. Your back hit the wall. You slid down, buried your face in your palms, and tried to disappear.

You didn’t hear him approach.

But suddenly—warm arms wrapped around you. Strong. Steady. Familiar.

Seokjin didn’t say anything at first. He just held you. One arm around your waist, the other cradling your head as if shielding you from the weight of the world. His chin rested on top of your head. His chest rose and fell with each quiet breath.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice ragged and small. “I tried… I tried so hard, Jin.”

He pulled you tighter. His hand cupped the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with delicate care.

“I know you did,” he said, his voice low and full of a grief he knew too well. “I’ve been right where you are. My first year…When I started just like you, I lost a patient too. It tore me apart.”

You sobbed softly, and he didn’t flinch.

“We’re doctors,” he continued, his voice cracking, “but we’re not gods. We do everything we can—but sometimes, it’s still not enough. And it breaks you. But you did everything right, Y/N. Everything. He just… couldn’t hold on.”

You looked up at him then, eyes glassy and broken.

He cupped your face, thumbs brushing your tears with reverence.

“You’re enough,” he whispered. “More than enough. And I know it feels like the world stopped—but we keep going. For the next patient. For the ones we can save. And you don’t have to carry this alone. Not anymore.”

Your breath hitched. You nodded, leaning into his touch, the weight of his words grounding you.

He kissed your forehead. Soft. Anchoring.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered again, over and over, like a promise.

That night, you didn’t just fall apart. You fell into him. And he never let you go.

Weeks later, the tension between you had built to a breaking point, the stolen touches and teasing glances no longer enough.

The on-call room was dimly lit, the hum of the hospital fading into the background as Seokjin locked the door behind you. The air was thick with anticipation, your heart pounding as he turned to face you, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your knees weak.

“Tell me if you remember now.”

He stepped closer, not touching, just watching—like you were something sacred. His fingers brushed your cheek, trailing down your neck, so gentle it almost hurt.

“Seokjin…” you breathed, your voice trembling with need, your mind flashing with fragments of that first night—the way he’d fucked you raw, the way he’d made you scream.

He crashed his lips into yours, the kiss raw and desperate, all tongue and teeth, his hands yanking at your scrubs like they offended him.

“Fuck, I’ve been dying to get my hands on you again,” he groaned, his voice rough as he shoved your top up, his mouth hot on your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about you, princess. About fucking you until you can’t walk.”

You moaned, your hands clawing at his lab coat, ripping it open as you tugged at his shirt, buttons popping in your haste. “Then do it,” you challenged, your voice bold despite the heat pooling between your legs. “Fuck me like you did that night, Doc. Make me forget everything else.”

He grinned, that cocky smirk that set your nerves on fire, and shoved you onto the narrow hospital bed, his hands undressing your scrubs with ruthless efficiency.

“Oh, I’m gonna do more than that,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes raking over your body as he stripped you bare.

“You’re mine, Y/N. And this time, I am not letting you go anywhere.”

You gasped as his mouth found your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until you were arching into him, your hands fisting in his hair.

“Fuck you are insane,” you panted, but your voice was needy, your hips bucking against him.

“Only for you,” he shot back, his fingers hooking into your panties and yanking them down, his breath hitching as he saw how soaked you were. “Fuck, look at this pussy. Dripping for me already? You’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” you demanded, your legs spreading for him, your core throbbing with need.

He laughed, low and filthy, and shoved his fingers into you, three at once, stretching you with a delicious burn that made you moan his name. “Bossy little thing,” he teased, his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, his fingers curling hard and fast.

“Let’s see how loud you get before someone bangs on this door.”

You bit your lip, muffling a scream as he worked you, his fingers relentless, his eyes locked onto your face as you fell apart.

“Jin—fuck, you’re such an asshole,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pushed you closer to the edge.

“Asshole?” he said, mock-offended, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean with a groan that made your core clench. “I’m about to fuck you senseless, and that’s the thanks I get?” He unzipped his pants, freeing his cock—hard, thick, and leaking—and you moaned at the sight, your hand reaching for him, stroking him roughly.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his hips jerking into your touch. “Keep that up, and I’m gonna come all over your pretty little hand.”

“Then do it,” you teased, guiding him to your entrance, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “Or are you all talk, Doc?”

He growled, shoving into you with a single, brutal thrust that made you scream, his cock filling you so completely you could barely breathe.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he said, his voice rough as he fucked you hard, each thrust deep and punishing, the bed creaking beneath you. “So fucking tight, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

You clung to him, your nails raking down his back, your body arching into his as he pounded into you, his filthy words driving you wild.

“Harder!!”

You gasped, your voice needy, and he obliged, his thrusts relentless, his hand fisting in your hair, tugging just enough to make you moan louder.

“Careful what you ask for, princess,” he panted, his lips brushing your ear.

“I’m gonna ruin you if you keep begging for harder. You’re mine—fuck, you’re so mine.”

You laughed breathlessly, your hands gripping his white coat, the fabric bunched in your fists. “Big talk, Doc. Prove it.”

He growled, flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up and thrusting into you from behind, the new angle making you cry out.

“Like this?”

He asked, his voice rough as he fucked you deeper, his hand smacking your ass lightly, making you moan. “Gonna make sure you feel me for fucking days, baby.”

You came hard, your body convulsing, your walls clenching around him as you screamed his name, and he followed, his release spilling inside you, hot and messy, his groans raw as he held you tight.

He collapsed onto you, both of you breathless, his arms wrapping around you as he kissed your neck, soft and slow.

“From now on... Every time when I wake up,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours, “you’re staying wrapped around me.”

You laughed, turning to face him, your fingers tracing his jaw. “Deal,” you whispered, your heart full, your body still buzzing.

“So… dinner after this shift?” he asked, his voice soft, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. “A proper real date?”

You grinned, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Only if it ends in dessert.”

He smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Princess, the dessert’s been between your thighs all along.”

Eight months later, you and Seokjin were the heart of Seoul General, the hospital’s beloved power couple. Your chemistry was undeniable, sparking smiles from patients and playful eye-rolls from colleagues who couldn’t escape your constant flirting.

He never let you live down that first day—when you stared blankly at him like he wasn’t the man who’d wrecked you in a hotel room. So, you got your revenge: by hiding his lab coat in the supply closet every time he got too cocky. Fair trade.

You wore his oversized hoodie during late-night shifts, the sleeves dangling past your hands, the fabric carrying his comforting sandalwood scent. He’d catch sight of you in it and pull you into an empty room for a stolen kiss—or more.

Patients adored your dynamic, charmed by your easy banter and the way you worked together seamlessly.

“You two are perfect together,” an elderly patient said one day, her eyes twinkling as she watched Seokjin adjust your stethoscope with that familiar, playful smirk. “Like a married couple already.”

You’d blush, and he’d chuckle, his hand lingering on your waist. “She’s the best partner I could ask for,” he’d say, his voice warm, his gaze holding yours with unspoken promises.

One quiet night after a hellish shift, Seokjin led you up to the hospital’s rooftop garden—city lights glowing, stars trying their best through the smog.

You thought he just wanted to vent or make out. Instead, he took your hands, suddenly all soft eyes and fidgety fingers.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, “From that wild bar night to now, you’ve ruined me. No one’s ever made me laugh this hard or love this deep.” He paused—dramatically, of course—then pulled out a tiny velvet box.

Your brain short-circuited.

He dropped to one knee.

“I want to spend every day with you—every shift, every snack break, every quiet moment. Will you marry me?”

You blinked. Then laughed. Then cried. “Yes, you ridiculous man. A thousand times yes.”

He slipped a delicate diamond ring onto your finger, the stone catching the moonlight, and stood to pull you into a deep, tender kiss, his hands cradling your face like you were his entire world.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and overwhelmed, you rested your forehead against his, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw.

“So,” you said, your voice light with teasing, “where should we go for our honeymoon? Somewhere tropical? A cozy cabin?”

He grinned, that cocky, devastating smirk returning, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Doesn’t matter, princess. We won’t be leaving the hotel room anyway.”

You blinked, tilting your head in mock confusion. “What? Why? What are we going to do inside all day?”

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low and teasing. “Oh, you know exactly what we’ll be doing.”

"You really wanna make me say it, princess?"

Your cheeks flushed, and you swatted his chest, laughing as heat crept up your neck. “Yah, you pervert!”

He laughed, rich and warm, pulling you closer, his lips grazing your forehead. “Only for you, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice softening. “You’re my best mistake, and I’m never letting you go.”

You smiled, your heart full as you melted into his embrace, the city lights twinkling below. “And you’re mine, Doc.”

A/n: How come my mind come up with these weird plots, when it comes to Jin? 😂🤭

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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 . @bebabido

[kittenan2]

Burn the Legacy

Pairing: CEO!Jimin x CEO!Reader Rating: 18+ (Explicit) Warnings: Enemies to lovers, explicit sexual content (worship kink, praise kink, dominance reversal, oral sex, penetrative sex, light bondage), depictions of physical abuse (slapping, choking, impact injury by a family member), emotional trauma, misogyny, hurt/comfort, pregnancy mention. Word Count: ~5k Genre: Enemies to lovers, CEO AU, smut, angst, hurt/comfort, protective Jimin, empowerment, secret dating, pregnancy.

The Seoul skyline glimmers like a crown of jagged glass through the floor-to-ceiling windows, all ambition and cold beauty. You stand near the edge of the gala crowd, a flute of champagne in one hand, the other gripping your clutch like it’s a weapon.

Your red wine dress fits like it was made for war—tight, elegant, intimidating. No one would guess the bruises hidden beneath your makeup, or the echo of your father’s words still rattling in your chest.

“Girls ruin legacies.”

You force your shoulders back, chin up, mouth curled into a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’ve mastered the art of pretending. Tonight’s no different.

Then he walks in.

Park Jimin—CEO, media darling, and the one person who makes your blood boil in the most inconvenient ways. His suit is tailored within an inch of his life, charcoal grey and criminally flattering.

His silver-blonde hair gleams under the chandeliers. He moves like he owns the room, which pisses you off even more because he almost does.

And the moment his eyes find yours, he smiles like he’s already won.

“Well, well,” he says as he strides up, voice smooth and maddening. “Didn’t expect to see you standing after that stock drop. Tough week?”

You blink slow. Sip your champagne. Smile like sin. “Careful, Jimin. Keep greening, and I’ll have to remind you how I crushed your last campaign. What was it—six weeks at number one before I knocked you down?”

He chuckles, deep and low. “That fire in you... Oh, sweetheart, I love it when you fight back. Makes the victory sweeter when I win.”

You take a step closer, your voice quiet but cutting. “Then be careful of fire, sweetheart. It might burn you into ashes.”

His grin grows. You hate how much you love the way he looks at you—like he knows exactly how sharp you are, and still wants to play with the blade.

But then his gaze shifts. Lingers a second too long on the curve of your neck.

“Rough night?” he asks, tone still teasing, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—concern, maybe. It makes you want to scream.

You laugh, short and sharp, moving into his space just to wipe that look off his face. “Just an Accident during late night strategy session. You know how it is—preparing to bury a company is exhausting.”

You don’t flinch when his eyes search yours. You don’t let him see how much you’re holding back.

“That’s what I love about you,” he murmurs. “You don’t scare easy. You’re the only one in this city who actually knows how to fight.”

Your heart stumbles for just a beat. You hate that he sees you like that—hate it more because it feels like the real you, the one even you forget about sometimes.

You turn, heels clicking against marble, voice steady over your shoulder. “Keep talking, Park. I plan on making your next quarter hell.”

He doesn't answer, but you can feel his eyes on you the whole way out—like a promise you don’t want but can’t ignore.

You step into your father’s mansion, the glitter of the gala still clinging to your skin like a lie. The moment the door shuts behind you, the warmth of the evening disappears, replaced by a cold dread that knots tight in your chest.

This house has never felt like home. It’s just walls and silence and the shadow of a man who’s never believed in you.

Your father is in his study. He always is. A half-empty glass of scotch dangles from his hand, his eyes locked on the fire like he’s willing it to burn something down.

“Y/N,” he says without looking at you, but his voice cuts straight through your spine. “Do you have any idea how much your recklessness has cost us?”

You take a slow breath, the bruise on your neck pulsing beneath layers of concealer. “Jimin’s launch hit us harder than expected, I know. But I’m already working on recovery. I always do.”

He stands too fast. His face is flushed with alcohol and anger. “Working on it?” he scoffs. “You let that smug bastard make a fool of you. Of me. You’ve humiliated this family.”

His hand cracks across your face before you can respond. The sting is immediate, sharp and humiliating. You stumble backward into a side table, forehead catching the edge with a sickening thud. Blood blurs your vision as you sway, but he’s already advancing.

His fingers wrap around your throat—not tight enough to choke, just enough to bruise. Enough to remind you who’s in charge.

“I should’ve never given you the company, but I had to because of your Grandfather,” he growls. “You’re not built for this. I should’ve handed it to your cousin. A man wouldn’t have let this happen.”

Your hands are shaking, but you force them into fists behind your back. You won’t let him see you break.

“I’ll fix it,” you whisper. Your voice trembles with fury, not fear. “I always do.”

He shoves you away like you’re nothing. “You better. Or I’ll find someone who can.”

Later, you’re curled on the balcony of your apartment, a first-aid kit in your lap and the city stretching out in front of you, beautiful and indifferent.

You dab at the cut on your brow with trembling fingers, flinching as the antiseptic bites. Blood streaks your cheek, and for a second, you just stare at ground.

You press a band-aid over the wound, blinking back the tears rising fast and hot. You can’t cry. You won’t cry.

But when the rain starts, soft and steady, it gives you permission. You stand, letting it soak through your dress, your hair, your bones. The tears come quiet—no sobs, just a slow unraveling.

Your shoulders quake under the weight of everything you can’t say. Your father’s words echo in your skull like a curse:

Girls ruin legacies.

You don’t see the black car parked across the street, engine humming. Inside, Jimin sits in the driver’s seat, jaw clenched, watching you through the rain-slicked windshield.

He hasn’t left since the gala. He saw the shift in your eyes, the flicker of pain behind your smile.

And now, he sees the truth.

Days later, the boardroom is tense with ambition and hidden agendas. You stand at the head of the table, presenting your marketing plan with confidence.

Your slides are flawless. Your voice is steady. But your hands—tucked neatly beneath the table—won’t stop trembling.

Your father is there, sitting across from you like a loaded gun. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, only at your cousin.

“He’s got real potential,” your father says, voice loud enough to echo, when your cousin suggest something. “The kind of mind we need. Not afraid to be ruthless.”

Then, as if twisting the knife, he adds, “Not everyone’s built for this. Park Jimin knows how to play the game. Maybe we should take notes from him, Y/n.”

You feel your chest tighten, air thinning. But you keep your smile in place. That’s what you’ve been trained to do.

Jimin watches from across the room, eyes narrowing. He catches the band-aid near your eyebrow. He sees the way your fingers curl into fists beneath the table. And something in him snaps.

After the meeting, he finds you alone in the hallway. No more smirks. No charm. Just steel.

“Another accident?” he asks, nodding toward your brow. His voice is low and laced with fury.

You force a scoff. “Clumsy me. Don’t worry, Park, I’m still sharp enough to beat you.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You try to walk past him, but he catches your wrist. Gentle. Steady. Unyielding.

“Y/N,” he says, softer now. “Who did this to you?”

You pull your hand back like it burns. “Worry about your own company. I don’t need your pity.”

He lets you go, but he doesn’t stop watching.

He remembers the rain. The blood. The way you stood on that balcony like you were trying not to shatter. And now, he sees the truth in full.

Over the next few days, Jimin makes calls. Quiet ones. Old contacts. Discreet favors. He follows the trail—the bruises, the tension, the way your father’s praise always lands on someone else.

And what he finds makes his blood run cold—his misogyny, his belief that you’re a failure because you’re not a son.

Your father doesn’t just underestimate you. He breaks you. And still, you keep building. Still, you keep fighting.

Jimin doesn’t say a word. But behind the scenes, his anger becomes purpose.

He’s going to take your father down.

And when he does, he’s going to make sure you rise from the ashes.

Even if it kills him.

Your father summons you to a merger meeting with Park Enterprises, a desperate bid to stabilize his crumbling empire.

You arrive in a crimson power suit, defiance in every step, but the bruises—old and new—linger beneath your armor.

Jimin is already there when you walk in—legs crossed, arm draped lazily along the back of his chair, but his eyes are anything but casual. They track every movement you make. Not like prey. Like someone watching a storm roll in, equal parts awe and warning.

Your father starts, all false charm. “Jimin, this merger could make us untouchable. But Y/N…” He chuckles, dismissive.

“She’s been struggling. Girls aren’t built for this, you know. Any wins she’s had? Pure luck. Flukes. She’s no match for someone like you.”

Your nails bite into your palms under the table, the band-aid near your eyebrow itching under his words. He continues, each insult sharper. “She’s a liability. Always has been. If I had a son, or even my nephew, we wouldn’t be in this mess. She’s just… inadequate.”

You keep your head high, but the words cut deeper than any bruise. Jimin’s gaze flicks to you, then back to your father, his expression darkening with every word.

“She got lucky with that campaign last year,” your father says, waving a hand. “Even a broken clock’s shows right time twice a day. But she’ll never be you, Jimin.”

“Enough.” Jimin’s voice slices through the room, low and lethal, silencing everyone. He leans forward, eyes blazing as they lock on your father.

“You’re wrong about her. Y/N’s wins aren’t luck—they’re genius. She’s the only CEO in Seoul I’ve ever feared losing to. Her strategies are flawless, her vision unmatched. She’s not just worthy of your legacy—she is your legacy. And you’re too blind to see it.”

The room goes silent. Your father’s face twists in shock, his mouth opening to retort, but Jimin’s glare shuts him down. You stare at Jimin, his words sinking into the wounds your father’s carved, stitching them shut with something like hope.

Jimin stands, buttoning his jacket. “I’ll consider the merger. But only if Y/N leads it. She’s the one I trust.” He leaves, and you’re left breathless.

Your father’s face glares a you, twisted in something between disbelief and rage, but for once, it doesn’t crush you. For once, his words don't piss you off.

Because someone saw you.

And they chose you.

And maybe—just maybe—you can choose yourself too.

You follow Jimin in the parking garage, leaning against his black car, his eyes dark with something dangerous.

“What the hell was that?” you snap, storming toward him, fury masking the vulnerability his words stirred. “You don’t get to play savior, Park.”

He straightens, stepping into your space. “You think I did that for you? I did it for me. Because watching him tear you down makes me want to burn this city to ash.”

The air crackles, your breaths mingling. You’re too close, too raw, years of rivalry and unspoken desire crashing together. He grabs your wrist, pulling you into his car. The door slams, locking you in with him.

“Jimin—”

“Shhh...,” he growls, and his lips crash into yours, fierce and desperate. You kiss him back, just as hungry, hands fisting in his hair. It’s a collision of need and rage, tongues battling, teeth grazing. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, and he groans into your mouth, hands gripping your hips.

He looks at you like you’re made of fire and glass—dangerous and breakable—and he’s willing to burn just to be near you.

You start to move, grinding down against the hard length straining in his trousers. A low moan rips from his throat, head tipping back, mouth parted, breath shaking. But he doesn't close his eyes—he watches you, drinking in the way you move, like he can’t stand to miss a single second.

“You’re in charge,” he says, voice hoarse. “Take what you need. Show me who the fuck you are. Show me you’re more than everything he said.”

The words hit like a crack in your ribs—right where your father’s voice still echoes, where the doubt lives. But Jimin says it like a prayer. Like he means it. Like he sees the parts of you you’ve tried to hide, and he wants them.

You lean in, unbuttoning his shirt one trembling button at a time, dragging your nails down his chest, biting and marking on his skin. He hisses, muscles flexing. “Fuck—do that again.”

So you do. Deeper this time. He lets you. Loves it. His body is yours to mark, to claim. For once, you’re not the one flinching.

His hands ghost under your skirt, brushing the lace between your thighs, but they stop—hovering. Waiting.

You nod.

He slides your underwear off with reverence, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His fingers find you—wet, aching—and he curses softly. “God,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.”

When his fingers slip inside, it’s slow, patient, his thumb circling your clit just enough to make your legs tremble. You gasp, forehead pressed to his, every breath shared. He moves in gentle thrusts, curling just right, drawing moans from your lips that sound more like confessions.

“Jimin,” you whisper, broken and desperate.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls his fingers free and lifts you with a strength that feels more like worship. “Come here,” he murmurs, guiding you up, settling you in a way, your wet folds over his mouth. The moment his tongue touches you, your vision goes white.

He eats you like he’s starving—like this is how he proves he believes in you. His hands grip your thighs, grounding you as you ride his face, thighs shaking, moans tangled in your teeth.

He doesn't stop. Not until you're falling apart above him, your cry lost in the night as everything you’ve held in finally breaks free.

When you collapse, breath ragged, he kisses your inner thigh like a vow. His lips are soaked. His eyes are bright.

“You taste like power,” he says, smiling through his panting. “Like you.”

You kiss him—deep, messy, desperate—tasting yourself on his tongue, tasting the need and the love and the rage you’ve both carried too long. You undo his belt with shaking fingers, pulling his cock free, thick and flushed and aching for you.

And when you sink down onto him, slowly, inch by inch, you both cry out—because it’s not just sex. It’s reclamation. It’s healing.

He holds your waist like you might slip away. But you won’t. Not tonight.

You ride him, hips rolling, pace building, every grind a declaration. His hands never force, never guide—they follow. His head falls back, eyes screwed shut, mouth whispering your name like it’s holy.

“You’re worth more than he’ll ever fucking understand,” he gasps, thrusting up into you. “You’re not broken. You’re brilliant. And you’re mine.”

You come with a sob, your body pulsing around him, every nerve lit with fire. He follows right after, crying out your name as he spills inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

After, he doesn’t pull away. He kisses the bruise on your neck—not with pity, but with gentleness. With a promise.

“He has no right on you,” he whispers. “Not anymore.”

And this time, for once, you believe it.

After that day, you’re dating in secret now. The world still sees you as enemies—two titans locked in a brutal dance of power and press releases.

In public, it’s sharp eyes and sharper words, but behind closed doors, when the cameras disappear and the masks drop, Jimin becomes your sanctuary.

He’s soft in a way no one else gets to see. Whenever he visits your Company, he leaves coffee on your desk with notes that read “Don’t fuck up today, rival” in his slanted scrawl—still smug, but you know better now.

You know he stays up watching the late market just to be the first to text “you did it” when your stocks spike.

He tucks a blanket over you when you fall asleep on his couch, kisses your forehead like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You’ve never been handled like this before. Not as a problem to fix or a weapon to wield—but as something precious. As someone worthy.

One night, he pulls you out onto his penthouse balcony. The city pulses below you, glittering like the battlefield it is.

“Look,” he whispers, arms sliding around your waist from behind. “You built half of this. Don’t let that bastard make you forget it.”

You lean back into him, eyes stinging. The world never gives you credit. But he sees you.

“God,” he murmurs, nose brushing your neck. “I’m so fucking whipped for you.”

You laugh softly, chest tight. You want to say me too, but you turn around and it comes out in a kiss—soft and lingering, full of everything you’re not ready to admit yet.

Later, in his bedroom, he closes the door behind you, and the silence hums thick and golden. You start to shrug off your blazer, but he stops you, fingers gently brushing yours.

“Let me see you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

You hesitate.

He undresses you slowly.

One button at a time. One sleeve. Then the blouse slips off your shoulders. His mouth opens slightly—then shuts. His eyes track the bruises marring your skin.

One near your collarbone. Faint green-yellow on your wrist. A dark, old mark near your ribs. Another, barely faded, down the curve of your spine.

The room feels colder. Your breath catches.

You don't say it. But the words hang in the air between you:

Ugly. Ruined. Not worth loving beneath these power suits.

You look down, jaw clenched. “I’m not… this isn’t what people expect under a power suit,” you mutter, voice cracking. “I’m not… perfect.”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheek.

“God,” he breathes, like it hurts to look at you. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Do you have any idea how lucky I feel that you let me see you like this?”

You shiver. Your chest cracks open.

He undresses himself and kneels in front of you—not as a man who’s submitting, but as a man who’s honoring you. As a man who’s worshipping the goddess you don’t always remember you are.

“Tie me up,” he says, voice low but steady. There’s mischief in his eyes, yes—but underneath it? Devotion. Trust. “I want you to have me. No defenses. No control. Just… you.”

Your throat tightens. This man, this rival, this king of arrogance—offering himself to you completely.

“You’re mine tonight,” you whisper.

“I’ve been yours,” he says. “Since day one.”

You bind his wrists with slow, deliberate care, watching the way his breath stutters. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Just lets you take him.

You push him back on the bed and climb over him, trailing kisses down his chest, your nails scraping gently along his sides. He shivers, eyes dark with need but full of something softer too. Something like awe.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, like it hurts to say.

His cock is hard, flushed, leaking against his stomach. But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t beg.

Not yet.

You again trail kisses down his chest, biting gently at his nipple before licking the sting away. He twitches. Gasps. His head falls back.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Please, Y/N.”

You slide down between his thighs, licking a thick stripe up the length of him. His hips jerk, but your hands pin him down. You take him in slowly—inch by inch—feeling the way he falls apart with every second.

“Fuck me,” he cries out. “Oh god, I—fuck.”

“Didn't know you like giving up control, Park?” You tease.

He grins, breathless. “Only when it’s you.”

You again take him in your mouth—warm, wet, slow. Your tongue flattens along his shaft, your lips wrapped around the head, teasing him, bobbing gently, rhythm unhurried.

“Fuck—oh my god,” he moans, hands pulling at the tie binding him. “Please, baby…”

You tighten your grip on his thighs, holding him still. He twitches in your mouth, hips barely restrained.

“Please what?” you purr, licking up the underside slowly.

“Please let me come—please, please, I can’t—” His voice cracks, head thrown back, curls sticking to his forehead.

You pull off with a pop.

“Not yet.”

You hover over him, straddle him, take him in your hand, and line him up slowly sinking down inch by aching inch onto his cock.

Stretching around him. Claiming him.

He cries out—guttural, desperate.

“Holy shit—fuck, you feel so—” His hips jerk, but you plant your hands on his chest and grind down, slowly, deep and hard.

He throws his head back, a guttural moan torn from his throat, wrists tugging helplessly at the silk. But he doesn’t ask for control. He never does.

You ride him in slow, deep strokes, drawing out every sound, every shake, every whispered “fuck, yes.”

He’s wrecked. Eyes glossy. Skin flushed. But still gazing at you like you’re divinity on top of him.

“Tell me again,” you whisper, leaning in so close your lips ghost over his. “Who am I to you?”

His eyes open, wide and wrecked. “You’re everything,” he breathes. “My rival. My queen. My fucking world.”

You clench around him and he breaks.

His hips jerk up, finally snapping as he cums inside you with a sob of your name. Hot and thick. You ride him through it, chasing your own pleasure—until it crashes into you seconds later.

Your entire body trembles.

You collapse over him, foreheads touching, both of you gasping, tangled in sweat and silk and emotion.

Afterward, he wriggles free of the tie with a tired laugh and immediately pulls you into his chest. His skin is slick with sweat, his heartbeat pounding beneath your ear.

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your shoulder. Over and over like he’s trying to memorize every part of you.

“I’m keeping you forever.” he whispers, voice rough.

You laugh into his chest, tears slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them. But you’re not ashamed.

Because for the first time in years… you feel safe.

You feel wanted.

You feel loved.

The merger celebration is everything it’s supposed to be—glittering chandeliers, champagne flowing like victory.

But beneath it all, the air crackles with tension. Your bold move—pushing for merger terms that protect your company’s independence—has left your father seething. And tonight, he’s too proud to hide it.

You feel his stare burn through the crystal glass in your hand. He hasn’t spoken to you since the board approved your terms. You did it without him. Without his approval. And now, he wants blood.

His voice cuts across the dinner table, sharp and loud enough to silence silverware. “You’ve been slipping, Y/N. Taking liberties you haven’t earned. If you were a son, this company wouldn’t be on its knees.”

The entire table stills. Eyes dart between you and him, uncertainty crackling.

“You think you can make decisions without me?” he spits. “You think you can run this company on your own?” His voice is rising now, old anger surfacing. Humiliation, bitterness, loss of control.

You meet his eyes, jaw clenched. “I didn’t just think it. I did it. And it worked.”

He stands suddenly, chest heaving, and the chair groans beneath the force. He can't accept the fact that you just answered back to him like this.

His hand lifts—high, fast, familiar. A reflex you’ve come to know in silence.

Gasps echo. Some rise halfway from their seats. No one moves.

Except Jimin.

He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, body a blur, and when your father’s hand slices the air, it doesn’t meet skin. It meets Jimin’s grip—tight, unwavering, fingers clamped around his wrist with brutal precision.

“Touch her again,” Jimin growls, his voice low and vibrating with fury, “and I’ll destroy you.”

Not sue. Not ruin your reputation.

Destroy.

The silence is deafening. Your father stares at Jimin, stunned by the sheer audacity. But he doesn't pull back—he can’t. Because Jimin doesn’t just hold his wrist—he holds the room now.

And then Jimin looks at you. His voice softens, but his words still land like a bomb.

“You don’t get to hurt my soon to be wife.”

Time stops.

Your breath catches in your throat. You don’t know whether it’s shock, fear, or something deeper blooming in your chest—but every part of you stills. Whispers ripple like waves across the room. Future wife.

He releases your father’s arm with a shove, stepping between you both, his arm wrapping around you with quiet finality. Protective. Possessive. Yours.

“The merger moves forward,” he announces, eyes scanning the room now, daring anyone to question him. “But Y/N leads it. She’s the reason we’re all here tonight. And she’s the only person I trust to take this forward.”

Your father doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s a statue of impotent rage, surrounded by people who have just watched him fall apart.

You, on the other hand, stand taller. Straighter. Like the weight that’s been crushing your chest for years is finally cracking off, piece by piece.

Jimin squeezes your hand under the table. He didn’t save you. He stood with you.

And when he said “soon to be wife,” something inside you—something long buried—believed it.

Jimin’s penthouse is quiet when he brings you home, the chaos of the evening fading behind the click of the door. He doesn’t say much—just leads you gently to the bathroom, where the tub is already filling, steam curling up in soft tendrils. The scent of lavender hangs in the air, calming, warm. A small, unspoken comfort.

He undresses you slowly, not with hunger, but with reverence. Every bruise. Every scar. Every place your father’s cruelty left its mark—Jimin touches each one like he’s trying to rewrite the pain with his lips.

“You’re untouchable,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just above your heart. “Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

He helps you into the water, the warmth enveloping you in seconds. You sigh, eyes fluttering shut.

He slides into the tub behind you, his chest pressed to your back, arms wrapping around your waist. “Relax,” he murmurs against your ear. “Just let me hold you for a while.”

He pours water over your shoulders, then lifts the sponge, lathering it with care. Every motion is unhurried, his fingers gliding over your skin like he’s memorizing you. Worshipping you.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, voice tight. “I should’ve stopped him earlier. I should’ve seen it.”

You open your eyes, reaching for him, turning around slightly. “You see me now,” you whisper, pulling him closer until his forehead rests against yours. “That’s enough.”

He smiles—just a little—and it’s shy in a way you’ve never seen on him. Not the cocky CEO or the public rival. Just Jimin. Your Jimin.

“What?” he teases softly when you laugh, brushing a droplet from your cheek. “Can’t I be soft for my fiancée?”

Your breath catches. “Fiancée, huh?” you murmur. “You’re getting bold, Park.”

“Damn right I am,” he says, his smile deepening as he leans in. “You make me bold.”

His lips brush yours—slow, tentative, like a question. You answer with a kiss, soft at first, then deeper, mouths moving in lazy sync as the water ripples around you. His hands rest on your thighs, not possessive—just grounding. Like he’s anchoring himself to you.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw. You moan into his mouth, not from lust—but from the feeling of being held, really held, for the first time in so long.

“You’re so good to me,” you whisper when he finally pulls back, both of you breathless, foreheads pressed together.

He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. “Always will be,” he says quietly. “Always.”

You stay like that for a long time—limbs tangled in warm water, fingers exploring familiar skin, lips brushing and brushing again. Not needing more. Not tonight.

Afterward, he wraps you in a thick towel and lifts you into his arms with a playful grunt. “You’re heavier than you look.”

You swat him, laughing, head buried in his neck. He carries you to bed anyway, settling you into the sheets like you’re something sacred.

Before turning off the light, he leans over and kisses your nose, your cheek, your temple.

“I meant it,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re my future. Forever.”

And with his heartbeat steady underneath your ear, you finally fall asleep without fear.

Almost a year later, the city watches as you and Jimin stand side by side—co-CEOs, partners, Seoul’s power couple. Your tailored suits have turned looser lately, and the media’s in a frenzy—suspecting stress, scandal, or something else entirely. You give them nothing. Not yet.

A flash catches on the diamond on your finger. Not married. Not yet. But that’s never mattered. You’re already building something far stronger—a life, a future, a family.

Your hand grazes your lower stomach, instinctive and protective. Only you and Jimin know the truth: you’re pregnant. Three months along. Still secret to the world.

Seven weeks ago, in Jimin’s kitchen, you held up the positive test with shaking hands. “We’re not married yet,” you whispered.

He dropped the knife, crossed the room in two strides, and pulled you into his arms. “I don’t care,” he said, laughing through wet eyes. “We will be. Soon. Anyways.”

Today, a reporter smirks into the mic. “CEO Park, after marriage, hoping for a male heir in future to run your Empire?”

You tense—but Jimin doesn’t miss a beat. His hand rests gently on your back.

“Gender doesn't matter but I’m hoping for a daughter,” he says, calm and clear. “One who’ll outshine both her parents.”

Whispers erupt, cameras click, but Jimin just lifts your hand and kisses it. And you smile, private and knowing. Not yet. But soon.

Later, when the lights are low and the city glows beneath you, Jimin dims the rest of the world with a single gesture. Candles flicker in the living room, casting warm light across the walls. The windows are open, a soft breeze dancing through sheer curtains.

He pulls you into his lap on the couch, his arms cradling you from behind, palms resting tenderly over your belly.

“They’re dying to know,” he murmurs into your neck, his lips brushing your skin.

“We don’t even know yet,” you laugh.

Jimin presses a soft kiss beneath your ear, his voice hushed, reverent. “Boy or Girl, I don't care. They gonna change the world.”

You turn to face him, and you kiss him—slow, unhurried, full of love and quiet triumph—the city fades. All that matters is here, in this room. In this moment.

Your future. Your family.

Your freedom.

A/n: Angry Jimin is intimidating and also my weakness 🥵

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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

[kittenan2]

Royal Racer

Pairing: Prince!Hoseok × Racer!Reader Word Count: ~7k Tropes: Secret identity, enemies/rivals to lovers, forbidden romance, intense smut, angst, fluff Kinks: Car sex, garage sex, light bondage, dirty talk, hand on throat, masking/unmasking tension Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, dangerous driving, injury, emotional intensity, power dynamics

The ballroom glitters like a jewel, chandeliers sparkling overhead. You’re miserable, dragged to this fancy charity gala by your sponsor—a slimy guy with a fake grin—for “publicity.”

You’re an underground racer, not some polished princess. Your black dress clings tight, showing off your back, but you’d rather be in your leather jacket, burning up the track. Sipping flat champagne, you roll eyes at the rich crowd, hating every second.

You lean against a pillar, eyeing the monarchy. They’re everything you despise—spoiled, fake, useless. Especially him, Prince Jung Hoseok. He’s across the room, looking sharp in a wine colored suit, dark hair neat, smile polite but distant. You roll your eyes. Just a pretty puppet, probably never touched anything real in his life.

You turn to the bartender, who looks as bored as you. “Bet that prince can’t even ride a scooter, let alone handle a real car,” you say, smirking.

The bartender snickers. “Probably rides in a fancy carriage instead.”

You laugh, loud and sharp, not caring who hears. But Hoseok does. He’s with some stuffy nobles, but your voice cuts through—scooter, real car, fancy carriage.

His lips twitch, not with anger but with something hotter. He knows who you are. Whispers of the underground racing scene reach even the palace, and he’s heard of you—the fierce driver with a mouth as fast as your car.

Your fire, your defiance, the way you mock him without a second thought—it sets something alight in him. You’re a challenge, and he’s already hooked.

Hoseok’s no stranger to the racing world. By night, he has tried racing often, in disguise, tearing up the same tracks you rule. But never bothered to compete, he just came to relieve his Crown's weight.

He’s turned on—not just by your curves in that dress but by your nerve, your spark. He wants to prove you wrong, to show you he’s more than a “puppet.”

When he slips out of the gala, he’s already planning to meet you on the track, mask on, ready to make you eat your words.

Midnight hits, and the city pulses with neon and danger. The rooftop race track is your sanctuary—concrete, sharp turns, screaming engines.

You’re in your red car, a beast you built, ready to dominate. Leather jacket on, boots scuffed, you’re cocky and untouchable. Until he shows up.

A matte black car rolls in, sleek and dangerous. The driver steps out—black racing suit, gloves, and a mask hiding everything but his eyes and lips. No name, no greeting, just raw confidence.

You size him up, unimpressed. “Hope your car’s faster than that outfit, sweetheart,” you say, smirking.

He tilts his head, lips curling into a grin that’s pure trouble. “Careful, hotshot. My car’s not the only thing that’ll leave you in the dust.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Big talk for a guy hiding behind a mask. Scared to show your face?”

“Scared you’ll fall for it,” he fires back, voice smooth as sin. “Wouldn’t want to distract you before I wipe the floor with you.”

You laugh, sharp and competitive. “Keep dreaming, mystery boy.”

The race is wild. You and this masked guy go hard, tires screeching, cars nearly kissing at every turn. He’s good—too good. He matches your moves, teases with near-overtakes, then pulls back just enough to keep you hooked. You win, but you know he let you. It pisses you off.

You storm over as he leans against his car, all smug. “You went easy on me,” you snap, poking his chest. “Don’t play games with me.”

He grabs your finger, holding it gently but firm. “Games? Nah, I just like watching you squirm.” His eyes glint through the mask. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Cute?” You yank your hand back, cheeks hot. “I’ll show you cute when I smoke you next time.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he says, leaning closer. “Bet you’re even prettier when you lose.” His voice drops, teasing, almost dirty. “Or when you’re begging.”

Your breath catches, and you hate how your body reacts—heat pooling, thighs clenching. “In your dreams, asshole,” you mutter, turning away before he sees you blush.

You strode to a quiet corner of the lot, needing to cool down. Pulling a cigarette from your jacket, you light it, taking a long drag. The smoke curls in the air, calming your nerves. But then he’s there, stepping out of the shadows, plucking the cigarette from your fingers before you can react.

“Not good for your health, sweetheart,” he says, crushing it under his boot. His voice is teasing, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s daring you to snap.

Your blood boils. “Who the hell do you think you are?” you hiss, stepping closer, fists clenched. “You don’t get to touch my stuff.”

He smirks, unfazed. “Just looking out for you. Need you in top shape to lose to me again.” He winks, and it’s infuriating, making your pulse race for all the wrong reasons. You storm off, his laugh echoing behind you, stoking the fire in your chest.

He’s everywhere now. Every race, every night, the masked racer is your shadow. You’re rivals, but it’s more than that—it’s a game, a dance, a fire you can’t put out.

He beats you, you beat him, and every time, he gets under your skin a little deeper. The garage becomes your battlefield, not just for racing but for something hotter, darker.

One night, after he edges you out again, you’re done playing. The garage is empty, smelling of gas and rubber, lit by a single flickering bulb.

You shove him against the wall, your hands fisting his racing suit. “Who the hell are you?” you growl, inches from his face. The mask taunts you, hiding him, but his eyes burn, and his lips—god, those lips—are too close. “Some rich kid playing bad boy? Take this damn thing off.”

He grabs your wrists, pulling you flush against him. Your breath hitches as his body presses into yours, hard and warm. You can feel every line of him—his chest, his thighs, the unmistakable hardness against your hip.

“You want the mask off?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. “Go ahead, princess. Rip it off. But you might not be ready for what’s underneath.” His gloved thumb brushes your hip, slipping just under your shirt, grazing bare skin. “Or maybe you’re just dying to find out how I’d fuck you with it on.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, heat flooding your core. You’re pissed, turned on, and way too close to ripping that mask off just to shut him up.

“You’re so full of shit,” you hiss, but your voice shakes. His hand slides higher, fingers splaying across your lower back, pulling you tighter. You can feel him—hard, ready—and it’s driving you insane.

“Full of shit?” He laughs, dark and velvety, his lips brushing your ear through the mask. “Says the girl who’s trembling in my hands.” He shifts, his thigh pressing between yours, sending a jolt through you. “Bet I could have you screaming my name right here, bent over your own car. Wanna test me?”

You shove him back, but it’s weak, your body betraying you. “Keep talking, mystery boy. All you’ve got is a mouth.”

“Oh, I’ve got a lot more than that,” he says, stepping closer again. His gloved finger traces down your arm, slow, deliberate, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “And you’re gonna find out soon enough. Unless you’re scared to lose at this too.”

You’re trembling, not from fear but from the heat between you, the tension so thick it’s choking. You turn and walk away, but his laugh follows you, low and knowing. He’s got you, and you both know it.

Another race. Another loss. You’re still fuming from the race, the loss burning in your veins as you lean against your car in the empty lot, the city skyline a distant glow.

You’re about to light cigarette when his matte black car pulls up, a silent taunt. Before you can snap at him, he’s out, striding toward you with that infuriating confidence, yanking open his passenger door.

“Get in mine,” he says, voice low, commanding, leaving no room for argument. He catches the cigarette in your hand, plucking it from your fingers and tossing it to the ground.

“I’ll give you something else to get addicted to,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting through the mask, his voice dripping with promise.

Your blood spikes, a mix of anger and something hotter. You should tell him to fuck off. You should walk away. But your body’s betraying you, drawn to him like a magnet.

You slide into his car, the leather seat cool against your thighs, the scent of new leather and his cedar cologne filling your senses. He’s in the driver’s seat in a flash, mask still on. The air is heavy, charged with the adrenaline still buzzing from the race, your bodies slick with sweat, eyes wild.

“What’s this about?” you snap, but your voice trembles, betraying the heat pooling in your core.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gloved hand wraps around your thigh, and in one fluid motion, he lifts you across the center console, pulling you onto his lap with such ease it’s like you weigh nothing.

His muscles flex under the tight racing suit, the power in his grip sending a thrill through you. You’re straddling him now, thighs wrapping his, the hard press of him against your core unmistakable through the layers of fabric.

The seat’s pushed back, giving just enough room, but it’s tight, intimate, every movement amplified. The air is heavy, charged with the scent of new leather, his cedar cologne, and the sweat of the race, your bodies slick and wild-eyed.

“You talk too much,” he growls, his lips brushing your jaw, the mask grazing your cheek with a delicious roughness. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, the contrast of his warm breath and the cool leather igniting your nerves. “Let’s see if you can keep up off the track.”

Your hands fist in his suit, yanking him closer, the fabric taut under your fingers. “Shut up and do something about it,” you challenge, your voice low, daring him to cross the line.

He does. His mouth crashes into yours, a collision of teeth and heat, the kiss raw and hungry. The mask scrapes your skin, adding a thrilling edge, and you taste adrenaline, sweat, and something distinctly him—dark, intoxicating.

He removes glove from his one of the hands and slide it under your shirt, fingers digging into your waist, the leather cool against your heated skin. He grinds you down against him, and you feel him—hard, pulsing, ready—through the thin layers separating you.

A moan escapes you, swallowed by his kiss, as he deepens it, his tongue sweeping against yours, claiming every inch of your mouth.

“Princess like you needs taming,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. Other hand slides up to your throat, not squeezing, just holding—firm, possessive, the weight of his palm grounding you. “Bet you’ve been dreaming of this since I smoked you that first night.”

You want to snap back, but he’s right. You’ve been burning for him, hating him, wanting him. You grind down harder, the friction sending sparks through your body, and he groans, the sound raw and primal, shooting straight to your core.

His free hand tugs at the zipper of your racing suit, pulling it down with a slow, deliberate drag, exposing your chest to the cool air.

Your skin prickles, but his mouth is there instantly, hot and wet, sucking a bruising mark into your collarbone. The sensation is electric, his lips soft but demanding, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

“Fuck,” you hiss, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, desperate for more. You reach for his mask, desperate to see him, to know him, but he grabs your wrist, pinning it to the headrest with a strength that makes your pulse race.

“Not yet,” he says, voice rough, eyes dark and burning through the mask’s slits. “You don’t get to know me until I’ve made you come undone.”

The words are filthy, and you’re drowning in them. His hand slides between your thighs, finding you already soaked through your underwear.

He doesn’t bother pulling your panties off—just pushes them aside with a smooth flick of his fingers. Two fingers slide inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right, and you clench around him, a moan tearing from your throat. The stretch is perfect, his fingers adding a strange, delicious friction that makes your hips buck.

“That’s it,” he says, his thumb circling your clit with agonizing precision, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through you.

“Ride me like you ride that car, princess.” His voice is a low growl, dripping with command, and his hand on your throat tightens just enough to make your head spin.

You do as he says, rocking against his hand, chasing the high. The car rocks slightly with your movements, the windows fogging up as your breaths come in short, desperate pants.

His fingers move faster, curling deeper, and his thumb presses harder, drawing you closer to the edge. You’re trembling, every nerve on fire, and he knows it. He leans forward, his lips brushing your ear, the mask grazing your skin.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice dark and sinful. “Show me how fast you can fall apart.”

The orgasm hits like a crash, a white-hot explosion that leaves you shaking in his lap. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body clenching around his fingers as you cry out, the sound muffled against his neck.

He doesn’t stop, drawing out every shudder, every whimper, until you’re oversensitive, gasping for breath. Only then does he pull his hand away, bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean through the mask’s slit. The sight is obscene, his eyes locked on yours, and it sends another jolt through you.

You’re panting, wrecked, but you manage a smirk. “Your turn, asshole,” you say, voice hoarse, reaching for his zipper.

He grabs your hand, stopping you with that infuriating smirk. “Patience, princess,” he says, his tone teasing but firm. “You’ll get what you want when I say so.”

The words make your blood boil, frustration mixing with desire. He’s toying with you, playing hard and it’s driving you insane. You glare at him, the mask taunting you, and make a silent vow—next time, you’re ripping it off, no matter what.

You slide off his lap, fixing your clothes, and storm out, his low chuckle following you into the night.

The garage is your shared battleground now, a place where you fix cars and fight with him. Tonight, you’re both on edge, the latest race leaving you raw.

He beat you again, and his smug attitude is unbearable. The air smells of gasoline and metal, the flickering bulb casting shadows across your red car. You’re arguing, voices sharp, the tension thick enough to choke on.

“You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” you snap, slamming a wrench onto the workbench. “Hiding behind that mask like a coward.”

He steps closer, too close, his masked face inches from yours. “Coward? I’m the one who’s been kicking your ass out there.” His voice is low, taunting. “Maybe you’re just mad you can’t keep up.”

You shove him, hard, and he stumbles back, laughing. “Fuck you,” you hiss, but the heat in your chest isn’t just anger. It’s desire, burning hotter with every word.

He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head against the garage wall. “Keep talking, princess,” he murmurs, his body pressed against yours, the mask grazing your cheek. “I like it when you fight me.”

You don’t think. You kiss him, hard and messy, teeth clashing, the mask a frustrating barrier. Your hands struggle against his grip, desperate to touch him, to claim him.

He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and releases your wrists, letting you tear at his racing suit. Fabric rips as you yank it down his shoulders, exposing tanned skin, lean muscle.

Your fingers find the edge of his mask, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. You rip it off, tossing it aside, and freeze.

It’s him. Hoseok. The prince. His sharp cheekbones, dark eyes, and that damn smirk are unmistakable. “You,” you breathe, stunned, your heart pounding. Your mind races, piecing it together—the gala, the races, the way he always seemed to know you. “The prince? You’re… him?”

He smirks, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “Surprised, princess? Thought I was just a puppet, huh?”

“You heard me,” you say, voice shaking, not sure if you’re angry or turned on or both. “At the gala. You heard every word.”

“Every fucking word,” he confirms, stepping closer, his hands on your hips. “And I’ve been dying to prove you wrong ever since.” His voice drops, low and dangerous. “Still think I can’t handle a real machine?”

You swallow, your body betraying you as heat floods your core. “You’re still an asshole,” you mutter, but it’s weak, your hands already pulling him closer.

“Good,” he says, his lips brushing yours. “I like you mad.” He kisses you again, slower this time, but no less intense, his tongue teasing yours, drawing a moan from you.

You push him back, needing control, and he lets you, a wicked glint in his eyes. “That scooter boy enough for you now, sweetheart?” he taunts, his voice dripping with mockery as he lifts you onto the hood of your car.

The metal is cool against your thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat of his hands as he rips at your clothes, exposing skin to the humid air.

“Shut up,” you snap, but your voice is breathy, your hands tearing at his suit, desperate to feel him. He kneels between your legs, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, your thighs, until he’s teasing you through your underwear.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough, his fingers hooking into the fabric.

“I want you,” you gasp, and he rewards you by pulling your underwear aside, his fingers sliding inside you, slow and deliberate. The stretch is perfect, his knuckles brushing just right, and you arch against the hood, moaning.

He works you with a skill that makes your head spin, his thumb circling your clit, his lips kissing down your inner thigh, leaving marks that burn in the best way.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he murmurs, his voice reverent, his eyes locked on yours. “All for me, princess?”

“Stop dreaming,” you manage, but it’s a whimper, and he laughs, the sound vibrating against your skin as he kisses lower, his tongue joining his fingers. You’re trembling, close to the edge, and he knows it, slowing down just to torture you.

“Say my name,” he demands, his fingers curling inside you, making you gasp.

“Hoseok,” you moan, and he rewards you with a flick of his tongue that sends you over the edge, your body shaking as you come undone. He doesn’t stop, drawing out every shudder until you’re panting, oversensitive.

He stands, undoing his pants, and bends you over the hood, your palms bracing against the cool metal. He kisses down your spine, slow and deliberate, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he enters you from behind.

The stretch is intense, filling you completely, and you cry out, your reflection in the windshield showing you wild, wrecked, alive. He moves slow at first, letting you feel every inch, then faster, harder, until the garage echoes with the sound of your gasps and the slap of skin.

“You’re mine,” he growls, one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to your throat, holding you just tight enough to make you dizzy. He pulls out at the last second, his release hot and slick across your spine, marking you in a way that feels primal, possessive.

You collapse against the hood, breathless, his hands still on you, grounding you. “You’re still an asshole,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, just a tired, sated smile.

He chuckles, kissing the back of your neck. “And you’re still mine.”

The Inferno Run looms like a storm cloud, the biggest underground race of the year—dangerous, no rules, zero forgiveness. Even the drunken people can participate.

You’ve been dreaming of this win your whole life, the title that’ll make your name in the underground forever. Hoseok—now unmasked,—begs you to skip it.

You’re in his car, parked in a secluded lot, the air heavy with the weight of what’s coming. He’s leaning against the hood, arms crossed, his face raw with emotion, no trace of the smirking prince or the masked racer. Just Hoseok, stripped down, vulnerable, his dark eyes pleading.

“Don’t do this race,” he says, voice rough, like he’s been screaming inside. “It’s not worth it.”

You laugh, but it’s bitter, your heart twisting. “Not worth it? Hoseok, this is everything. This is my life. You won't get it.”

He steps closer, grabbing your hands, his grip tight, desperate. “I get it more than you think. I’ve raced it before. I saw someone crash—burn. They didn’t make it out.”

His voice cracks, his eyes glistening. “The Inferno Run isn’t a race to win. It’s a race to survive. They don’t race to win there. They race to survive.”

You pull your hands away, your chest aching. “I’m not scared. I’m not some fragile thing you need to protect.”

“I’m not protecting you!” he shouts, his voice breaking, raw with fear.

“I’m fucking terrified, okay? I can’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his hands shaking as he runs them through his hair. “I can’t watch you disappear in fire just to prove something. Not when I’ve just found you.”

Your breath catches, his words cutting deeper than any blade. “Why does it matter so much?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

He looks at you, eyes wide, like you’ve ripped his heart out. “Because I love you,” he says, the words spilling out like they’ve been trapped too long.

“I love you, and I don’t know how to say it right. You cracked me open, broke every wall I had. You unmasked me—heart and all—before you ever touched that damn mask.”

“I’d give up everything—the races, the mask, the fucking crown, the whole damn world—if it meant you’d stay safe. I’ll drop out of racing with you. I’ll leave the palace. I’ll give up my title. Or I’ll make you queen of the entire fucking kingdom if you just stay alive.”

Your heart stops, his confession crashing over you like a wave. You’ve cracked his armor, unmasked him emotionally long before you ever touched that physical mask.

He’s choosing you over everything, and it terrifies him. You can see it—the fear that you’ll choose the race over him, that you’ll burn up and leave him behind.

“You think being fast is worth dying for?” he continues, his voice raw, breaking. “What about me? What am I supposed to do if you don’t make it back?”

You’re shaking, torn between the fire in your veins and the way his voice breaks. You want to scream, to run, to hold him. “I have to do this,” you say finally, your voice soft but firm, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I don’t need a crown, Hoseok. I need that win.”

He steps back, his face crumpling, defeated. His eyes are wet, his hands clenched into fists.

“Then I’ll be there,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “Watching. Praying you make it back. But if you don’t…” He chokes, unable to finish, and turns away, his shoulders shaking. He’s not gone—not really. He’s waiting, ready to fall apart if you crash.

The Inferno Run is a nightmare and the track is a death trap—narrow, twisting, lined with rusted guardrails and littered with debris.

Your car screams, pushed to its limits, every turn a gamble, every second a fight for control. You’re in the zone, heart pounding, adrenaline burning through you.

You catch a glimpse of Hoseok in the crowd, disguised again, his eyes locked on you, wide with fear. It’s enough to make your heart stutter, but you shove it down. You have to win.

Then it happens. A sabotaged tire, rigged to fail. A turn slick with oil, deliberately placed. Your car hits the patch, skids violently, and flips. Once. Twice. The world spins, metal screeching, glass shattering.

Pain explodes through you—your ribs crack, your head slams against the seat, your arm twists unnaturally. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline chokes you as the car settles, a crumpled wreck.

Blood trickles down your face, warm and sticky, pooling in your mouth, tasting of iron and fear. Your vision blurs, the world fading but you see him, running towards you.

Hoseok’s scream rips through the chaos, raw and guttural, like his soul is tearing apart. He’s running before anyone can stop him, shoving through the crowd, mask forgotten, his face exposed to the flashing cameras.

He reaches the wreckage, smoke curling around him, the heat of the twisted metal searing his skin. He tears at the door, hands shaking, bloodied from jagged edges, until he pulls you out.

Your body is limp, blood streaking your face, your racing suit torn. He cradles you in his arms, his screams for help hoarse, desperate, as he sinks to his knees on the asphalt.

“Don’t you dare,” he chokes out, his voice breaking as he holds you close, your blood smearing his hands, his face. “Don’t you fucking leave me.”

His tears fall, mixing with the dirt and blood on your cheek, his body trembling as he rocks you, praying, begging, while the world watches—Prince Jung Hoseok, unmasked, broken, holding the woman he loves in the wreckage of her dream.

You’re lying in a hospital bed, the world a blur of pain and darkness. Hoseok is there every damn second, a ghost of himself, his eyes red and hollow, his hands clasped tightly as he prays for you to wake up.

He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, just sits by your side, whispering promises, begging you to come back. His advisors try to pull him away, citing royal duties, but he snaps, his voice raw, telling them to fuck off.

He’s not a prince right now—he’s just a man, terrified of losing you. The news is everywhere—Prince Jung Hoseok, unmasked as an illegal racer, risking everything for you—but he doesn’t care about the headlines, only you.

Weeks pass, each day a knife in his heart, until you finally stir. Your eyes flutter open, the sterile hospital light stinging, your body aching like it’s been through a war.

Hoseok’s there, instantly, his face crumpling with relief, tears spilling as he takes your hand, his grip warm, trembling. “You’re awake,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re awake.”

“You idiot,” you croak, voice weak, throat dry. “You ruined your life for me.”

He laughs, a broken, watery sound, pressing his forehead to your hand. “You’re my life, you stubborn asshole.” His voice is raw, thick with emotion, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. “I thought I lost you. I sat here every day, praying, begging, promising anything if you’d just open your eyes.”

You want to argue, but you’re too tired, too sore, and his love is overwhelming, wrapping around you like a blanket.

He stays with you, every moment, fighting off his advisors, ignoring the world outside. He feeds you soup, his hands shaking as he holds the spoon, brushes your hair with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. You hate how much you love it, how much you need it.

“You drive like you’re not afraid to die,” he says one night, his voice breaking as he sits beside you, his hand never leaving yours. “I’ve never been more scared in my life than watching you do it without me.” He pauses, his thumb tracing the bandages on your wrist.

“I didn’t want to stop you from being brave. I just couldn’t stand the idea of being left behind.”

You squeeze his hand, weak but firm. “I’m here,” you whisper, and he breaks, pressing his lips to your knuckles, his tears warm against your skin. The love between you grows, raw and unshakable, binding you tighter with every touch, every word.

Weeks later, you’re recovering, bruises fading but ribs still tender. Hoseok’s there every day, his presence a steady warmth, helping you walk, stretching your legs with hands so gentle it makes your heart ache.

Tonight, the hospital room is quiet, the only sounds the hum of machines and your soft breaths. He’s kneeling beside your bed, his lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, soft and reverent, like he’s worshipping every inch of you that’s still here.

“God, I thought I lost you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his breath warm against your skin. “You scared me more than any race ever could. I kept imagining a world without you, and it was fucking empty.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, your heart swelling at his vulnerability. “I’m here, Hoseok,” you murmur, your voice soft but firm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses you, slow and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, the feel of your lips. His thumb brushes your bandaged waist, careful not to hurt you, but the touch is electric, grounding you in this moment.

“You’re such a sap,” you tease, a playful smirk tugging at your lips despite the ache in your chest. “What happened to the cocky asshole from the track?”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, his eyes crinkling with that familiar spark. “Oh, he’s still here, princess. Just taking a break to make sure my favorite rival doesn’t break my heart again.”

He leans in, nipping at your earlobe, his voice dropping to a playful growl. “Don’t get used to this soft shit. I’m still gonna kick your ass when you’re back on your feet.”

You laugh, the sound weak but genuine, and it feels like a victory. “Keep dreaming, scooter boy,” you retort, your fingers tugging lightly at his hair. “I’ll be smoking you again in no time.”

His grin widens, but his eyes soften, and he presses his forehead to yours. “Fuck, I love it when you talk like that,” he murmurs, his voice a mix of teasing and adoration. “But seriously… I need you close tonight. I need to know you’re real.”

Your heart skips, and you shift slightly, wincing at the pull in your ribs. “Then get up here,” you say, patting the narrow hospital bed beside you. “I want to feel your warmth. No funny business, though—I’m still sore as hell.”

He laughs, the sound bright and boyish, and carefully climbs into the bed, maneuvering so he’s lying beside you without jostling your injuries.

His body is warm, solid, a comforting weight against you, and you nestle into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent of cedar and faint motor oil. His arm drapes over you, light but protective, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

“You’re gonna milk this invalid thing, aren’t you?” he teases, his voice soft, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder. “Gonna make me play nurse forever?”

“Damn right,” you murmur, a smile playing on your lips as you close your eyes, savoring his closeness. “Spoon-feeding me soup for life sounds fair.”

He chuckles, the vibration rumbling through his chest, and it’s the most comforting sound you’ve heard in weeks. “Deal, princess. But don’t expect me to go easy on you when you’re back on the track.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes, and for a moment, the playful banter fades, replaced by something deeper, unspoken. “I’m not leaving you behind, Hoseok,” you whisper, your voice barely audible but heavy with promise. “Not ever.”

He swallows, his eyes glistening, and he kisses you again, soft and lingering. “Good,” he murmurs against your lips. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Three months after the crash, you own the track again.

You cross the finish line, body humming, high on adrenaline, cheers blasting around you like music—and you barely get your helmet off before Hoseok is there, cutting through the crowd like a man possessed.

His eyes find yours—burning, wild—and he doesn’t ask.

He grabs your wrist, yanks you around the corner of the pit garage where your car’s parked, flings open the backseat door, and shoves you inside like he’s been waiting forever to ruin you.

The door slams shut. The air is thick. The silence? Carnal.

“You’re fucking insane,” he growls, already crawling in after you, slamming the lock shut. “And I’m so goddamn addicted to it.”

You barely get out a laugh before he’s on you, crushing your lips with his, teeth clashing, hands everywhere—yanking down your zipper, shoving your suit off your shoulders.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about this,” he mutters against your skin, dragging his mouth down your throat, biting hard enough to make you cry out. “The way you looked in that suit… knowing I’m the only one who gets to rip it off you.”

You wriggle under him, straddling his lap as he settles back on the seat. The space is tight, bodies pressed so close you can feel the shape of his hard cock straining against his pants. You grind down with a moan, and he growls low in his throat.

“You scared the shit out of me that day,” he hisses, undoing the last clasp on your gear. “Thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, biting his lip. “But if you’re still scared… then I'll make you forget everything.”

He yanks your panties aside and slides two fingers into you without warning—deep, curling instantly. You scream into his mouth, nails clawing at his back.

“Already this wet?” he groans. “You really missed me wrecking you, didn’t you?”

You can barely answer, hips bucking into his hand, his thumb rubbing hard, fast circles against your clit. The slick sounds are obscene, filling the car with wet, messy music as your moans grow louder, higher, needier.

Then he pulls his fingers out and sucks them clean, eyes dark. “Get on the seat. Face down.”

You do it without hesitation—knees on the leather, hands braced on the window, breasts pressed against the fogging glass. You hear the sound of his zipper, then feel the thick, hot press of him at your entrance.

He doesn’t ease in. He slams into you.

You choke on a gasp, forehead dropping against the glass. “Holy fuck—”

“That’s right,” he growls, slamming into you again, again. “You don’t need a fucking finish line. This is where you belong.”

The car rocks violently with every thrust, creaking on its springs. Your moans are open-mouthed and desperate, loud in the small, enclosed space. His fingers wrap around your neck from behind, tugging your head back just enough.

“Look,” he pants, pointing to the side mirror. “Look at how fucked-out you look already.”

You glance—and whimper. Your face is flushed, hair a mess, mouth open as he rails you mercilessly. The mirror shakes with the rhythm of your bodies, fog curling along the windows like steam from hell itself.

“You gonna come for me?” he snarls, slapping your ass so hard it stings. “Come all over my cock like a good fucking girl?”

“Yes—yes, yes, yes—” you sob, grinding back against him, walls fluttering, body coiled so tight it hurts. “Hoseok, fuck— I’m—!”

You shatter.

You convulse around him, screaming into the window, whole body trembling as he fucks you through it—relentless, hips slamming, one hand tangled in your hair, the other still gripping your throat.

Then he flips you over, pins you down across the seat, and buries himself again—deep, hard, filthy.

He groans your name, kisses you roughly, bites your shoulder as he thrusts faster. “Gonna fill you up. Stuff you full till you’re leaking with me.”

“Do it,” you moan. “Mark me. Ruin me.”

He grabs your thighs, presses them back until you’re nearly folded, and with one final thrust—he spills inside you with a loud, broken curse, forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning into you.

You lay there, panting, trembling, dripping, the windows fogged, the backseat wrecked, his cum warm inside you.

For a moment, the only sound is your ragged breathing, tangled together in sweat and victory and something dangerously close to love.

Then, softly— “Hoseok...” You caress his cheeks.

“That was my last race.”

He blinks down at you, stunned. “What?”

You reach up, brush his damp hair back, voice calm. “I’m done. I won. That’s enough. I want you. You were willing to give up everything for me. Now it’s my turn.”

He stares at you, lips parted, eyes wet. “Fuck… You’re serious?”

You smile. “I’m not leaving you behind, Hoseok. I love you.”

And then he kisses you—deep, dirty, tender. “Fuck, I don’t deserve you,” he whispers against your lips. “But I swear to god, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life proving I do.”

You and Hoseok stand hand in hand, facing the palace—not as a racer and a prince, but as a team. A little mismatched, a little chaotic, but so full of love it could melt stone.

His parents, the king and queen, are intimidating in every sense. His mother’s expression is polite, but cold. His father’s gaze flicks down to your grease-stained fingers with a barely hidden sigh.

But Hoseok holds your hand tighter. And when he speaks in that calm, steady voice, the one that always makes your heart flutter, he leaves no room for doubt.

“She’s not just a racer,” he says, like he’s declaring something sacred. “She’s my partner. My love. My heart. My favorite everything. I’ll give up the crown before I give up her.”

You glance at him, heart bursting, then lift your chin and say, gently but firmly, “I’m not here to take him away from you. I’m here to be by his side. For all the potholes and palace halls in the road ahead.”

His mother blinks. And something softens. A tiny flicker, like a stubborn cloud letting in a sliver of sunshine.

It’s not instant. There are weeks of stiff dinners and awkward silences. But you charm them slowly—with the quiet strength beneath your playful wit, the way you patch Hoseok’s bruised knuckles with band-aids shaped like stars, the way you steady him without dimming his light.

Eventually, they see it. The queen reaches for your hand one afternoon, her voice quiet. “You make him better,” she says, simply. The king grunts, nodding. “You’re tougher than you look. We approve.”

That night, you sob into Hoseok’s hoodie for a solid twenty minutes while he rubs your back and whispers, “Told you they’d love you. You’re irresistible.”

And with their blessing, you finally dive headfirst into your dream—your own automotive startup, funded by your racing prize money. You swap racetracks for workshops, high heels for tool belts.

You’re happiest elbow-deep in engine grease, music blaring, messy bun half-falling out, building machines that hum like dreams.

Sometimes, Hoseok visits between royal duties, tiptoeing into the workshop in shiny shoes, immediately ruining his look when he kisses your forehead and ends up with an oil smudge across his cheek. “My hotshot CEO,” he teases, spinning on your office chair like a child. “Will you marry me now, or after I steal your coffee?”

The wedding approaches—glorious, glittery, a little overwhelming. The palace is buzzing with plans. One old tradition says you can’t see your groom the night before the ceremony.

Which is cute. In theory. But you miss him. A lot.

So naturally, you decide rules are for cowards.

You sneak barefoot through the palace corridors, giggling every time you hide behind a curtain to avoid a guard. Your silk nightgown flutters around your legs, and your heart races with excitement, not fear.

When you finally tap on his chamber door, it creaks open—and there he is. Standing sleepy-eyed in just grey sweatpants and messy hair, looking at you like you are the sunrise.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispers, grinning like a little boy with a secret.

You shrug, stepping in and tiptoeing to kiss his cheek. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe my favorite royal dork missed me too?”

He scoops you up instantly, making you yelp as he spins you once, then carries you to the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“This is why I’m marrying you,” he murmurs, tucking a blanket around you. “You break into my room in designer sleepwear just to cuddle.”

You curl into his arms, resting your cheek on his chest, grinning so wide it hurts. “I just wanted one last night before the tiaras and titles and all that royal glitter. Just you. Just me.”

“And I figured if I’m about to marry a prince, I deserve one last cuddle as your girlfriend.”

His fingers start drawing gentle shapes on your back, and he kisses your forehead with a soft hum. “It’s always gonna be just us,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re wearing a crown and making scary palace decisions while I’m late because I was too busy to admire my wife even in dreams.”

You giggle, snuggling closer. “And I’ll still smell like engine oil at state dinners.”

“And I’ll still sneak into your workshop to ‘borrow a wrench’ and end up making out with my wife next to a half-built machines,” he teases, eyes twinkling.

You whisper and laugh through the night—about honeymoon plans, about adopting a dog and naming it Clutch, about building a secret racecourse behind the palace.

At one point, you whisper, “You’re gonna be the best king this kingdom’s ever had.”

And he kisses your temple, brushing your hair back like you’re the most precious thing in his world. “Only because you’re gonna be my queen, the coolest Queen of this kingdom.”

You fall asleep tangled together, safe and warm and full of love, the kind that isn’t loud or grand—but steady, soul-deep, and forever.

A/n: Sorry for late updates, guys. Office is actually hectic nowadays. 😭

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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

[kittenan2]

Arrest Me, Officer!!

Pairing: Cop!Reader x Cybersecurity Student!Jungkook Word Count: ~6k Rating: Explicit (18+) Genres: Romantic Comedy | Smut | Fluff | Noona Romance Warnings: Explicit sexual content, BDSM elements (handcuffs, light dom/sub dynamics), dirty talk, oral sex (male receiving), secondhand embarrassment, mentions of criminal activity (no violence), strong language.

You are transferred to a new city. Your new apartment building is modest but clean, tucked in a quiet corner of city. You’re hauling boxes up the stairs, sweat beading on your forehead, when you hear it: the unmistakable sound of someone trying way too hard.

“Hey, Noona, need a hand with those?” The voice is smooth, cocky, and dripping with intent. You turn to see a guy leaning against the railing, all tousled black hair, ripped jeans, and a leather jacket that screams I’m trouble but make it hot. His grin is wide, eyes sparkling with mischief.

You squint. “Noona? I don’t know you, kid.”

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Kid? Ouch. I’m Jeon Jungkook, your new neighbor. And you are…?” He steps closer, close enough for you to catch the faint cedarwood cologne clinging to him.

You set down a box labeled KITCHEN and wipe your brow. “Busy. That’s my name.”

His laugh is bright, boyish, and annoyingly charming. “C’mon, Noona. What do you do? Model? CEO? International spy?”

You take a long sip of your iced Americano, eyeing him over the rim. “I’m a cop.”

His grin falters for a split second before doubling in size. He leans in, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Arrest me, Officer.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You don’t blink. A dog across the street stops chewing its bone to stare.

Two guys standing ten steps away—his friends, you assume—freeze. One, with sharp cheekbones and a boxy grin, gasps so loudly and starts wheezing like he’s about to choke. The other, shorter with a mischievous glint, facepalms and pulls out his phone and starts filming.

“Jungkook,” the wheezing one gasps, “you did not just say that.”

The filming one cackles. “This is going viral, bro. Say it again for the algorithm.”

Jungkook’s ears turn red, but he doubles down, winking at you. “What? I’m a law-abiding citizen… mostly.”

You roll your eyes so hard your optic nerve files for retirement. “Stick to mostly, Jeon.” You grab your box and head inside, leaving him to drown in his friends’ laughter.

As you disappear into the building, the teasing outside escalates. Jimin, the shorter one with a grin that could charm a snake, slaps Jungkook’s shoulder. “Bro, ‘Arrest me, Officer’? Really? Did you borrow that from a bad rom-com”

Taehyung, still wheezing, wipes tears from his eyes. “I’m framing this moment. The dog’s face, man. Even it was embarrassed for you. I’m sending this to the group chat—title: Jungkook’s Dignity, RIP.”

Jungkook glares at them, crossing his arms. “Not my fault, okay? She looks so cool! Did you see her? All badass with that coffee and those boxes. I panicked!”

Jimin snorts, mimicking Jungkook’s sultry tone. “Oh, Officer, cuff me, I’m a bad boy.” He doubles over, clutching his stomach. “Kook, you’re done. She’s gonna tase you next time.”

Taehyung holds up his phone, zooming in on Jungkook’s flushed face. “Say it again for the fans, Romeo. ‘Arrest me, Officer.’ C’mon, give us an encore.”

Jungkook swats at the phone, growling. “Delete that, Tae, or I’m hacking your Netflix and making it recommend rom-coms for a year.”

“Worth it,” Taehyung says, still filming. “This is my masterpiece.”

You can hear their bickering through your apartment door as you set down your box, a reluctant smirk tugging at your lips. Idiots.

Inside your apartment, you unpack, trying to shake off the encounter. The place is small but functional: a cozy living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom with a view of the city skyline.

You’re here to start over, to leave behind the mess of your last precinct—office politics, a bad breakup, and a case that still haunts you. Seoul’s supposed to be a clean slate.

But Jungkook’s face keeps popping into your head. Those doe eyes, that cocky smirk, the way he called you Noona like it was a challenge.

You groan, tossing a pillow across the room. You’re a cop, for God’s sake. You’ve faced down armed suspects without flinching. One flirty college kid shouldn’t rattle you.

Yet, as you collapse onto your couch, you can’t help but wonder what kind of chaos Jeon Jungkook is about to bring into your life.

The next few weeks are a blur of settling in: new precinct, new cases, new routines. You’re not a traffic cop—your beat is investigations, missing persons, cybercrimes—but you swear the universe is conspiring against you.

Because Jeon Jungkook has made it his personal mission to be a menace, and he’s dialed the flirting up to eleven.

It starts small. You’re walking to your car when you spot him rumbling through a red light on a sleek Harley Davidson, the black beast of a bike roaring like it’s got a personal vendetta against silence.

His helmet’s skewed, hair poking out like he’s auditioning for a K-drama. He waves at you, grinning like a kid who stole candy. “Morning, Officer Noona! Wanna race me to the station?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “That’s a ticket, Jeon.”

“Only if you catch me, Noona!” He revs the engine, the Harley’s growl echoing down the street, and speeds off, nearly clipping a mailbox. He circles back, slowing to a crawl beside you, the bike purring under him. “C’mon, admit it. You love the chase.”

You glare, but he just winks, blowing you a kiss before peeling away. Your fingers itch for your handcuffs, but you’re off duty, so you settle for muttering curses under your breath.

The next day, he parks his Bike just over the line into a no-parking zone, the chrome gleaming like it’s mocking you.

You’re not on duty, but you slap a fake ticket (a Post-it note that says STOP IT, JEON).

By noon, you find a sticky note on your apartment door:

Caught you staring, Officer 😎. Taped to it is a lollipop shaped like a heart.

You crumple the note, but you keep the lollipop. It’s cherry. Your favorite. Damn him.

The sticky notes become a daily torment. Every morning, there’s a new one on your door, each more ridiculous than the last:

“Evidence of my love: Coffee on your doorstep 💗”—and sure enough, there’s a latte from the café down the street, still warm, with Noona scrawled on the cup in Sharpie. “Arrest me again, I’m begging. I look good in cuffs.” “Noona, your glare is hotter than my laptop after a 12-hour coding hackathons.” “Is it illegal to steal your heart? Asking for a friend.”

You’re not amused. Okay, maybe you snorted once. But you’ll not let it affect you so easily.

One afternoon, you’re grabbing lunch at a food truck near your building when Jungkook rolls up on his bike, the engine’s rumble announcing him before he’s even in sight.

He’s got a tiny toy siren duct-taped to the handlebars, wailing pathetically like a dying cat. He cuts the engine and stroll over, all swagger and stupidly tight jeans.

“Noona, you on a break?” he asks, leaning against the food truck counter like he owns it. “Or are you just hungry for some… justice?” He waggles his eyebrows.

You take a bite of your kimbap, unimpressed. “I’m hungry for you to stop talking.”

He gasps, hand over his heart. “Harsh, Officer. But I bet you’d miss me if I was gone. Who else is gonna brighten your day?”

“The sun,” you deadpan, pointing at the sky. “It’s free and doesn’t break traffic laws.”

He laughs, loud and unfiltered, drawing stares from passersby. “Okay, okay, point taken. But c’mon, Noona, let me buy you a coffee. Or a smoothie. Or my eternal devotion.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. “You can’t afford my coffee, Jeon.”

“Bet I can afford to make you smile, though.” He leans closer, voice dropping. “One date, Officer. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

You snort, brushing past him to toss your wrapper. “‘Best behavior’? You’d probably rob a bank just to get my attention.”

He jogs to keep up, grinning. “Would it work?”

You shoot him a look that says try me and find out, but he just laughs again, undeterred, and follows you all the way to your car, tossing out increasingly absurd pickup lines.

“Is your badge made of gold? ‘Cause you’re absolutely a treasure.” “Do you have a warrant? ‘Cause you’re searching my heart without permission.”

By the time you slam your car door shut, you’re fighting a grin. He’s infuriating, but he’s good at it.

One evening, you’re off duty, heading home in your civilian clothes—jeans, a black tank top, and a leather jacket that’s more practical than Jungkook’s fashion statement.

You spot him outside the building, still fiddling with that damn toy siren on his Harley. It’s now flashing red and blue, like he’s cosplaying a patrol car.

“What the hell is that?” you ask, stopping short.

He looks up, eyes lighting up like you’re Christmas morning. “My cop magnet! Figured it’d get your attention, Noona. Wanna be my partner in crime?”

He revs the engine, making the siren wail louder, and winks. “I mean, in stopping crime, obviously. Unless you’re into the other kind.”

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “It’s getting you a noise complaint.”

“Worth it if you’re the one serving it.” He hops off the bike, stepping closer—too close, as always. You can see the mole under his lip, the way his hair falls into his eyes, and that damn cedarwood cologne hits you again.

“You know, Noona, you’re kinda hot when you’re mad.”

You step back, pointing a finger at him. “And you’re kinda annoying when you breathe.”

He clutches his chest like you’ve shot him. “Oof, straight to the heart. But I bet you’d give me CPR if I stop breathing, right? Mouth-to-mouth, Officer style?”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Jeon, I swear, one more line and I’m confiscating that bike.”

He gasps, draping himself over the handlebars dramatically. “Not my baby! You’d break her heart. And mine. But mostly hers.”

He pats the bike like it’s a loyal dog, then looks up with a smirk. “Unless you wanna ride her instead. I’d let you steer, Noona.”

You turn on your heel, heading inside, but not before you hear him call after you, “I’ll keep the siren on ‘til you say yes!” The wail follows you up the stairs, and you’re torn between wanting to strangle him and laughing your ass off.

The breaking point comes a week later. You’re on your way to the precinct when you see Jungkook blatantly run a stop sign, the bike’s roar cutting through the morning quiet.

He pulls over and waits, leaning against the bike, helmet off, hair mussed, grinning like he’s in a damn photoshoot. You are not a traffic cop but this time you are on duty.

You pull over, grab your cuffs from your bag, and march over. His eyes widen, then sparkle with delight as you slap the cuffs on his wrists.

“Jeon Jungkook, you’re under arrest for being a pain in my ass,” you deadpan.

“Oh, Noona, this is the best day of my life,” he says, grinning like a maniac as you shove him into the back of your car.

You drive him around the block, lecturing him about traffic laws while he stares at you like you’re his personal hero. “You know, Officer,” he says, voice teasing, “these cuffs are kinda tight. You practicing for something… else?”

You glance at him in the rearview mirror, eyes narrowing. “Keep talking, Jeon, and I’ll leave you cuffed to a lamppost.”

He gasps, mock-horrified. “Kinky, Noona. I’m into it.”

When you finally uncuff him and let him go, he rubs his wrists, pouting. “You could’ve kept those on longer. I was just getting comfy.”

“Get a grip, Jeon,” you say, but you’re fighting a smile.

He leans in, voice low, eyes glinting with mischief. “Please do that again. I’ll commit so many crimes. Jaywalking. Loitering. Stealing your heart.” He winks, dodging the swat you aim at his head.

Your cheeks are burning as you drive off, but you can still hear his laugh echoing in your ears.

Your latest case is a nightmare: a missing persons investigation with a digital trail that’s gone cold. The victim, a young woman, was last seen near a university campus. Her phone’s last ping was from an encrypted messaging app, and your team’s tech guy is out sick.

You’re at the precinct, staring at a screen full of gibberish, when your boss mentions a professor at well known university who consulted on a similar case. Desperate, you head to the campus.

You find the professor in his office, a wiry man with glasses who looks like he hasn’t slept since the ‘90s. He’s cagey, deflecting questions about his research, but mentions a student who’s “brilliant with encryption.” Guess who?

Jungkook strolls in, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking unfairly good in a black hoodie and ripped jeans. He sees you and lights up. “Noona! You here to arrest me again?”

The professor sighs. “Jungkook, behave.”

You explain the situation, keeping it professional. Jungkook listens, his flirty demeanor fading as he processes the stakes. “You need a hacker,” he says, not a question.

“It’s illegal,” you warn, crossing your arms.

He grins, but it’s softer, less cocky. “But you’re the law. And I’d do anything for Noona.”

You roll your eyes but lead him to a secure room with a laptop. He sits, cracks his knuckles, and gets to work. You watch, mesmerized, as his fingers fly over the keyboard.

Lines of code scroll by, his brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out slightly. He’s muttering to himself—“C’mon, you little shit, give it up”—and you’re hit with a wave of something you refuse to name.

Desire. Respect. A dangerous mix of both.

An hour later, he leans back, triumphant. “Got it. Decrypted the messages. Looks like your suspect’s been using a d@rk web forum to cover their tracks. I’ve got IPs, timestamps, the works.”

You stare at the screen, then at him. “How the hell…?”

He winks. “I’m good with my fingers, Noona.”

You throw a pen at him. It bounces off his chest, but you’re blushing, and he knows it.

“Was that hot?” he asks, leaning closer. “Did I just get you wet with my coding skills?”

You grab a pillow from the couch and chuck it at his head. “Focus, Jeon.”

But inside, something cracks. Your walls, your resolve, your ability to pretend he’s just an annoying kid. He’s brilliant, reckless, and so infuriatingly attractive and it’s crime.

That night, you’re both at the precinct, going over the data. It’s late, the building quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights. Jungkook’s sprawled in a chair, hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal tattooed forearms that you definitely don’t notice.

“You’re good at this,” you say, breaking the silence. It’s the closest you’ve come to a compliment.

He looks surprised, then smirks. “Careful, Noona. That sounded like you like me.”

“Don’t push it,” you mutter, but there’s no venom in it.

He stands, stretching, and walks over to your desk. “You know, you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re not as charming as you think you are.”

“Liar,” he says, voice low, and suddenly he’s too close again, his breath warm against your cheek. “You’re into me. Admit it.”

Your heart pounds, but you hold his gaze. “In your dreams, Jeon.”

He grins, undeterred. “Every night, Officer Noona.”

The case breaks wide open thanks to Jungkook’s hack. You track down the suspect, make the arrest, and save the day.

Your boss is impressed, but all you can think about is the way Jungkook looked at you when he handed over the decrypted files—like he’d do anything for you, no questions asked.

You’re walking home together, the city alive with neon lights and late-night bustle. He’s quieter than usual, hands in his pockets, stealing glances at you.

“Thanks for the help,” you say finally. “Though you had right to deny.”

He shrugs. “Wanted to help. You’re worth it.”

Your chest tightens. You’re not used to this—someone seeing you, not just the badge. You stop outside your building, turning to face him. “You’re not as bad as I thought, Jeon.”

He steps closer, voice soft. “And you’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

The air crackles between you. You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re kissing, all heat and desperation, his hands in your hair, your fingers gripping his jacket.

You’re pressed against the wall of your building, his body warm and solid against yours, when a loud splat interrupts you.

You pull back, startled, to see Taehyung standing a few feet away, a strawberry milkshake splattered on the pavement at his feet, his jaw hanging open. “Holy shit,” he says, eyes wide. “Jungkook! Cop Noona! You’re—oh my God, I need to tell Jimin!”

“Tae, wait—” Jungkook starts, but Taehyung’s already sprinting toward their apartment, phone in hand, yelling, “Jimin! Code Red! Kook’s making out with the cop! I dropped my shake for this!”

You groan, pressing your forehead against Jungkook’s shoulder. “Your friends are a nightmare.”

He laughs, breathless, pulling you closer. “Yeah, but you’re into it.” He kisses you again, quick and teasing, before grabbing your hand. “Inside,” he says, voice rough. “Now.”

Your apartment is dark, the only light from the city outside. You barely make it through the door before he’s kissing you again, hungry and urgent. You push him against the wall, hands roaming his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle under his shirt.

“Wait,” he gasps, eyes dark with want. “You got those handcuffs handy?”

You freeze, then smirk. “You’re trouble, Jeon.”

You grab the cuffs from your duty bag, the metal cool against your palm. He watches, pupils blown, as you dangle them in front of him. “Strip,” you order, voice low and commanding.

He obeys, peeling off his shirt to reveal a body that’s all lean muscle and ink, tattoos curling over his chest and arms like a map you want to explore.

His jeans hit the floor, leaving him in tight black briefs that do little to hide his arousal. You back him toward the bedroom, pushing him onto the bed.

He scoots up, hands above his head, wrists crossed against the headboard, his eyes locked on you with a mix of defiance and desperation.

“Arrest me, Officer,” he says, voice husky, teasing, but there’s a raw plea beneath it.

You snap the cuffs on, the click loud in the quiet room. He tugs against them, testing, and groans when they hold firm. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

You straddle his hips, still fully clothed, and his breath hitches as you lean down, your lips brushing his ear. “Let’s see how much trouble you can handle, Jeon.”

You start with your jacket, tossing it aside with a casual flick that makes his eyes widen. “You’re killing me already,” he mutters, tugging at the cuffs.

“Patience,” you tease, gripping the hem of your tank top. You pull it off slowly, inch by inch, revealing the black lace bra underneath. His gaze is heavy, hungry, tracking every movement. “Like what you see, bad boy?”

He groans, hips shifting under you. “Noona, you’re gonna make me lose it before you even touch me.”

You smirk, tossing the tank top at his face. It lands on his nose, and he shakes it off, glaring playfully. “Rude. Uncuff me and I’ll show you rude.”

“Not a chance,” you say, sliding off your jeans with deliberate slowness, letting them pool on the floor. His eyes rake over your matching lace panties, and he lets out a low curse, his voice rough with need. “Fuck, Noona, you’re a goddamn weapon.”

You climb onto the bed, straddling his thighs, your hands skimming his chest, tracing the lines of his tattoos. “Flattery won’t get you out of those cuffs,” you murmur, leaning down to nip at his collarbone. He arches into you, a soft whimper escaping his lips.

“Please,” he breathes, “touch me, Noona.”

You slide his briefs down, freeing his cock—hard, thick, and already leaking precum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, your thumb circling the tip, spreading the slickness over his length.

He gasps, hips bucking, the cuffs rattling against the headboard. “Fuck—fuck, that’s—”

His words dissolve into a moan as you tighten your grip, moving your hand in a steady rhythm, teasing him with slow, deliberate strokes that linger on the sensitive head.

“Too much?” you ask, voice dripping with mock innocence. You drag your thumb over the slit, collecting more precum, and he curses again, his head tipping back, throat exposed, veins standing out against his flushed skin. You lean down, licking a stripe up his neck, tasting salt and heat, and he shudders under you.

“You’re evil,” he pants, eyes squeezed shut, his voice cracking as you twist your wrist, stroking him faster. Your other hand cups his balls, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten under your touch.

His moans grow louder, more desperate, his body trembling as you bring him closer to the edge. You slow down just as his hips start to jerk erratically, earning a frustrated whine that’s half-brat, half-plea.

“Noona, please,” he begs, voice raw, his eyes opening to meet yours, dark and blown with lust. “I’m so close—”

“Not yet,” you say, releasing him completely. He groans, glaring at you with those needy eyes, his chest heaving. You stand, turning your back to him, and unhook your bra, letting it fall. You glance over your shoulder, catching his tortured expression. “Enjoying the show?”

“You’re gonna pay for this,” he growls, but there’s no bite to it, just pure desperation, his cock twitching against his stomach.

You slide your panties down, kicking them aside, and his breath catches, a low, broken sound escaping his throat.

You climb back onto the bed, straddling his hips, your slick folds brushing against his length. He groans, loud and shattered, as you roll your hips, teasing him with the heat of your core, coating his cock in your arousal without letting him inside.

“Fuck, Officer,” he gasps, tugging at the cuffs so hard the headboard creaks. “You’re killing me.”

You lean down, kissing him deeply, your tongue sliding against his, swallowing his moans. He kisses you back like he’s starving, all teeth and heat, his desperation pouring into every movement.

You pull back, breathless, and guide his cock to your entrance, sinking down slowly.

The stretch is delicious, and you both moan as you take him deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside you, filling you perfectly.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, eyes locked on where your bodies join, his voice thick with awe. “You feel—fuck, so good.”

You ride him slowly at first, savoring the way he fills you, the way his hips strain to meet yours, the cuffs limiting his movement. “Be good,” you murmur, pinning his chest with your hands, your nails digging into his skin just enough to make him hiss. “My rules.”

He’s a brat, though, and he bucks harder, the cuffs rattling. “C’mon, Officer, interrogate me properly,” he says, voice rough with need, a smirk tugging at his lips despite his desperation.

You laugh, breathless, and pick up the pace, riding him hard, your hips snapping down with force, the headboard slamming against the wall with every thrust.

His moans are loud, uninhibited, mingling with your gasps as you chase your release. The neighbors are definitely hearing this, but you’re too far gone to care.

He’s chanting your name, “Noona, Noona,” like a prayer, his eyes burning into yours with something deeper than lust—adoration, need, maybe even love.

You uncuff one wrist, and he doesn’t hesitate. He surges up, wrapping his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he thrusts up into you, hard and relentless.

His pace is punishing, each thrust deep and deliberate, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. The bed creaks under his force, his lips grazing your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“Jungkook,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, your body arching into his. He’s rough, unyielding, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that’s almost brutal, but it’s exactly what you need, the pleasure overwhelming.

“You like that, Officer Noona?” he growls, his hand sliding down to grip your ass, guiding your movements as he fucks you deeper. “Fuck, you’re so tight, so wet for me.”

You’re spiraling, the pleasure building to a crescendo, your walls clenching around him. “Don’t—don’t be irresponsible,” you pant, your voice teasing despite the haze of pleasure. “Come in my mouth, Jeon.”

His eyes widen, a low groan ripping from his throat. “Fuck, Noona, you can’t just say that—”

He pulls out suddenly, leaving you gasping at the loss, and you slide down the bed, taking him into your mouth without hesitation.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, tasting yourself on him, then take him deeper, your hands gripping his thighs. He’s trembling, his free hand fisting your hair as you suck him, hollowing your cheeks, your tongue teasing the underside of his cock.

You come first, your fingers slipping between your thighs to rub your clit, pushing yourself over the edge as you moan around him.

The vibration sends him spiraling, and he comes with a broken moan, spilling hot and thick into your mouth. You swallow every drop, licking him clean as he shudders above you, his breath hitching.

He collapses beside you, panting, the cuffs still dangling from one wrist. You’re both sweaty, tangled in the sheets, the air heavy with the scent of sex.

He reaches for you, pulling you close, his lips brushing your forehead in a gesture so soft it makes your chest ache.

But you’re not done.

You trail kisses down his chest, past the sharp lines of his abdomen, until you’re between his legs again. His cock is still half-hard, twitching from the aftershock.

“Noona—” he rasps, voice hoarse. “I can’t—fuck, please—I’m gonna come again—!”

“Then do it,” you whisper, licking a stripe along the underside of his shaft. “Come for me again, baby.”

He sobs—actually sobs—as your mouth closes around him, and he spills again, overstimulated and overwhelmed, his entire body shivering as you milk every drop from him.

Only when he’s completely boneless, cuffed and wrecked and whispering your name like a prayer, do you finally crawl up beside him, unlocking the cuff gently.

“You alive?” you whisper.

“Barely,” he croaks, burying his face into your neck. “Please tell me I get arrested again tomorrow.”

The next morning, you wake to the smell of coffee and something sweet. Jungkook’s in your kitchen, shirtless, his hair a messy halo, flipping pancakes with a concentration that’s almost comical.

He’s got one of your aprons tied around his waist—pink, with little hearts, a gag gift from a coworker—and it’s so absurdly domestic you nearly choke on your own laughter.

“Morning, Noona,” he calls, not turning around, but you can hear the grin in his voice. “Made you breakfast. Figured I owe you after you, uh, detained me so thoroughly.”

You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms, a smirk playing on your lips. “You’re gonna burn those pancakes if you keep flirting instead of flipping.”

He gasps, spinning to face you, spatula in hand like a weapon. “Slander! I’m a pancake master. Watch and learn.” He flips a pancake with a dramatic flourish, only for it to land half-off the pan, splattering batter across the stove.

He freezes, then turns to you with a sheepish grin. “Okay, maybe I’m more of a… pancake enthusiast.”

You laugh, loud and unguarded, and his eyes soften, like your laughter is the best thing he’s heard all week. “You’re hopeless, Jeon.”

“Hopelessly in love,” he shoots back, winking as he scrapes the ruined pancake into the trash. “Want some coffee? I wrote Noona on the mug, just for you.”

You roll your eyes but take the mug, the Sharpie-scrawled Noona making you smile despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he corrects, sliding a plate of slightly lopsided pancakes toward you. “Eat up, Officer. You need your strength to keep up with my criminal ways.”

Later, you find another sticky note on your door, courtesy of Taehyung:

Round of applause for the headboard symphony 👏. P.S.: Soundproof your walls, we’re begging.

You crumple it, cheeks burning, but Jungkook snatches it from your hand, cackling.

“Oh my God, Tae’s never letting this go,” he says, pinning the note to your fridge like it’s a trophy. “We’re legends, Noona.”

“We’re a noise complaint waiting to happen,” you mutter, but you’re laughing, and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.

Jungkook lands an internship in the police department’s cybercrime unit, thanks to a glowing recommendation from you (not that you’ll admit it).

He shows up to his first day wearing a tie that’s knotted so badly it looks like a noose, and you spend ten minutes fixing it, your fingers brushing his neck as he stares at you, all soft and smitten.

“You’re gonna get me fired with that look,” you warn, smoothing his collar.

“Good,” he says, grinning. “Then I can steal you away, and we’ll be partners with better tech and no crimes.”

You shove him, but you’re smiling, and he catches your hand, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles. “I’m keeping the cuffs, by the way,” he whispers, winking. “For professional reasons.”

You keep the handcuffs on your nightstand, and he keeps breaking minor rules—parking his bike a little too close to a hydrant, “accidentally” blasting his toy siren at 7 a.m.—just to see if you’ll cuff him again.

You do, sometimes, just to wipe that smug grin off his face. But most nights, you’re tangled in his arms, his breath warm against your neck, his voice soft with something that feels dangerously like love.

“Noona,” he murmurs one night, curled against you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “You ever gonna let me arrest you?”

You kiss him, slow and sweet, your heart doing things you’re not ready to name. “In your dreams, Jeon.”

He pulls you closer, his laugh soft and sleepy. “Guess I’ll just have to keep dreaming, then. But you’re in all of ‘em, so I’m good.”

And as you drift off, his arms around you, the cuffs glinting on the nightstand, you know you’re caught—hook, line, and sinker—in the best possible way.

A/N: Did you guys remember something from title? 🤭

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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 . @bebabido . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria .

[kittenan2]

Loved this Idea 🤭

So, I came across this X post, should I try it out? 🤔🤔👀

Hoseok x Reader | Double Identity | Enemies to lovers | Hidden identity | Mystery boy trope | Car sex | Mask kink | Garage makeout | Reader as badass racer

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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

[kittenan2]

Spicy Fights and Sweeter Nights

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader Genre: Enemies-to-Lovers, Office Romance, Smut, Rom-Com, Fluff Rating: 18+ (Explicit) Warnings: Explicit sexual content, public teasing, light dom/sub dynamics, dirty talk, rough sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), semi-public sex, workplace romance, fake pregnancy misunderstanding, intense sexual tension, mild degradation, spanking, biting, scratching, edging, fingering, stroking, licking, unprotected sex (use protection, folks!), fluff, humor, chaotic team dynamics. Word Count: ~6k

The fluorescent lights of the sales and marketing department hum like a chorus of judgmental insects, casting a harsh glow over the chaos of your daily battlefield. Papers are scattered across desks, coffee cups wobble precariously, and your coworkers huddle behind monitors, whispering like they’re plotting a coup. You’re at your desk, glaring at your computer screen, trying to ignore the insufferable presence of Kim Seokjin three desks away.

Jin, with his stupidly perfect face and tailored blazer, is leaning back in his chair, tossing a stress ball with the nonchalance of a man who knows he’s the office heartthrob. He catches your eye and flashes that smug, “I’m-better-than-you” grin that makes your blood boil.

“Stop staring, Y/N,” he drawls, voice carrying over the cubicles. “I know I’m gorgeous, but we have a deadline.”

You grit your teeth, fingers hovering over your keyboard. “If you spent half as much time working as you do admiring yourself, we’d have launched this campaign last week.”

He tosses the ball higher, catching it without looking. “And if you didn’t micromanage every slide I make, we’d have a campaign worth launching.”

Lisa, sitting between you, sighs dramatically. “Here we go again.”

The team’s been planning a food truck event to promote the company’s new product: a trendy, protein-packed snack bar called “GlowBites.” You’re in charge of logistics; Jin’s handling customer engagement. Naturally, you’ve been at each other’s throats over every detail. Today’s team meeting is no exception.

In the conference room, you stand at the whiteboard, presenting your plan for the food truck layout. “We’ll position the truck near the park fountain for maximum foot traffic,” you say, pointing to your diagram. “Clean, efficient, accessible.”

Jin leans back, loosening his tie in frustration, the motion drawing your eye to the sliver of collarbone exposed as his shirt shifts. “A fountain? Really, Y/N? You want people to eat protein bars while dodging water spray? Genius.”

You tap your pen aggressively on the table, leaning forward, your faces inches apart across the conference table. “Jin’s idea to use influencers is lazy. We need grassroots engagement.”

Jin mirrors your stance, leaning in, his eyes locked on yours, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Grassroots? You mean handing out samples in a parking lot like a lemonade stand?”

The air crackles, your noses almost brushing. Lisa nudges Jungkook, whispering, “Ten bucks says they’re making out by next month.” Hobi, barely containing a grin, mutters, “They’re gonna jump each other on this table.”

You pull back, cheeks burning, and snap, “Maybe if you’d read the site map instead of flirting with the graphic designer, you’d know the fountain’s decorative, not a splash zone.”

Jin smirks, undeterred. “Flirting? Please. I was giving her constructive feedback. Unlike you, I know how to be professional.”

“Oh, professional? Like when you ‘accidentally’ spilled coffee on my presentation notes?”

“That was gravity’s fault, not mine.”

Hoseok claps his hands. “Alright, lovebirds, save it for the food truck. We’ve got a product to sell.”

You and Jin both snap, “We’re not lovebirds!”

Lisa mutters, “Best haters-to-lovers trope I’m ever gonna witness.”

Post-meeting, the team retreats to the break room, leaving you and Jin to stew. You’re at your desk when you notice a coffee cup on it, a Post-it stuck to the lid: “Drink this so you’re less grumpy. —J.” You scowl, recognizing Jin’s handwriting, but the coffee’s your exact order—black, two sugars. You scribble “Not your secretary to follow your orders” on the Post-it and slap it on his monitor, but you sip the coffee anyway, annoyed that it’s perfect.

In the break room, Lisa’s created a group chat called “Y/N + Jin: Hate or Fate?” Yoongi, sipping his black coffee, deadpans, “I’m betting they’re already hooking up and too dumb to admit it.” Jimin, grinning, shows a photoshopped wedding invite for you and Jin, complete with cartoon hearts and GlowBites as the wedding cake. The chat erupts, with Hobi adding, “I’m sending this to them at the worst possible moment.”

You catch wind of the group chat when Jimin “accidentally” leaves his phone open. You roll your eyes, but a tiny part of you wonders if they’re onto something. Then you shake it off. Jin’s the worst. Right?

The food truck event is in full swing, the park buzzing with families, students, and foodies. The neon-yellow GlowBites truck is parked near a decorative fountain, its gentle trickle drowned out by the crowd’s chatter. The air smells of grilled meat from nearby vendors and the faint sweetness of your snack bars. You’re inside the truck, prepping samples with surgical precision, arranging them in color-coded sections—green for matcha, red for berry, yellow for mango. Jin’s outside, charming every customer, his laughter ringing like he’s hosting a talk show.

You lean out the service window, holding a tray of bite-sized GlowBites. “Jin, stop overselling it. You’re gonna make us run out before noon.”

He turns, flashing that infuriating smile at a group of giggling college girls. “Relax, Y/N. I’m just giving the people what they want—my face and your snacks.”

You roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t fall out. “Just pass out the samples and stop posing like you’re on a magazine cover.”

He saunters over, grabbing the tray, his fingers brushing yours for a split second. The contact sends a spark through you, and you hate how your breath catches. He notices, eyes glinting with mischief. “Careful, Y/N. You’re blushing.”

You nearly drop the tray. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Before he can answer, you’re both distracted by the tray arrangement. “Why are these so… organized?” Jin says, rearranging the samples into a chaotic pile. “It’s a food truck, not a museum.”

You snatch the tray back, your shoulder bumping his. “Stop messing with my system! Green, red, yellow—it’s efficient.”

He leans closer, smirking. “It’s neurotic. Loosen up, Y/N.” Your hands brush again as you fight over the tray, the tension crackling. A customer, an older woman, chuckles. “You two fight like an old married couple!”

Jin winks at you, whispering, “Hear that, wifey?” You elbow him, hard, but your cheeks burn.

The chaos escalates when Lisa and Jungkook start spreading a rumor to save the event. Your bickering is scaring off customers, so they take matters into their own hands. You catch them near the truck, Lisa spinning a tale to a line of people: “They’re married, and she’s pregnant. That’s why they’re so snappy—hormones! Please try the GlowBites to support them!” Jungkook nods, filming for “marketing content,” adding, “Yeah, she’s cranky because of the baby!” Hobi, holding a phone, uploads the clip to the company’s socials, captioning it “#GlowBitesLoveStory.”

Soon, customers are congratulating you left and right. A middle-aged woman with a kind smile approaches. “Congratulations, you two! Your friends told me you’re expecting!”

You blink, dumbfounded. “Excuse me?”

Jin, quick on his feet, turns on the charm. “Uh, thank you, ma’am! We’re… very excited.” He shoots you a look, daring you to play along.

The woman beams, taking a sample. “You’re working so hard for that little one. I’ll tell my book club about these GlowBites!”

As she walks away, you grab Jin’s arm, yanking him closer. “What was that?”

He shrugs, too amused. “I’m not correcting her. She’s buying ten boxes.”

The congratulations keep coming. A group of sorority girls gush over Jin’s “dad vibes,” asking for baby name suggestions. Jin suggests “GlowBite Jr.,” earning a glare from you as you mutter, “I’m not pregnant!” A dad offers Jin parenting advice: “My wife was like that when she was expecting—hormones!” You nearly chuck a sample at him, but Jin catches your wrist, smirking, “Easy, mama bear.” An old man pats Jin’s shoulder, saying, “Take care of her and the baby!” A teenager winks, “You guys are cute, even when you’re fighting.”

You corner Lisa during a lull. “Why is everyone acting like I’m pregnant?”

She chokes on her water. “Oh, uh… funny story. We told people you and Jin are married and expecting to get them to try the product. Your arguing wasn’t helping, so we blamed hormones. It’s working!”

You gasp. “You did WHAT?”

Jin, overhearing, laughs so hard he nearly drops a tray. “Oh, this is gold. Y/N, you’re my pregnant wife now. Should I call you ‘honey’?”

You shove a sample in his mouth. “I’m going to kill you all.”

The final straw is a sweet grandma with twinkling eyes. She hands you a bag of traditional red bean sweets. “For you, dear. These give energy during pregnancy. Stay strong for that baby.”

You stare at the bag, mortified. Jin bows deeply. “Thank you, ma’am. We’re so grateful.”

As she walks away, you hiss, “You’re enjoying this too much.”

He leans in, voice low. “What’s not to enjoy? You’re glowing, wifey.” His proximity makes your skin prickle, and you hate how your heart stutters.

“Keep talking, and I’ll shove these sweets where the sun doesn’t shine.”

He winks. “Kinky.”

The event is winding down, the park emptying as the sun dips low, casting a golden glow over the neon-yellow GlowBites truck. You and Jin are stuck cleaning up, the rest of the team conveniently “busy” elsewhere. The truck’s interior is a mess—crumbs everywhere, empty trays stacked haphazardly, the air thick with the sugary scent of GlowBites. You’re wiping the counter with aggressive swipes, muttering about your meddlesome team, when Jin tosses a rag at you, hitting your shoulder.

“Stop sulking, Y/N,” he says, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his blazer discarded, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms you definitely shouldn’t be noticing. “It’s not my fault everyone thinks you’re carrying my child.”

You throw the rag back, smacking his chest. “You didn’t help, Mr. ‘Oh, we’re excited.’”

He steps closer, smirking. “Admit it. You like the idea of me as your baby daddy.”

Your pulse quickens, but you scoff, turning to scrub a nonexistent stain. “In your dreams, Mr. Kim.”

He moves behind you, so close you feel the heat of him, his breath ghosting over your neck. “You sure? Because the way you keep staring at me says otherwise.”

You spin around, ready to snap back, but he’s right there, towering over you, eyes dark with something beyond teasing. The air crackles, heavy with unspoken tension. You should push him away, tell him to fuck off, but your body betrays you, rooted to the spot, your gaze flicking to his lips.

“Back off,” you say, voice barely a whisper, lacking conviction.

He doesn’t. He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice low and rough. “Make me.”

The challenge hangs there, and something snaps. You grab his collar, yanking him down, but pause, your noses brushing, breaths mingling. “Scared, Y/N?” he taunts, smirking, but his eyes are heavy with want. You close the gap, kissing him hard, a collision of frustration and need. His lips are soft but demanding, claiming yours with a hunger that makes your knees weak. You kiss back fiercely, teeth grazing his bottom lip, drawing a low groan that sends heat pooling in your belly.

He presses you against the counter, hands sliding to your hips, gripping tightly as he deepens the kiss, his tongue teasing yours, slow and deliberate, then urgent. You tug his hair, hard, and he hisses, breaking away to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin of your neck. You moan softly, head tipping back, and he takes advantage, sucking lightly, leaving a mark you’ll curse him for later.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You freeze for a split second, heart racing at the confession, but you can’t admit you feel the same—not yet. Instead, you pull him back to your lips, kissing him deeper, your nails scratching his neck as you pour every ounce of frustration into it. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine, then gripping your waist to pull you flush against him. You feel him, hard through his jeans, and your hips roll instinctively, making him groan, low and filthy.

“You keep doing that,” he growls, “and we’re not cleaning this truck.”

You bite his lip, smirking. “Good. You deserve to suffer.”

He spins you, pressing your front against the counter, his body flush against your back. His lips find your ear, whispering, “Oh, sweetheart, you’ll regret that.” His hands slide down, squeezing your thighs, making you squirm. He grinds against you, and you gasp, the truck creaking with the movement. You’re lost in it—kissing, touching, panting—until footsteps outside snap you back.

You shove him away, breathless, fixing your shirt. He’s disheveled, hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes dark with unspent desire. “This isn’t over,” he says, voice a promise.

You glare, heart pounding. “It never started.”

He hands you a rag, fingers lingering on yours, the air thick. “You can’t run forever, Y/N.” You storm out, his chuckle following you, making your skin tingle.

A week later, the tension is unbearable. The fake pregnancy rumor has made every glance, every accidental touch feel like a lit fuse. You’re in the office storage room, arguing over product placement for the next campaign.

“You can’t put the GlowBites next to the energy drinks,” you say, arms crossed. “It’s a health snack, not a pre-workout.”

Jin rolls his eyes, stepping closer to grab a box from the shelf behind you. “And you can’t keep rearranging my displays because you’re obsessed with control.”

You shove him, a light push, but it’s enough. He grabs your waist, spinning you until your back hits the shelf, boxes rattling. His lips crash into yours, hungry and messy, all tongue and heat.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, lifting you onto a stack of promo boxes. Your legs wrap around him, pulling him closer, feeling how much he wants you. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You bite his lip, hard enough to make him hiss. “Good.”

He yanks your blouse open, buttons popping, and you don’t care. His hands cup your breasts, teasing your nipples through your bra. You arch into him, moaning as he grinds against you, the friction driving you wild.

“Quiet,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Unless you want the whole office to know.”

You clamp a hand over your mouth as he slides your skirt up, fingers teasing through your slip. He’s relentless, stroking until you’re soaking, thighs trembling. He pushes your underwear aside, sliding two fingers inside, curling them just right. You bite his shoulder to muffle your cry.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans. “Been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

You don’t answer, too lost. He drops to his knees, pulling your panties down, his mouth on you, tongue lapping like he’s starving. You grip the shelf, moaning his name as he brings you to the edge. When you come, it’s explosive, your body shaking. He stands, kissing you hard, letting you taste yourself.

You fumble with his belt, desperate, and he helps, chuckling. When you free him, he’s hard and thick, and you stroke him slowly, watching his face contort. “Fuck, Y/N,” he groans. You guide him to your entrance, and he pushes in, slow, then deep, filling you. You both moan, the boxes creaking as he thrusts hard, fast, his hands gripping your hips.

“Harder,” you demand, nails digging into his back.

He complies, slamming into you, leaving bruises. It’s rough, desperate, perfect. You come again, his name on your lips, and he follows, groaning, spilling inside you.

Panting, half-dressed, you’re surrounded by toppled boxes. He grins. “Best use of storage space ever.”

You laugh, shoving him. “You’re the worst.”

One afternoon, you’re both tasked with delivering campaign materials to the top floor. The elevator ride starts innocently, but Jin’s standing too close, his cologne filling the small space. You snap, “Personal space, Kim.” He smirks, leaning in. “You didn’t mind in the storage room.” Your cheeks burn, and you shove him blush, but he catches your wrist, his touch lingering. The elevator dings, but he doesn’t let go, his eyes daring you to make a move.

You’re alone again in the elevator the next day, delivering more materials. The doors close, and Jin hits the emergency stop button without warning.

“Jin, what the—”

He pins you against the wall, lips crashing into yours. “Five minutes,” he murmurs, hand sliding under your skirt. His fingers tease through your panties, and you gasp, fisting his shirt. You bite his neck, leaving a mark, and he groans, grinding against you.

“You think you’re in control?” you taunt, stroking him through his pants.

He smirks, slipping inside your panties. “Let’s find out.”

It’s frantic, his fingers working you, your hand stroking him, both racing against time. His lips suck a bruise on your neck, and you’re trembling, so close—

The elevator jolts, a voice crackling: “Is everything okay?”

You freeze, panting, skirt bunched, his shirt half-unbuttoned. Jin curses, fixing your clothes. “Yeah, just… stuck. We’re fine.”

The doors open, and you stumble out, lipstick smudged, hair a mess, Jin’s tie askew, lips red. Lisa, Jungkook, and Hobi are in the hallway, eyes wide.

Lisa’s jaw drops. “Oh my god, what happened to you two?”

Jungkook smirks, nudging Hobi. “Told you. They’re banging.”

Hobi laughs. “Y/N, your neck’s a war zone.”

You slap a hand over the hickey, mortified, while Jin adjusts his tie, grinning. “Mind your business,” he says, too smug.

Lisa whispers to Jungkook, “I’m doubling my bet. Married by next year.”

You glare, storming off, Jin’s chuckle following.

Jin’s teasing doesn’t stop—he “accidentally” drops a pen during a briefing, bending close to pick it up, his hand brushing your thigh. You retaliate by “forgetting” to CC him on an important email, making him storm to your desk, whispering, “Playing dirty, Y/N? I can play dirtier.” His voice is low, dangerous, and you hate how it makes your thighs clench.

The team’s gossip doesn’t help. Lisa leaves a parenting magazine on your desk “for research,” and Jungkook keeps humming “Baby Shark” when you pass. You’re ready to strangle them, but Jin’s smug grin every time someone mentions “the baby” makes it worse. At a team lunch, he slides you a slice of pizza, saying, “Eat up, wifey. Gotta keep your strength.” You kick him under the table, but his hand catches your ankle, holding it a second too long, his thumb brushing your skin.

By the end of the week, the tension’s a live wire. You’re both staying late to finish reports, the office empty except for the hum of the air conditioning. You’re at your desk, reviewing sales figures, when Jin approaches, tossing a file onto your desk. “Your numbers are off,” he says, leaning over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear.

“They’re not off,” you snap, shoving the file back. “Maybe check your own math.”

He grabs your chair, spinning you to face him. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re infuriating,” you retort, standing, your chest brushing his.

The argument spills into the hallway, and he backs you against the emergency exit door. The kiss is bruising, all teeth and desperation. He lifts your skirt, hand sliding between your thighs, teasing through your panties. “Already so wet,” he growls, biting your shoulder.

You smirk, stroking him through his pants, feeling him harden. “And you’re begging.”

He chuckles, dark and filthy, slipping your panties down. His fingers trace your inner thighs, barely brushing where you need him. “Shaking already?” he teases, smirking as you glare. He slides one finger inside, agonizingly slow, then stops, licking his fingers clean while you whine. “Patience,” he says, smug.

You retaliate, stroking him slowly, torturously, until he’s groaning. “Two can play this,” you whisper, twisting your wrist. He kneels, spreading your thighs, his tongue licking long, slow stripes, stopping just short of your climax. “Jin, don’t you dare,” you hiss.

He grins, standing to whisper, “Tell me how bad you want it.”

“I want you,” you gasp, pulling him into a desperate kiss, tongues clashing. He slides two fingers inside, curling, pumping, thumb teasing your clit, keeping you on edge without letting you come. You’re whimpering, begging, and he finally gives in, thrusting into you, deep and hard. The door rattles, your moans echoing. He’s relentless, one hand gripping your hip, the other pinching your nipple through your bra. You claw his back, leaving marks.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, biting your neck. You come, screaming his name, the sound bouncing off the concrete. He follows, groaning, spilling inside you.

You collapse onto the stairs, half-dressed, panting, laughing. He brushes hair from your face, kissing your forehead. “We’re so getting fired.”

“Not if I frame you first,” you reply, nuzzling into him. He chuckles.

Over the next few days, Jin’s bolder—slipping you a note during a meeting that says, “Wear that skirt again. You know why.” You wear it, just to mess with him, and catch him staring, jaw tight. At a team happy hour, he “accidentally” spills beer on your shirt, offering his jacket, his fingers lingering on your shoulders as he drapes it over you. You whisper, “You’re not slick,” but you keep the jacket on, his scent clinging to you.

It’s late on a Thursday, a week after the stairwell, and you’re both stuck in the office, finalizing a pitch. The team’s gone, and the quiet amplifies the tension. You’re at the printer, cursing a paper jam, when Jin appears, leaning against the wall, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Need help, wifey?” he teases, but his voice is softer, less cocky.

You glare, yanking at the paper. “I’ve got it, Mr. Kim.”

He steps closer, gently taking the paper from your hands, his fingers brushing yours. “You’re gonna break it,” he says, fixing the jam with infuriating ease. He doesn’t step back, his proximity making your pulse spike.

“Why do you always do that?” you snap, shoving the printer closed.

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re better than me, then… do shit like this.” You gesture to the printer, the coffee he’s left on your desk, the way he’s always there when you need him.

He pauses, eyes searching yours. “Maybe because I don’t hate you as much as you think.”

You freeze, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He steps closer, voice low. “It means I’m tired of fighting, Y/N. I like you. More than I should. And I think you like me too.”

Your heart stutters, but you scoff, crossing your arms. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” He leans in, close enough to kiss. “Then why do you keep letting me get this close?”

You want to argue, but the words stick. He’s right, and you hate it. Before you can stop yourself, you grab his tie, pulling him down for a kiss—soft at first, then desperate. He kisses back, hands cupping your face, and it feels different, like a surrender.

When you pull back, panting, he grins. “So, you wanna do this? For real?”

You bite your lip, heart pounding. “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

He laughs, kissing you again. “My lips are sealed, secret girlfriend.”

By Friday night, you’re both working late again, the office dark and quiet. You’re arguing over who forgot to lock the office the night before, the fight spilling into the parking lot, the air cool, the lot empty except for Jin’s car.

“You’re so irresponsible,” you snap, poking his chest.

He grabs your wrist, pinning you against the hood of his car. “You’re one to talk,” he growls, kissing you fiercely, all teeth and heat. His hands slide under your skirt, teasing you until you’re trembling. “Fuck, Y/N, you drive me crazy.”

You smirk, dropping to your knees, unbuckling his belt. You take him in your mouth, teasing with slow licks, swirling your tongue until he’s gripping your hair, cursing. You stop just before he finishes, standing to whisper, “Not so fast.”

He flips you around, bending you over the hood, the metal cold against your thighs. He slides your panties down, thrusting into you, rough and filthy. “You like teasing me?” he whispers, voice dark with praise. It’s quick, desperate, the risk of security cameras making it hotter. You come hard, muffling your cry against your arm, and he follows, groaning.

You lean against the car, breathless, sharing a vape, laughing. “We’re so fucked,” he says.

You grin. “Worth it.”

Few months later, the team’s at a trendy Korean BBQ restaurant, celebrating the GlowBites launch. You and Jin are secretly dating, stealing touches under the table—his hand on your thigh, your foot nudging his calf. You share smirks over inside jokes, like when he whispers, “You’re glowing, wifey,” and you pinch his arm, hard.

The team’s still obsessed with the pregnancy rumor, tossing around baby names over soju shots. Jungkook’s got a betting pool going, and Lisa’s convinced you’re hiding a bump under your loose sweater. In the group chat “Y/N + Jin: Hate or Fate?,” Jimin’s posted a photoshopped wedding invite with you and Jin, GlowBites as the cake. Hobi’s latest contribution is a TikTok of you two arguing at the food truck, captioned “#GlowBitesBaby.” Jungkook brags about the video hitting 10k views, saying, “I’m basically a director now.”

Mid-dinner, you feel queasy—damn kimchi pancake, too spicy. You clutch your stomach, wincing, and rush to the restroom. Jin’s up in a second, half-panicked. “Hey—what’s wrong?” He paces outside, texting you, “You okay? Need me to barge in?”

You emerge, pale and sweaty, waving him off. “Just the pancake.” He orders you a ginger tea, sliding it over without a word, but his hand lingers on yours, earning a soft smile.

The team’s in chaos. Lisa gasps, “She’s throwing up!” Jungkook leans in, eyes wide. “Is it… the baby?” Hobi chokes on his soju. Jimin, dramatic, clutches his chest. “Did we manifest this? Did we speak the fake baby into existence?”

Lisa tells she will ask tailor to design a custom baby onesie, printed “For GlowBite Jr.!” You threaten to burn it, but the team roars, Yoongi muttering, “I’m not babysitting.”

The waiter brings sweet rice drink, and Lisa yells, “She can’t drink that! It’s too fermented for the baby!” You slam your head on the table, groaning. Hobi chants “Baby GlowBites!” until you throw a napkin at him.

Jin, fed up, slams his chopsticks down. “Stop it guys, we are careful every time, she is not pregnant.”

The table goes silent. You glare at Jin, eyes wide, hissing under your breath, “Are you serious? We’re supposed to keep this secret!” Your heart races, mortified that he’s just blown your cover.

Lisa bursts out laughing, nearly spilling her soju. “Oh, please, Y/N. We’ve known for weeks.”

Jungkook smirks, leaning back. “Yeah, you two aren’t exactly subtle. I saw you sneaking out of the stairwell looking like you fought a bear.”

Hobi grins, holding up his phone. “And that hickey in the elevator? Not your best cover-up.”

Jimin claps, delighted. “The group chat’s been tracking you since the food truck. ‘Hate or Fate’ was always gonna end in fate.”

Yoongi sips his drink, deadpan. “You’re both idiots, but at least you’re idiots together now.”

You bury your face in your hands, cheeks burning, while Jin laughs, squeezing your knee under the table. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag, girlfriend.”

You swat his arm, but you’re smiling, the tension melting. “You’re the worst,” you mutter, but your voice is soft.

Lisa raises her glass. “To Y/N and Jin, the worst-kept secret in marketing!”

The team cheers, and you shake your head, laughing despite yourself. Jin leans in, whispering, “Are you really okay? Should we go see a doctor? What if it’s food poisoning?” His eyes are wide with worry, brows furrowed, and you feel a warmth spread through you at his concern.

You squeeze his hand, whispering back, “I’m fine, Jin. Just spicy food. But… thanks for caring.” You flash a small smile, and he relaxes, though his hand stays on yours.

Leaving the restaurant, Jin pulls you into a quiet alley, the neon sign casting a soft glow. He cups your face, kissing you gently, then pulls back, eyes searching yours. “Y/N, are you sure you don’t need a doctor? What if you’re… you know, pregnant?” His voice is soft, laced with worry, his hand tightening on yours.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I got my periods on time, Jin. It’s just the Spicy kimchi. Relax. You know I can't handle spicy unless it's you.”

He exhales and chuckles, visibly relieved, pulling you into a warm hug. “Okay, good. But no more spicy pancakes, deal?” He kisses your forehead, protective and teasing.

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Deal, but only if you stop playing doctor.”

He grins, tugging you closer. “No promises. I’m keeping that onesie Lisa gonna gift us for when we’re ready.”

You swat him, but end up in his arms, walking under the city lights, laughing and bickering like always, but now with a love that’s no longer a secret. The team’s laughter fades behind you, but all you feel is Jin—his warmth, his worry, his love.

A/N: How would you feel if you get a Jin as your office colleague?😈

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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 . @bebabido . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria .

[kittenan2]

A Namjoon fic requested by someone on main account. Please do check out. 💜

i’m loving all your contents but i hope you post a joon fic next (i’m sorry i’m just starved for a joon fic lately i’ve been reading the same fics every other day🫠)

Seduced and Saved

Pairing: Mafia's Right-Hand Namjoon x Kidnapped Reader Genre: Dark Romance | Mafia AU | Smut | Forbidden Lust | Rescue Mission | Seduction Warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content, violence, kidnapping, non-con elements (coercion), power dynamics, possessive behavior, degradation, praise kink, rough sex, oral sex, wall sex, desk sex, intense make-out sessions, angst, betrayal, gun violence, emotional manipulation, torture (graphic but non-excessive), aftercare. Word Count: ~9k

The world was a blur of chloroform and rough hands when you were taken. Now, the haze had cleared, leaving you in a suffocating underground suite, all velvet and gold but reeking of cigar smoke and bourbon.

Your wrists burned, bound behind your back with coarse rope, but you stood defiant, chin high, refusing to let fear seep into your bones.

Viktor Drae, the mafia lord who’d orchestrated your kidnapping, lounged on a chaise, his tailored suit a mockery of elegance. His eyes, dark and predatory, glinted under the chandelier as he twirled a dagger between his fingers. “On your knees, pet,” he purred, voice smooth as poison.

You spat at his polished shoes, the glob landing with a wet splat. “I’d rather choke.”

His laugh was sharp, a blade slicing the air. “Oh, I like you. You’ll be fun to break.” He waved a hand toward the shadowed corner. “Namjoon, keep an eye on her.”

A figure emerged from the darkness, broad shoulders cutting through the haze like a storm. Kim Namjoon, Viktor’s right-hand, was a paradox—sharp cheekbones, full lips, and eyes colder than a winter grave.

His black suit hugged his frame, every movement precise, lethal. He didn’t spare you a glance, his expression carved from stone.

“Not my job,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, already turning toward the door.

Viktor’s smile faltered, a crack in his facade. “Don’t test me, Joon.”

Namjoon paused, jaw tight, his hand twitching toward the gun at his hip. Then, without a word, he strode out, the door clicking shut behind him.

You smirked despite the ropes cutting into your skin. If Viktor’s attack dog wasn’t interested, maybe you had a chance to claw your way out of this hell.

But deep down, you knew: Namjoon’s indifference was a lie. You’d seen the flicker in his eyes when Viktor called you pet. A spark of something—anger, maybe, or something darker. You filed it away, a weapon for later.

Days bled into nights, the opulent suite a suffocating cage of crimson velvet and gilded mirrors. Viktor’s obsession with you grew sharper, a blade honed with every defiance you threw at him.

He didn’t just want your body—he craved your submission, your spirit shattered at his feet. Each morning, he’d slink into your room, his cologne a sickly prelude to his games.

“You’ll beg for me, pet,” he’d murmur, his fingers bruising your wrists as he pinned you to the wall, his lips grazing your ear. When you spat in his face, he laughed, but his punishments were swift.

The first time, he locked you in a windowless closet for hours, the air stale, your screams swallowed by darkness.

The second, he forced you to kneel on rice grains scattered across the marble floor, your knees bleeding as he watched, sipping bourbon. “Pretty when you hurt,” he said, tilting your chin up with his dagger’s tip, a thin cut blooming on your jaw when you jerked away.

You bit back a whimper, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but your body trembled from the strain.

Later that night, you found a first aid kit on your bedside table—bandages, antiseptic, a small roll of gauze. No note, but you knew. Namjoon. His silent act of care, hidden from Viktor’s eyes, was a crack in his icy facade.

Namjoon was always there, a silent specter in the shadows. Unlike Viktor’s other “toys”—women who’d crumbled under his cruelty, their eyes vacant as they trailed him like broken dolls—Namjoon had never spared them a glance.

You’d overheard the guards whispering about it: how he’d walk past Viktor’s parade of captives, his face a mask of indifference, as if they were furniture. “Kim doesn’t care,” one guard sneered.

“He’s got no heart, just a brain for the boss’s dirty work.”

But with you, it was different. You noticed it first in the security room, where Namjoon monitored the feeds. His eyes lingered on you—not with the lustful hunger of Viktor’s men, but with a quiet intensity, like he was solving a puzzle.

When Viktor pinned you during one of his “lessons,” Namjoon’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around a glass until it shattered, blood dripping onto the floor. He didn’t flinch, just left, but you saw the storm in his eyes.

Why you? You pieced it together slowly. The other women had begged or bargained, their spirits snuffed out by fear.

But you fought—clawing, spitting, cursing Viktor even as he hurt you. Namjoon, a man who thrived on control, was drawn to your fire, the unyielding spark that refused to dim.

You caught him watching you in the dining hall, where you’d thrown a glass of wine at Viktor’s face, the red staining his shirt. Namjoon’s lips twitched, almost a smirk, before he turned away. It was your defiance, your refusal to break, that unraveled him—a challenge to the cold, calculated world he ruled.

You also learned his power by observing. Viktor was the face of the empire, but Namjoon was its spine. Guards straightened when he passed, their banter dying.

Once, you overheard a phone call through a cracked door—Namjoon barking orders in clipped tones, rerouting shipments, silencing a traitor with a single command.

“Without Kim, Drae’s just a loudmouth with a gun,” a guard muttered later, unaware you were listening. Namjoon held the keys to Viktor’s trafficking networks, his smuggling routes, his blackmail files. He wasn’t just the right-hand; he was the mind that kept the machine running.

Namjoon’s hidden anger at Viktor’s cruelty fueled your plan. You saw it in the way his fists balled when Viktor cut your jaw, the way his eyes darkened when you limped from the rice punishment.

He never intervened, but his silence screamed louder than words. He hated this—hated you being the target. That was your leverage. If you could break through his icy facade, you could use him to escape this hell.

One morning, Namjoon brought your breakfast tray, a rare task he’d taken from the guards. You decided to test him, leaning against the table, your voice low and teasing.

“You know, Joon, you’re not as scary as you think,” you purred, brushing your fingers lightly over his arm, your eyes locked on his. “Bet you’d be fun if you let that ice melt a little.”

His eyes narrowed, cold and unyielding, and he jerked his arm away, his voice sharp with disdain. “Don’t waste your breath. I don’t care about you or your games.”

His words cut, his rudeness a slap to your pride, and you hated him in that moment—his arrogance, his detachment, the way he made you feel small.

“Liar,” you snapped, stepping closer, your voice trembling with anger. “I know you put that med kit in my room every time Viktor hurts me. You’re not as heartless as you pretend.”

He froze, his jaw ticking, but his eyes remained glacial. “You’re delusional,” he muttered, turning away, but the slight hitch in his breath betrayed him.

You smirked, your hatred simmering, but you saw your opening. If he could lie to himself, you’d use that against him.

Later, you stood before the mirror, your hair damp from the shower, clad only in a thin robe.

When Namjoon returned to collect the tray, you let the robe slip, “accidentally” dropping it to the floor, revealing your bare skin.

His eyes widened, pupils swallowing the brown, his throat bobbing as he froze. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, turning sharply, but not before you saw the bulge straining his slacks.

He slammed the door behind him, but you smirked, heart racing. He was affected—deeply. Seduction was your weapon, and Namjoon was your target. You’d play his desire like a blade, cutting your way to freedom.

You needed to push harder, to chip away at Namjoon’s icy control until he shattered. One night, you faked a nightmare, sobbing loud enough for the guards to fetch him.

He stormed into your room, gun drawn, his shirt half-unbuttoned from being roused from sleep, revealing a sliver of toned chest.

His eyes scanned the room, then landed on you—curled on the bed, trembling in a sheer nightgown that clung to your curves, the fabric slipping to reveal the swell of your breast.

“Please… stay,” you whispered, eyes wide and pleading, a tear streaking down your cheek for effect. You sat up, letting the strap of your nightgown slide down your shoulder, your voice soft but teasing. “Unless you’re scared of a girl’s bad dreams, tough guy.”

He sighed, holstering his gun and dragging a chair to the bedside, his jaw tight. “Five minutes,” he grunted, sitting stiffly, his gaze fixed on the wall. But you saw his eyes flicker to your exposed skin, his fingers digging into his thighs.

You shifted, the nightgown riding up your thigh, and leaned closer, your breath warm against his ear. “You don’t strike me as the babysitting type, Namjoon,” you purred, your voice dripping with mock innocence. “What’s it take to get under that cold skin of yours? Or are you just Viktor’s robot?”

His eyes snapped to yours, a storm brewing in their depths. “Don’t play games with fire, girl,” he growled, his voice rough as gravel, but you caught the hitch in his breath, the way his gaze lingered on your lips.

You smirked, tilting your head, letting your hair fall seductively over one eye. “Fire? Oh, I think you’re the one burning, big guy. Your eyes are practically begging to touch me.” You stretched, arching your back just enough to make the nightgown strain against your chest. “Or are you afraid you’ll like it too much?”

His jaw ticked, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the chair. “You talk too much,” he muttered, but his voice was strained, and you saw the bulge in his slacks growing.

You leaned closer, your lips brushing his earlobe as you whispered, “Then why are your pupils blown wide? Bet you’re imagining all the ways I could make you lose control.”

He shot to his feet, towering over you, his chest heaving. For a moment, you thought he’d snap—grab you, pin you, do something.

His eyes burned with a mix of anger and desire, his hand twitching like he wanted to reach for you. “You’re fucking trouble,” he snarled, adjusting his slacks with a curse, and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.

You flopped back on the bed, grinning, your heart pounding. The ice wasn’t just cracking—it was melting. You’d seen the hunger in his eyes, the way his control frayed at your teasing.

Namjoon was yours to unravel, and with every taunt, you’d pull him closer to breaking. Soon, he’d be your key out of this cage.

You couldn’t wait anymore. Next night, Victor wasn't there. You slipped into Namjoon’s quarters, the door clicking shut behind you.

He was at his desk, shirt unbuttoned to reveal a sliver of toned chest, a glass of whiskey in hand. His eyes snapped to you, narrowing as you stepped into the dim light, your silk robe barely tied, the fabric clinging to your curves.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he growled, setting the glass down with a clink.

You stepped closer, hips swaying, letting the robe slip open to reveal lace panties and nothing else. “I can’t sleep,” you purred, voice low and sultry. “Thought you could… help.”

He stood, towering over you, and grabbed your throat, pinning you to the wall with a thud. His grip was firm but not cruel, his thumb brushing your racing pulse. “You want me to lose control?” he snarled, his breath hot on your lips. “Fine.”

His mouth crashed into yours, a bruising kiss that tasted of whiskey and rage. You moaned, tugging his hair, and he growled, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming every inch of your mouth with fierce possession.

You bit his lip, drawing blood, and he hissed, pulling back to glare at you, his eyes black with desire, pupils blown wide with hunger.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his gaze raking over your body as he ripped your robe open, the silk tearing slightly under his urgency.

The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you bare except for the lace panties, your skin prickling under his intense stare.

He spun you, bending you over the desk, your chest pressing into the cold wood, the edge biting into your hips. You gasped as cold metal grazed your wrists—handcuffs clicking into place, securing your hands behind your back.

“No,” you snapped, twisting against the restraints, your voice sharp with panic, your heart racing. “I hate this thing. I’m not a toy, Namjoon. Don’t make me feel like one.”

His hands froze, his breath ragged, his body tense behind you. For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes searching yours over your shoulder, conflict raging in their depths.

“You’re different,” you whispered, voice softening but firm, your gaze pleading. “You’re not him. Don’t do this.”

He cursed under his breath, his fingers trembling as he unlocked the cuffs, tossing them aside with a clatter that echoed in the room.

The moment they fell, something shifted—his gaze softened, his touch gentler as he cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that stole your breath. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice hoarse, and you both froze.

That apology, that vulnerability—it was more than lust. You meant something to him, and the realization hit you both like a tidal wave, raw and overwhelming.

He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less desperate, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that felt like he was trying to memorize you.

His hands slid to your hips, lifting you onto the desk with ease, the wood cool against your bare thighs. He slid your panties down, leaving them dangling around your thighs, and you felt his fingers tease your entrance, finding you soaked, your arousal coating his fingertips.

“Already dripping?” he taunted, circling your clit with agonizing slowness, his voice a low growl laced with dark amusement.

“Shut up and fuck me,” you snapped, pushing back against his hand, desperate for more, your core throbbing with need.

He chuckled, dark and dangerous, his eyes glinting with a mix of lust and challenge. Then you felt him—thick, hot, stretching you as he thrust in with one brutal stroke, filling you so completely you cried out, your nails scraping the desk, the pain melting into pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into your flesh like he was anchoring himself to you.

Each thrust was punishing, the desk creaking violently, papers scattering to the floor in a chaotic flurry. His pace was relentless, pounding into you like there was no tomorrow, like this was the last time he’d ever get to claim you like this.

His hips snapped against yours with a ferocity that made your breath hitch, each deep thrust hitting a spot inside you that sent sparks through your veins.

His hands gripped you tighter, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, his cock driving into you with a desperate urgency, as if he was afraid you’d slip away, as if he needed to mark you as his before the world tore you apart.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice raw, almost breaking, his breath hot against your ear. “No one else gets this—fuck, no one else ever will.”

You clenched around him, your walls fluttering, smirking despite the intensity, your voice taunting through gasps. “Harder, Namjoon.”

He snarled, a primal sound that sent a shiver down your spine, and obliged, slamming into you with a force that made you see stars, the desk shuddering beneath you, threatening to collapse.

His rhythm was merciless, each thrust deeper, harder, his cock stretching you to your limits, the pleasure bordering on pain. He fucked you like he was chasing something—redemption, oblivion, you—his hips pistoning with a desperation that made your heart race, your body trembling as you teetered on the edge.

His hand slid up your spine, fisting your hair to pull your head back, exposing your throat, his lips grazing your skin. “Look at you, taking me so fucking well,” he growled, his voice a intoxicating mix of degradation and awe, his breath ragged. “Perfect—made for me.”

The coil in your core tightened, your body quaking as the pleasure built, overwhelming, unstoppable. “Come for me,” he commanded, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, precise circles that pushed you over the edge.

You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you with a scream, your walls pulsing around him, milking him as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, your vision blurring, your body shaking.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts erratic, his own release chasing yours. His grip on your hips tightened, bruising, as he pounded into you with a final, desperate frenzy, his cock throbbing inside you.

“Fuck, I’m—,” he groaned, his voice breaking, and he spilled inside you with a guttural moan, his body shuddering, his forehead pressed to your back as he rode out his climax, his breaths harsh and uneven. Each pulse of his release felt like a claim, a vow, his warmth filling you, grounding you in the moment.

For a moment, you both stilled, panting, the air heavy with the scent of sex, whiskey, and sweat. Then, he kissed your temple—a soft, reverent press of lips that made your heart stutter, a stark contrast to the ferocity of moments before.

He froze, as if realizing the tenderness of his action, and pulled away, his hands shaking as he helped you sit up, his touch now gentle, almost hesitant.

“Get out,” he muttered, voice hoarse, turning his back to you, his shoulders tense, his fists clenched at his sides.

You smirked, pulling your robe on, your legs still trembling, your core aching deliciously from his intensity. “You’ll beg for me again.”

He didn’t respond, but you saw the tension in his posture, the way his hands flexed, fighting the urge to reach for you. You’d cracked the beast, and there was no going back.

Namjoon avoided you for days, his presence a ghost in the halls. You didn’t let up. One evening, you snuck into his office, leaning against his desk in a tight skirt that rode up your thighs, revealing lace garters. When he walked in, his eyes darkened, his jaw tight, but he kept his distance, warring with himself.

“Did I feel like a mistake?” you purred, sliding closer, your fingers trailing along the desk’s edge. “Or are you just scared to admit you’re hooked, big guy?”

He growled, stepping closer but stopping short, his hands fisted at his sides. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, voice low, but his eyes betrayed him—hungry, conflicted, desperate to touch you but holding back.

You tilted your head, smirking, your voice teasing. “Dangerous? Oh, I think you like it. Why else do you keep staring like I’m your last meal?” You hopped onto the desk, crossing your legs slowly, letting the skirt ride higher. “Come on, admit it—you’re dying to taste me again.”

His breath hitched, but he turned his head, avoiding your lips, and the rejection stung more than it should have. You were using him, weren’t you? Just a means to escape.

So why did his refusal to kiss you hurt, a sharp ache in your chest? You pushed the feeling down, focusing on the game. “What’s wrong, Joon? Scared you’ll fall for me?” you taunted, poking his chest.

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but careful. “Stop,” he snapped, but his voice was strained, his eyes flickering with torment. He wanted you—badly—but he was fighting it, and that hurt more than you cared to admit.

He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessive strength, pushing them apart with a slow, deliberate motion that made your breath catch. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he growled, his voice rough, almost pleading, as he buried his face between your legs.

His lips found your core, hot and insistent, his tongue dragging a slow, torturous stripe through your folds, tasting your arousal with a groan that vibrated against your skin, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your spine.

You gasped, your hips bucking instinctively, but his hands held you firm, fingers digging into your thighs, keeping you spread open for him.

His tongue was relentless, swirling around your clit with precise, teasing flicks that made your toes curl, each movement calculated to drive you wild.

He sucked your clit gently at first, then harder, his lips sealing around the sensitive bud, pulling a cry from your throat as your head fell back, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard.

His moans hummed against you, deep and primal, like he was savoring every drop of you, drinking you in like a man starved for weeks.

His tongue dipped lower, plunging into your entrance, fucking you with slow, deep strokes that had you trembling, your walls clenching around nothing, desperate for more.

He alternated between lapping at your folds and sucking your clit, his pace maddening, building you up only to slow down just as you neared the edge, making you whimper with need.

“Fuck, you taste so good,” he rasped against your core, his voice muffled, his breath hot and tickling your oversensitive skin. His lips grazed your inner thigh, nipping lightly before diving back in, his tongue circling your clit with a rhythm that felt like worship, each stroke sending sparks through your body.

Your thighs quaked, trying to close around his head, but he growled, prying them wider, his fingers bruising as he held you open, exposing every inch of you to his relentless assault.

He licked you like he was memorizing your taste, like he’d never get enough, his moans vibrating through you, amplifying every sensation until you were a writhing mess, your hips grinding against his face, chasing the release he kept teasing.

“Namjoon,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling until he groaned, the sound raw and hungry. He doubled down, sucking your clit with a pressure that made stars burst behind your eyes, his tongue flicking in tight, rapid circles, pushing you closer, closer.

Your body tensed, the coil in your core snapping as pleasure crashed over you, a keening cry ripping from your throat as you came, your thighs trembling, your hips bucking against his mouth.

He didn’t stop, lapping at you through your orgasm, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until you were oversensitive, whimpering, tugging his hair to pull him away.

He stood, wiping his glistening lips with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and wild, his chest heaving. He freed himself from his slacks, his cock hard and heavy, and fucked you slow, his hands gripping your waist, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re not just a game to me,” he whispered, his voice raw with confession. You both froze, the weight of his words hanging between you.

He avoided your lips, his forehead pressing to your shoulder instead, and the ache in your chest deepened. Why did you care? Why did you want his kiss, his heart, when all you needed was his help to escape?

He pulled out, tucking himself away, his hands shaking. “This can’t happen again,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

You smirked, adjusting your skirt, hiding the hurt. “Liar.”

Viktor’s suspicions festered, his touches growing bolder, his gaze dissecting. One night, he summoned you and Namjoon to his office, the air thick with cigar smoke and malice.

He leaned back in his chair, a cruel smile curling his lips as he beckoned you closer. “Come here, pet,” he purred, his voice dripping with possession.

You stiffened, your stomach churning, but you didn't move, every muscle tense. Viktor’s hand snaked around your waist, pulling you against his side, and he kissed your cheek, his lips lingering, wet and invasive.

You flinched, a shudder rippling through you, your skin crawling as you fought the urge to shove him away. Your hands clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms, and you bit your lip hard, tasting blood to keep from gagging.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed under your breath, but Viktor only chuckled, his grip tightening, a silent threat.

Namjoon stood across the room, his posture rigid, but his reaction was a storm barely leashed. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked, veins pulsing in his forearms.

His jaw locked, a muscle twitching furiously, and his eyes—dark, lethal—burned with a rage that could’ve set the room ablaze. When Viktor’s lips lingered on your cheek, Namjoon’s hand jerked toward his gun, his fingers curling around the grip before he forced it away, his breath ragged.

His chest heaved, his gaze locked on you, not Viktor, as if memorizing every flinch, every tremble, every mark of your disgust. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but the air around him vibrated with violence, a promise of retribution he couldn’t yet deliver.

Viktor released you, his eyes flicking to Namjoon, a taunting glint in them. “Loyalty test passed,” he said, waving you both out, but his smile was a blade, cutting deeper than his dagger ever could.

That night, Namjoon didn’t come to your room as a lover. Instead, he slipped in silently, his gun still holstered, and sank to the floor beside your bed, his back against the frame.

He didn’t speak at first, his head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but you felt his presence like a shield. “Why are you here?” you whispered, sitting up, your voice soft in the dark.

He didn’t look at you, his voice low, rough with exhaustion and guilt. “Because I can’t trust him tonight. Not with you.” He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “One more day. Just give me one day more.”

His words were a vow, a cryptic promise. You’d overheard him earlier, arguing with a contact about “finalizing the files”—evidence of Viktor’s crimes, enough to bring him down.

One more day meant he was close to dismantling the empire, to freeing you, but he couldn’t risk Viktor’s wrath until then. Sleeping on the floor was his way of guarding you, of keeping you close while he wrestled with the fear of losing you and the love he couldn’t admit.

You leaned over the edge of the bed, your voice barely a breath, heavy with guilt. “Namjoon… I’m sorry. I seduced you to get out of here. I used you.”

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light, soft but piercing. “I know,” he said, his voice steady, no trace of anger or betrayal. “I’ve always known.”

The weight of his words hung between you, a quiet acknowledgment of your game and his choice to play it anyway. His gaze held yours, raw and unguarded, revealing a man who saw through your plan but couldn’t walk away.

You reached down, touching his hand. “I’m not afraid of him, when you are beside me,” you said, and for the first time, you meant it.

His fingers curled around yours, a fleeting squeeze, and he stayed there, silent, your protector in the dark.

A guard betrayed Namjoon, a hidden camera catching you slipping into Namjoon’s quarters. Viktor’s rage was apocalyptic, a tempest born of wounded pride and shattered control.

He never knew that the day he brought Namjoon into this hell, a boy barely out of his teens, was the day he began writing his own destruction. Namjoon had been a shadow then, sharp-minded and fiercely loyal, molded by a promise to his father to serve the man whose own father had saved their family from ruin.

But that loyalty was a chain, one that had stolen Namjoon’s childhood, his youth, every dream he might have had, chaining him to Viktor’s cruel empire. Namjoon despised it—the blood, the betrayal, the endless cycle of violence that defined Viktor’s world. Yet he stayed, bound by duty, his hatred simmering beneath a mask of obedience, waiting for the moment to break free.

Viktor dragged you both to a warehouse, the air thick with dust and gasoline, his men tying Namjoon to a chair, ropes biting into his wrists but leaving him largely unharmed—Viktor needed his mind intact, his right-hand functional.

Viktor knew Namjoon was indispensable; without him, the empire would crumble, a truth that made him untouchable, a fact Namjoon wielded like a blade.

You, however, were Viktor’s target, the focus of his wrath. He grabbed you by the hair, yanking your head back with a vicious jerk, his nails scraping your scalp raw, making you cry out as pain seared through your skull.

“You think you can play me?” he snarled, backhanding you across the face. The slap was a bone-rattling crack, your cheek splitting open, blood streaming down your jaw, your vision swimming.

He tore the strap of your dress, the fabric ripping to expose your shoulder and neck, and pressed his knife to your throat, a shallow cut deepening, blood dripping to your collarbone, your body trembling from the pain.

Namjoon’s reaction was a storm unleashed, a raw, primal fury that shook the warehouse. His eyes widened with anguish, his body jerking against the ropes, the chair scraping the concrete as he roared, a guttural sound of pure, helpless rage.

His veins pulsed in his neck, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled, and his eyes—black with fury, glistening with unshed tears—locked onto your bloodied face, every drop of your pain carving into his soul. His hands strained, ropes fraying under his strength, his breaths ragged, as if he could tear the world apart to reach you.

Viktor had never thought Namjoon would betray him, especially not for a woman. Namjoon, who’d never shown interest in any woman his entire life, who’d walked past Viktor’s broken “toys” without a glance, was now unraveling, his loyalty shattered by you—by your fire, your defiance, the way you’d claimed his heart without even trying.

“Since you’re so interested in her,” Viktor sneered, his voice dripping with malice, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement at Namjoon’s torment.

Namjoon’s eyes burned, but he forced his voice to a desperate lie, his voice cracking with the effort. “I don’t care about her. I’m not interested in her.”

His words hit you like a punch, betrayal slicing through your chest. You froze, your eyes locked on his, searching for the man who’d left med kits, who’d kissed your temple, who’d called you more than a game.

Your heart splintered, a silent sob choking you, but you bit it back, your bloodied lips trembling. The pain in your chest rivaled the sting of your wounds, a raw ache of abandonment, as if the fragile trust you’d built had crumbled under his cold denial.

You wanted to scream, to call him a liar again, but the knife at your throat kept you silent, your eyes pleading for the truth he’d buried.

Viktor’s laugh was sharp, cruel, his confidence unshaken.

“Is that so? Let me strip her in front of you. And let all other men enjoy the show too.” He yanked your dress harder, the fabric tearing further, exposing more of your skin, and gestured to his leering men, their eyes hungry, their laughter a sickening chorus that echoed in the warehouse.

Namjoon’s rage exploded, a primal roar ripping from his throat as he surged against the ropes, the chair splintering beneath him, wood cracking under his strength.

“Touch her again, and I’ll rip your fucking heart out!” His gaze locked on Viktor, promising death, then flicked to you, softening for a split second with guilt and desperation, as if begging you to forgive his lie.

His eyes screamed what his words couldn’t: you were everything, the reason he’d endured this hell, the spark that had ignited his rebellion.

Your eyes locked on Namjoon’s, silent, desperate, pleading. Tears welled but didn’t fall, your gaze screaming for him to stop this, to save you, to be the man you’d glimpsed in his tender touches.

Your lips trembled, your body shaking, but you didn’t speak, your eyes conveying every ounce of fear and trust you placed in him.

He snapped, his voice a deadly growl, his eyes blazing with defiance. “Untie me. Let’s see who survives.”

He knew exactly what he was doing, choosing words that stabbed at Viktor’s ego, knowing Viktor’s pride couldn’t resist a challenge to his power. Viktor, predictable in his arrogance, would take the bait, blind to the trap Namjoon was setting.

“You think you’re untouchable, Viktor? Cut these ropes and prove it. Or are you too weak to face me without your little games?”

Viktor’s ego couldn’t resist the challenge, his laughter taunting but his eyes betraying a flicker of unease.

He knew Namjoon’s power, knew that without him, he was nothing—a loudmouth with a gun, as the guards had whispered.

He cut the ropes, sneering as Namjoon lunged, grabbing a gun from the desk with lethal precision. Viktor aimed at you, his finger twitching on the trigger, but Namjoon pressed the barrel to his own temple, his hand steady, his eyes cold and unyielding.

“If she dies, I die with her,” he said, voice deadly calm, a vow that carried the weight of his entire existence. “You know what that means. Even if I die, I have enough ways to ruin you.”

Viktor’s face crumpled, panic flickering in his eyes. Namjoon was his mind, his shield, the architect of his empire.

Without him, Viktor was nothing but a hollow king, his power a facade. “Fine!” he screamed, lowering the gun, his voice shaking with fury and fear. “She walks free.”

You staggered to Namjoon, his arms crushing you to his chest, his heart pounding against yours despite his own minimal injuries. “You're mine now,” he growled, his voice low and fierce, his eyes locked on Viktor, a brazen claim that rang through the warehouse.

He knew Viktor wouldn’t touch him—couldn’t touch him—because Namjoon was the foundation of everything Viktor had built. With you in his arms, he stood taller, his claim a defiant proclamation to Viktor and his men, a vow that he’d burn it all down for you. “I don’t care if I burn the world.”

Viktor laughed, a hollow, bitter sound, his eyes dark with defeat. “You’ll regret this, Joon.”

Namjoon’s grip on you tightened, his voice a low, lethal promise. “Try me.”

After the warehouse showdown, Viktor’s grip on his crumbling empire tightened, his paranoia festering into desperation. In a final bid to keep Namjoon in line, Viktor summoned him to his office, the air thick with the stench of bourbon and cigar smoke.

His eyes, bloodshot and calculating, bore into Namjoon as he leaned back in his chair, twirling his dagger with a smirk that barely masked his fear. “I’ll let your little pet go,” Viktor said, his voice low, dripping with false magnanimity.

“She walks free from this hell, Joon, but only if you swear on your father’s grave you’ll never betray me. No exposing my operations, no playing hero. You keep my secrets buried, and she’s yours to take her away.”

Namjoon stood rigid, his face an unreadable mask, but his mind was a cold fire. He’d had enough of Viktor’s games—the blood-soaked deals, the broken lives, the endless cycle of cruelty that had chained him to this hell since he was a boy.

He’d already decided to expose Viktor, his plan set in motion weeks ago: files copied, evidence of Viktor’s trafficking and smuggling networks ready to leak to Interpol.

But he knew if Viktor even suspected his intentions, you’d be the one to pay—his wrath would hunt you down, no matter where he hid you.

Namjoon had already moved you to a secret safehouse, a quiet apartment he’d bought in the city’s underbelly for both of you, its walls bare but safe, a sanctuary he’d built to shield you from the chaos to come.

He met Viktor’s gaze, his eyes cold, unyielding, and lied with a curt nod. “I swear it,” he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the fire burning inside him.

Viktor’s smirk widened, believing he’d won, but Namjoon’s mind was already on you—safe, alive, waiting for him in the safehouse, your heart the only thing tethering him to this fight.

He left Viktor’s office, his jaw clenched, knowing every word was a step closer to dismantling the empire and keeping you out of Viktor’s reach forever.

Viktor had let you go, but Namjoon knew better than to trust him. Viktor’s pride was wounded, his empire threatened, and men like him didn’t forgive.

To protect you from his inevitable retaliation, Namjoon faked your death—a staged car explosion, a charred body too mangled to identify. The news spread, and Viktor’s men stopped hunting you.

He spent nights hacking Viktor’s files, exposing his trafficking and smuggling networks, his hands flying over the keyboard.

One night, after a close call with Viktor’s men, you found Namjoon in the safehouse’s tiny bathroom, blood and dirt smearing his face, his shirt torn.

You stripped bare, your clothes falling to the floor, and joined him under the shower’s spray, your heart aching at the sight of him—so strong, yet breaking under the weight of keeping you safe. “You’re a mess,” you whispered, grabbing a cloth to clean his wounds.

He caught your wrist, his eyes dark, raw. “I won’t let anything hurt you again,” he vowed, pulling you close. His lips crashed into yours, a desperate, hungry kiss that stole your breath. You moaned, your hands fisting his shirt, tugging it off as he backed you against the wall, the cold tiles biting your skin.

His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming every inch, his kisses fierce, unrelenting, like he was pouring every fear, every promise into you.

You bit his lip, drawing a growl from him, and he deepened the kiss, his hands roaming your waist, your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You felt him hard against your thigh, the evidence of his desire making you dizzy, but he kept it slow, deliberate, savoring every second.

You broke away, gasping, but he didn’t stop, trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck, sucking gently at your pulse point.

“Namjoon,” you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his hair, your body arching into him. He groaned, his lips finding yours again, softer this time, but no less intense, each kiss a confession of everything he couldn’t say.

His hands slid over your wet skin, calloused fingers grazing your curves, sending shivers through you. He lifted you onto the shower ledge, stepping between your thighs, his kisses growing frantic, like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“You’re my everything,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, breaking. You kissed him back, matching his desperation, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

You lost track of time, lost in the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the way his hands held you like you were his lifeline. He pulled back, panting, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes searching yours. “I can’t lose you,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

You cupped his face, kissing him softly, your lips lingering. “You won’t,” you promised, and he kissed you again, slow and deep, sealing the vow.

After, he wrapped you in a towel, cleaning your face with gentle hands, his touch soft. He kissed your forehead, pulling you to his chest, and you stayed there, listening to his heartbeat, knowing you’d face the world together.

Namjoon sent Viktor’s files to Interpol, every dirty secret laid bare. The final showdown came in a burning warehouse, Viktor’s empire crumbling around him. Flames licked the walls, smoke curling thick and black as Namjoon faced Viktor, gun in hand, his eyes cold, but his heart a furnace of obsession for you.

Viktor stood amidst the chaos, a gun trained on Namjoon, his smirk twisted. “You think you are something different from me, Namjoon. And you can claim one of my pets as yours.”

Namjoon’s grip on the gun tightened, his voice low, lethal, dripping with possessive fury. “She’s mine, Viktor. You touched what’s mine, and that was your first mistake.”

His eyes burned, every word laced with the weight of his devotion, his need to protect you, to claim you. “I’ve spent years cleaning up your messes, hiding your crimes. But you crossed a line when you hurt her.”

Viktor laughed, but it was shaky, his eyes darting to the flames. “You’re nothing without me. You need me as much as I need you.”

Namjoon stepped closer, his gun steady, his voice a growl. “I built your empire. I kept you alive. But I don’t need you anymore.” He glanced at you, standing behind him, your presence fueling his resolve. “She’s my reason now. You’ll never touch her again.”

Viktor’s smirk faltered. “You’re bluffing. You won’t kill me. You can’t.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his voice a whisper of finality. “You shouldn’t have touched her.” He pulled the trigger, the shot echoing as Viktor collapsed, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes wide with shock.

The warehouse burned, and you pulled Namjoon away, his hand tight in yours. “It’s over,” you whispered, your voice trembling with relief.

He looked at you, his face softening, his obsession laid bare in his gaze. “No. We’re just beginning.”

You and Namjoon had carved out a quiet life off-grid, in a cozy safehouse by the sea, the world felt softer, the moonlight filtering through the curtains, casting silver glows across the bedroom.

The ocean’s gentle waves whispered outside, a lullaby to your new beginning. You lay curled against Namjoon on the bed, your head nestled in the crook of his neck, his warmth enveloping you like a blanket. His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, his breath steady, content, a far cry from the cold beast you’d first met.

You tilted your head, your lips brushing his jaw, your voice a soft murmur. “Thank you for freeing me from becoming his pet.”

Namjoon’s eyes sparkled with warmth, his hand sliding to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with reverence. “You’re not a pet. You’re my queen.” He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss, his mouth soft and warm, tasting faintly of the peppermint tea you’d shared earlier. The kiss was a promise, a vow of forever, and you melted into it, your heart fluttering.

You pulled back, grinning, your fingers poking his chest playfully. “Queen, huh? So you’re my loyal knight now, ready to fetch my coffee and fluff my pillows?”

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that made your toes curl, and he rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Knight? Baby, I’m your hopeless servant, but don’t ask me to cook something. I’d burn the house down trying.”

You giggled, swatting his shoulder, your eyes dancing with delight. “Hopeless is right. Last week, you broke the toaster trying to ‘fix’ it. My queenly standards are slipping with you around.”

“Slipping?” he gasped, feigning offense, his hands sliding to your waist, tickling you lightly until you squirmed, laughing breathlessly. “I’m a masterpiece, Your Majesty. Brains, brawn, and a knack for breaking appliances.”

“Masterpiece, my foot,” you teased, tugging at his shirt, your fingers brushing the warm skin of his chest. “Lucky I love you for your cuddles and not your handyman skills.”

“Cuddles?” he purred, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Oh, my queen, I’m about to give you the royal treatment.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue teasing yours in a slow, languid dance that made your heart race. His hands roamed, gentle but deliberate, slipping under your oversized sleep shirt—a stolen tee of his that smelled faintly of his cologne.

He tugged it off, revealing your bare skin, and his breath hitched, his eyes raking over you with adoration. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone, down to the swell of your breasts.

You blushed, your hands sliding up his arms, feeling the strength beneath his skin. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, pulling his shirt off, your fingers exploring the planes of his chest, the faint scars that told stories of battles fought for you.

You leaned up, kissing his jaw, his neck, nipping playfully at his earlobe, earning a soft groan that made you grin. “Weak for me already?”

“Always,” he whispered, his lips finding yours, the kiss slow and sweet, each brush of his mouth a declaration of love. He trailed kisses down your throat, lingering at your pulse point, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, making you whimper.

His hands caressed your sides, sliding over your hips, your thighs, his touch reverent, like he was worshiping every inch of you. “You’re my everything,” he murmured against your skin, his lips grazing your nipple, teasing it with a gentle suck that sent heat pooling between your legs.

You arched into him, your breath hitching, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Namjoon,” you sighed, your voice a soft plea, and he smiled against your skin, his hands guiding your legs around his waist.

He tugged off his sweatpants, revealing himself, hard and ready, but he didn’t rush, his movements deliberate, savoring the moment. He kissed his way back up, his lips finding yours, his tongue exploring your mouth with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispered, his hands cupping your face, his eyes locked on yours as he positioned himself, his tip brushing your entrance, teasing you with agonizing slowness. “Tell me you want this, my queen.”

“Want you,” you gasped, your hips lifting, urging him closer. “Always, Joon.”

He entered you slowly, inch by inch, stretching you with a delicious fullness that made you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He groaned, his forehead pressed to yours, his breaths ragged as he moved, each thrust slow and deep, a connection that went beyond flesh. “God, you feel like heaven,” he murmured, his voice breaking with emotion, his hands sliding to your hips, guiding you in a gentle rhythm.

You laughed softly, breathless, your lips brushing his. “Heaven? Thought you were the devil.”

“Only for you,” he teased, kissing you deeply, his tongue mimicking the slow, sensual pace of his thrusts. Your bodies moved together, lazy and intimate, the heat building in soft waves, every touch laced with love.

His hands roamed, one sliding to cup your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple, the other tangling in your hair, pulling you closer for a kiss that stole your breath.

“Joon,” you whimpered, your climax building, a warm, pulsing tide that made your toes curl. He sensed it, his movements steady but tender, his lips trailing to your ear, whispering, “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

You shattered, your orgasm washing over you in a soft, shuddering wave, your moans muffled against his shoulder as you clung to him.

He followed, his release a low groan, his body trembling as he spilled inside you, his lips finding yours in a messy, perfect kiss. He stayed inside you, rolling you both to your sides, your legs tangled, his arms wrapping you tight against his chest.

You lay there, panting, his fingers tracing lazy hearts on your back, his lips brushing your forehead. “You’re stuck with me now, queen,” he murmured, his voice playful but thick with love.

“Good,” you whispered, snuggling closer, your cheek pressed to his heart. “But you’re doing the dishes tomorrow. Non-negotiable. And don't you dare to break them.”

He chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “Deal. But only if you keep stealing my shirts. You look too cute in them.”

You laughed, kissing him hard, your heart full. You’d both survived. You’d both sinned. And you’d do it all again, together.

A/n: Was planning to post it on another account but since I got this Namjoon fic request here, so posting on this main account.

Taglist: @army-geniuslab . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @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 . @syudoeslove . @bts-fic-recs-mess . @nocturnalsingularity . @ninisficrecs . @lovingkoalaface . @afgbbf . @hiilovetata . @namjooniverse . @petersasteria .

[kittenan2]

This has been sitting in my drafts for a while, so here it is... Finally making my (main) account alive... 🤭

Meant to End, Made to Last

Pairing: Mafia Husband!Jin × Sweet Sunshine Wife!Reader Genre: Dark Mafia Romance | Smut | Angst | Slow-burn | Enemies to Lovers Word Count: ~6k Warnings: Explicit 18+ content, dark themes (mentions of planned murder, mafia violence, blood), smut (power-play, emotional dom!Jin, praise/degradation, unhinged possessiveness, manhandling, soft choking, fingering, kitchen counter sex, slow worshipful sex, hair-pulling), heavy angst, emotional manipulation, intense love, fluff, domestic softness, swearing.

The mansion was a fortress of cold elegance—marble floors that echoed under your footsteps, chandeliers that glittered like frozen tears, and walls lined with art that cost more than your entire hometown.

It was beautiful, but it wasn’t home. Not yet. You were determined to make it one, though, for the man who’d brought you here. Kim Seokjin, your husband of three months, was an enigma wrapped in tailored suits and shadowed eyes.

You didn’t know much about him—his past, his work, the reasons behind the guarded tension in his gaze. But you’d married him anyway, not out of love or choice, but necessity.

Your family’s debts had piled up, a suffocating weight after your father’s disappearance years ago. When Jin’s proposal came through a distant family friend, it was a lifeline—his wealth could save your mother and siblings from ruin.

You’d said yes, trading your small-town life for a stranger’s world, hoping you could learn to love the man who’d offered you salvation, even if he seemed carved from ice.

You woke up at dawn, as you always did, slipping out of the massive bed where Jin slept on the far edge, his body turned away from you. The distance between you wasn’t just physical—it was a chasm of unspoken words, of secrets you sensed but couldn’t name. Still, you believed in small acts of love. You padded to the kitchen, tying an apron over your soft cotton dress, and started on breakfast.

The sizzle of bacon filled the air, mingling with the scent of fresh coffee and pancakes you’d flipped with care. You hummed a tune from your childhood, arranging the food on a plate just the way you’d noticed Jin liked—crisp bacon on the side, pancakes stacked neatly, a drizzle of maple syrup.

You’d learned his preferences by watching him, memorizing the way he pushed eggs aside but lingered over toast, how he took his coffee black but never refused a second cup.

When he emerged from the bedroom, his hair damp from a shower, you beamed. “Good morning!” Your voice was too bright for the dim light filtering through the curtains, but you couldn’t help it. He looked like a god in his charcoal suit, sharp jawline catching the shadows. “I made breakfast. Sit!.”

Jin paused in the doorway, his dark eyes flicking over the spread on the table. For a moment, you thought you saw something soften in his gaze, but it vanished as quickly as it came. “I don’t have time,” he said, voice low and clipped. He grabbed his coat from the rack.

Your smile faltered, but you recovered. “At least take the coffee.” You held out a thermos you’d prepared, the one you’d noticed he carried to work. “It’s black, just how you like it.”

He stared at you, and for a heartbeat, you felt exposed, like he could see every naive hope in your chest. Then he took the thermos, his fingers brushing yours. The contact sent a spark up your arm, but he was already turning away. “Don’t wait up tonight,” he said over his shoulder, and the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there, alone in the vast kitchen, the warmth of the food fading. You didn’t know why he was so distant, but you told yourself it was stress. He was a busy man. Important. You’d keep trying.

Jin sat in the back of his black SUV, the thermos warm in his hand. He stared at it like it was a bomb. Why do you do this? he thought, jaw tight.

Every morning, you were there, smiling, cooking, acting like he was someone worth caring for. It made his chest burn with something he couldn’t name—anger, guilt, or something far more dangerous.

He’d married you to kill you. The order had been clear: get close, gain your trust, then eliminate you. You were a loose end, tied to a man who’d crossed Jin’s organization years ago.

Your father, a low-level informant, had betrayed Jin’s father and vanished, leaving you behind as collateral. The plan was simple. Marry you, make it look like a tragic accident, and move on. But three months in, you were still alive, and Jin was unraveling.

He opened the thermos and took a sip. The coffee was perfect—bitter, strong, exactly how he liked it. He hated that you knew that. Hated that you noticed the way he folded his ties, the brand of cologne he wore, the fact that he never ate eggs. Hated that you said “Welcome home” every night, even when he came back reeking of blood and lies.

He slammed the thermos down, startling his driver. “Speed up,” he barked. He needed to get to the warehouse, to the world he understood—violence, control, power. Not this suffocating warmth you kept wrapping around him like a noose.

That night, you waited as always. The clock ticked past midnight, but you didn’t eat. You never did until he was home. When the door finally opened, you jumped up, smoothing your dress. “Welcome home!” you called, softer this time, sensing the storm in his posture.

Jin didn’t look at you. His knuckles were bruised, his shirt splattered with something dark. You swallowed, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?” you asked, reaching for his hand.

He jerked away. “Don’t touch me.” His voice was a blade, but you didn’t flinch.

Instead, you grabbed a first-aid kit from the drawer. “At least let me clean those.” You pointed to his knuckles, your voice steady despite the fear flickering in your chest. “Please.”

He stared at you, chest heaving. No one in his world would dare approach him like this, not when he looked like death itself. But you—you just stood there, holding a band-aid like it could fix him. Against his better judgment, he sat at the counter, letting you take his hand.

Your touch was gentle, dabbing antiseptic on his cuts. “You need to be more careful,” you murmured, as if he’d scraped his hand fixing a car and not breaking someone’s face. You smoothed a band-aid over his skin, your fingers lingering. “There. All better.”

He wanted to laugh, to scream, to tell you nothing was better. Instead, he said, “Why do you do this?”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Do what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely—at the band-aid, the dinner waiting on the table, you. “Act like you care.”

Your lips curved into a small, sad smile. “Because I do.”

He pulled his hand away, standing abruptly. “You shouldn’t.” He stalked off to the bedroom, leaving you staring after him, heart sinking but not broken. Not yet.

Weeks passed, and Jin’s plan frayed at the edges. He told himself he was waiting for the right moment, but the truth was uglier. He didn’t want to kill you. Not anymore. Every day, you chipped away at the walls he’d built, and he hated how much he craved the warmth seeping through the cracks.

He started watching you more closely—not to find weaknesses, but to understand you. The way you hummed off-key while folding his shirts. The way you left sticky notes on the fridge: “Don’t forget your coffee thermos!” or “I made extra soup, it’s in the fridge <3”. The way you curled up on the couch with a book, oblivious to the world, your hair falling into your face.

He sent bodyguards to tail you when you went to the market, not because he suspected you, but because the thought of someone touching you made his blood boil.

One evening, at a dimly lit bar where deals were struck in whispers, Jin overheard a rival, Marco, a mid-level enforcer with more ambition than sense, mention your name. It wasn’t strategic—just a careless remark during a negotiation over territory.

“You know, Jin’s got that pretty little wife now,” Marco sneered, swirling his whiskey. “What’s her name? Y/N? Bet she’s a nice piece to keep him distracted while we move in.”

The room went silent, the air thick with tension. Jin’s men froze, eyes darting to him. He leaned back in his chair, a dangerous calm settling over him, his fingers drumming on the table. “What did you just say?” His voice was low, almost polite, but it carried a razor’s edge.

Marco, oblivious to the shift, chuckled. “Come on, Jin. Don’t tell me you’re soft for her. She’s just a means to an end, right? Or do you actually care about that small-town girl?”

Jin’s smile was cold, lethal. He stood, slow and deliberate, buttoning his suit jacket. “You don’t get to say her name,” he said, each word dripping with menace. “Not now. Not ever.”

Marco’s smirk faltered. “What, you gonna start a war over a woman? Don’t be stupid, Jin. She’s not worth—”

Jin moved faster than anyone expected, his hand grabbing Marco by the throat and slamming him against the wall. The glass in Marco’s hand shattered on the floor. “You don’t know what she’s worth,” Jin growled, his grip tightening. “You don’t know because you’ll never get close enough to find out.”

Marco clawed at Jin’s hand, gasping. “It was just talk, man! I didn’t mean—”

“You meant it enough to say it,” Jin cut him off, his voice a low snarl. “That’s enough for me.” He leaned in, his face inches from Marco’s. “You think you can mention her, put her in your filthy thoughts, and walk away? You’re already dead.”

Jin’s men didn’t need a signal. One of them stepped forward, pulling Marco from Jin’s grip and dragging him toward the back exit. Marco’s protests echoed, then faded into silence. Jin didn’t need to say it out loud—Marco wouldn’t be seen again.

Not because it was strategic, but because the mere thought of you being a target, even in passing, ignited a possessive fury in Jin that he couldn’t contain.

He sat back down, adjusting his cufflinks, his face a mask of calm. But inside, his heart pounded, not from the violence, but from the image of you—safe, unaware, waiting at home with dinner and that damn smile. He didn’t deserve you, but he’d burn the world down before letting anyone threaten you.

One night, he came home to find you asleep on the couch, a plate of dinner covered in foil on the table. You’d waited for him again. He stood over you, watching the rise and fall of your chest.

You looked so soft, so unguarded. He could end it now—quick, painless. But his hand shook as he reached out, not for a weapon, but to brush a strand of hair from your face.

You stirred, blinking up at him. “Jin?” Your voice was sleepy, warm. “You’re home.”

He clenched his jaw, stepping back. “Go to bed,” he said, rougher than he meant.

You sat up, rubbing your eyes. “Only if you eat first. I made your favorite—spicy kimchi fried rice.”

He wanted to snap at you, to tell you to stop, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he sat at the table, letting you serve him. You watched him eat, chin propped on your hand, smiling like he’d given you the moon. “Good?” you asked.

He nodded, unable to meet your eyes. It was too good. You were too good. And he was drowning in it.

The shift came slowly. You started sleeping closer in bed, your hand brushing his in the dark. He didn’t pull away.

One night, he woke from a nightmare—blood, screams, your face lifeless. He was sweating, heart pounding, and then your hand was on his cheek, your voice soft. “You’re safe, Jin. Whoever hurt you in dream isn’t here.”

He stared at you, chest tight. You thought he was the victim. You didn’t know he was the monster. He wanted to tell you, to push you away, but instead, he grabbed your wrist, holding it against his face. “Don’t say that,” he whispered. “You don’t know me.”

“Then tell me,” you said, eyes searching his. “I want to know you.”

He let go, turning away. “You wouldn’t like what you find.”

It happened a few days later from that nightmare. You were in the kitchen, barefoot, swaying to music only you could hear. You’d made dinner—kimchi stew, rice, banchan arranged in little bowls.

Jin came home early, his mood blacker than usual. He’d spent the day cleaning up a mess after a failed deal.

He found you stirring the stew, your dress clinging to your curves as you moved. Something snapped. He didn’t know if it was the sight of you—so soft, so alive—or the weight of his own betrayal, but he couldn’t stand it. He crossed the kitchen in three strides, grabbing your wrist and spinning you to face him.

You gasped, eyes wide. “Jin? What’s—”

“Stop it,” he growled, backing you against the wall. His hands gripped your waist, hard enough to bruise. “Stop acting like this is normal. Like I’m—” He broke off, breath ragged. “You don’t know what I am.”

Your chest heaved, but you didn’t push him away. “Then show me,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady. “Show me who you are.”

He crashed his lips against yours, the kiss bruising, desperate. It wasn’t love—it was hunger, guilt, need. You moaned into his mouth, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. He groaned, lifting you onto the counter, dishes clattering to the floor. His hands roamed, tearing at your dress, exposing your skin to the cool air.

“Fuck,” he muttered, lips trailing down your neck. “You’re too good for this. Too good for me.” His teeth grazed your collarbone, and you arched into him, whimpering.

“Then be bad,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “I don’t care.”

He froze, staring at you. Your eyes were dark, lips swollen, hair a mess. You looked like sin, like salvation, like everything he didn’t deserve. “Say you’re mine,” he demanded, voice rough. His hand slid up your throat, fingers curling lightly around it. Not choking, just holding, claiming.

“I’m yours,” you breathed, and something in him broke.

He yanked your panties down, tossing them aside. His fingers found your core, slick and warm, and he cursed under his breath. “So wet for me,” he growled, sliding two fingers inside you without warning. You cried out, head falling back against the cabinet. “Look at you, taking me so well. Such a good girl.”

You moaned his name, hips bucking against his hand. He pumped his fingers faster, thumb circling your clit, watching your face contort with pleasure. “Jin—please—”

“Please what?” he taunted, leaning in to bite your lip. “Tell me what you want, baby. Tell me how bad you need it.”

“Need you,” you whimpered, tears pricking your eyes. “Need you inside me.”

He lost it. He fumbled with his belt, freeing himself, and in one thrust, he was inside you, stretching you, filling you. You screamed, nails raking his back, and he groaned, burying his face in your neck. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he rasped, thrusting hard, the counter shaking. “So tight, so perfect.”

You clung to him, moaning his name like a prayer, and he fucked you like he was trying to burn you out of his soul. His hand tightened on his throat, just enough to make you gasp, and he whispered, “You’re mine. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to see you like this.”

“Only you,” you choked out, and he came undone, spilling inside you with a guttural moan. You followed, clenching around him, stars bursting behind your eyes.

He held you after, forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, voice raw.

You cupped his face, kissing him softly. “You have me anyway.”

Next day, Jin had faced his father in the old man’s opulent study, a room heavy with the weight of past decisions. The air was thick with cigar smoke, and his father sat behind a mahogany desk, his presence still commanding despite having handed the organization’s reins to Jin.

The botched smuggling deal had forced Jin to report in, but the conversation had veered to you—his father’s lingering obsession with tying up loose ends.

“You’ve had months, Seokjin,” his father said, voice low and gravelly, eyes narrowing. “Why is she still alive? Her father’s betrayal cost me men, money, years. You were supposed to end it.”

Jin’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He’d come here dreading this moment, knowing he could no longer dodge the truth. “I can’t do it,” he said, voice steady but laced with defiance. “I won’t kill her.”

His father leaned back, a cold smirk playing on his lips. “You’re weak, boy. Love’s made you soft. She’s a liability, you know that. Her father—”

“She doesn’t know anything,” Jin cut in, stepping forward, his voice rising. “She was a kid when her father pulled his stunt. She’s innocent, dad. You want revenge, find him. Not her.”

The older man’s eyes darkened, assessing Jin with a mix of disappointment and calculation. “Innocent or not, she’s a risk. You think our enemies care about her ignorance? Her name’s tied to his betrayal. That’s enough.”

Jin slammed his hands on the desk, leaning in, his voice a low growl. “I run this organization now. Not you. I decide what’s enough. And I’m telling you, she’s off-limits. I married her to follow your order, but I’m keeping her alive because she’s mine. You don’t get to touch her.”

The room fell silent, tension crackling like a live wire. His father stared at him, then let out a slow, bitter chuckle. “You’ve got your mother’s heart, not mine. Fine, keep your pet. But if she ever becomes a problem, it’s on you.” He waved a dismissive hand, as if washing his hands of the matter. “She’s your burden now.”

Jin didn’t flinch, but the words burned. He turned and left, the weight of his defiance heavy but resolute. You were no longer a target—not by his father’s hand, not by anyone’s. He’d make sure of it.

You found out by accident. You’d gone to the study to leave a note for Jin, but the door was ajar, and you heard voices—low, urgent. His men, talking about “the plan.” About you. “Boss was supposed to take her out months ago,” one said. “Why’s she still breathing?”

You froze, heart pounding. When they left, you slipped inside, hands shaking as you opened his desk drawer. There it was—a file with your name. Photos of you, your family, a timeline. The word “TERMINATE” in red ink.

You confronted him that night. He came home late, blood on his cufflinks. You stood in the living room, the file in your hands, tears streaming down your face. “What is this?” you demanded, voice breaking.

He went still, eyes darkening. “Where did you get that?”

“Does it matter?” you shouted, throwing the file at his feet. “You were going to kill me, Jin! I tried to understand you, your likes, dislikes. I made you breakfast—and you made a plan to bury me!”

He flinched, like you’d slapped him. “It wasn’t like that,” he said, stepping toward you.

“Don’t!” You backed away, grabbing a vase and hurling it. It shattered against the wall. “Don’t lie to me!”

He stopped, hands raised. “I’m not lying. I was supposed to kill you. Your father—he betrayed my father, cost him everything. You were the price, a way to settle the score. My father ordered it before I took over. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t hurt you.”

You laughed, bitter and broken. “So you fucked me instead? Was that your consolation prize?”

He lunged, grabbing your arms, pinning you against the wall. “Don’t say that,” he growled. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to feel—” He stopped, chest heaving. “I married you to kill you, and now I’d die if I lost you.”

You stared at him, tears falling. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’m a coward,” he said, voice raw. “Because I didn’t want you to look at me like you’re looking at me now.”

You broke free, shoving him away. “I trusted you,” you whispered. “I loved you.”

He fell to his knees, head bowed. “I know. And I’ll spend my life earning the right to be forgiven. Or at least to die at your hands instead.”

You stood there, trembling, the weight of his betrayal crushing you. “I need time,” you said, voice barely audible. “I’m going home.” You grabbed your bag, already packed, and headed for the door.

Jin didn’t stop you. He stayed on his knees, watching you go, his face a mask of anguish. “Be safe,” he whispered, but you didn’t turn back.

You drove to your childhood home, hours away, tears blurring the road. You knew his men were tailing you—black SUVs keeping their distance, shadows in your rearview mirror. Jin’s protection, even now. It made your heart ache and your blood boil all at once.

Jin was a ghost without you. He barely ate, barely slept. His men noticed, but no one dared speak. He sat in the kitchen every night, staring at the empty chair where you used to sit, the thermos you’d filled still on the counter.

He knew you were safe—his men reported your every move, discreetly guarding your small-town home. You’d noticed them, he was sure, but you hadn’t sent them away. That gave him a flicker of hope, even as he drowned in guilt.

On the tenth day of your absence, you were in the garden of your childhood home, watering the roses your mother loved. The sun was low, casting golden light over the blooms, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

For the past hour, you’d noticed rustling in the bushes across the yard, the occasional glint of something—binoculars, maybe?—and poorly disguised whispers. Finally, you’d had enough.

“Jungkook, Taehyung, get out here,” you called, setting the watering can down and crossing your arms. “I’ve known you’ve been there for an hour. You’re terrible at this.”

Silence, then a sheepish rustle. Jungkook and Taehyung, Jin’s most trusted men, emerged from behind a bush, clutching clumps of fake grass they’d clearly grabbed from some craft store in a pathetic attempt at camouflage.

Their faces were flushed, lips pursed in identical pouts, looking like overgrown kids caught stealing cookies. Jungkook’s doe shaped eyes widened, and Taehyung’s usual swagger deflated as they shuffled forward, heads bowed.

“Sorry, Noona,” Jungkook mumbled, bowing deeply, the fake grass still dangling from his hand. Taehyung followed suit, bowing with a dramatic flourish, though his pout remained.

You raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed, fighting a smile at their ridiculousness. “Fake grass? Really? You two look like you’re auditioning for a bad spy movie.”

Taehyung’s pout deepened, his voice a low whine. “We were just following orders! Boss said to keep you safe, but, like, discreetly.”

Jungkook nodded, kicking at the dirt like a scolded puppy. “Yeah, we didn’t want to bother you. But you’re too sharp, Noona.”

You sighed, your stern facade cracking. Their pouting was absurdly endearing, and despite your anger at Jin, these two were hard to stay mad at.

“Okay, fine. Just—stop hiding in my bushes. You’re scaring the neighbors.” You paused, then softened, your heart tugging with worry. “How’s Jin?”

Their faces fell, the playful pouts replaced by genuine concern. Jungkook glanced at Taehyung, who took a deep breath before speaking. “He’s a mess, Noona. Barely eats—microwave noodles, if that. Doesn’t sleep either. Just sits in the kitchen staring at your chair, like he’s waiting for you to come back and yell at him for not eating properly.”

Taehyung nodded, his voice quieter. “He’s been like that since you left. And… he didn’t tell you, but before you found that file, he went to his father. Told him he wouldn’t kill you, no matter what. Said you didn’t know anything about your dad’s betrayal, that you’re innocent. His father backed off, called it his burden now. Jin’s been carrying that weight, trying to protect you.”

Jungkook’s eyes softened. “He loves you, Noona. More than we’ve ever seen him care about anything. He’s falling apart without you.”

You stood there, the watering can forgotten at your feet, your chest tightening. The image of Jin, hollowed out and staring at your empty chair, hit you like a punch.

And the fact that he’d faced his father—before you even knew the truth—made your anger waver. He’d chosen you, fought for you, even when you were unaware.

You swallowed hard, the roses blurring as tears pricked your eyes. “Thanks for telling me,” you said softly. “Go home. I’ll… I’ll take it from here.”

They bowed again, still pouting but with a flicker of hope in their eyes, and shuffled back to their SUV, fake grass and all. That night, you packed your bag, your heart heavy but resolute. Jin was a mess, but he was your mess. You’d go back—not to forgive him yet, but to make sure he didn’t starve himself into oblivion.

Two weeks later, you came back. Not for revenge, not for answers—just with groceries. You walked into the mansion, ignoring his stunned expression, and started unpacking. “You eat like shit without me,” you said, voice flat, setting a bag of rice on the counter.

He stood there, frozen. “You’re… back?”

“I don’t know what I am,” you admitted, turning to face him. Your lips pursed into a pout, your eyes narrowing like a sulky child’s, though the hurt in them was raw. “I’m still angry,” you said, crossing your arms and puffing out your cheeks, the gesture so soft it caught him off guard.

Jin’s lips twitched, a low chuckle escaping despite the weight in his chest. You looked so cute—this fierce, wounded woman pouting like a baby, glaring at him with all the fire you could muster.

“You’re laughing?” you huffed, stomping your foot lightly, which only made his chuckle deepen. “This isn’t funny, Jin! You—you betrayed me!”

“I know, baby,” he said, voice soft, stepping closer. His amusement faded, replaced by that aching guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.” He reached for you, hesitant, but you didn’t pull away this time.

You let him pull you into his arms, your pout still firmly in place as you mumbled against his chest, “I’m only here because you’re hopeless without me. And because I… I missed you.” Your voice cracked, and his heart broke all over again.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your forehead. “I don’t deserve you coming back.”

You nodded, still pouting, but your arms slipped around his waist. “You don’t. But I’m here. So don’t mess it up again.”

That night, you slept in the same bed, but it was different. He didn’t touch you, just watched you breathe, like he was afraid you’d vanish. When you woke, he was still there, eyes red, watching you like you were his entire world.

Things were fragile, but you stayed. Slowly, he started to earn you back. He cooked for you, burned the rice, laughed when you teased him for it. He held you when you cried, didn’t flinch when you screamed at him.

One night, you reached for him. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your hands hovering before settling on his shoulders. Your lips pursed again, that same adorable pout, and you huffed, “I’m still angry.” Your voice was softer now, playful but edged with truth, your eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and need. "But I need you."

Jin’s lips curved, his hands settling on your hips. “You’re too cute when you’re mad,” he murmured, eyes warm with amusement. “Makes it hard to take seriously.”

You glared, poking his chest. “Don’t you dare laugh, Kim Seokjin. You’re mine now, you hear me? Mine. No more secrets, no more lies. If anyone’s burying anyone, it’s gonna be me burying you for being an idiot.” Your possessiveness was fierce, your fingers gripping his shirt like you were staking a claim.

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through you, his hands sliding up your sides. “Yours,” he agreed, voice low and sincere. “I’m yours, baby. I’m sorry for ever making you doubt that.” His thumbs brushed your waist, grounding you, but his eyes held that haunted guilt. “I’ll never forgive myself for what I almost did.”

You softened, cupping his face, your thumbs tracing his jaw. “Then make it up to me,” you whispered, leaning in, your lips brushing his. “Show me you’re mine.”

He groaned, kissing you like he was starving, his hands pulling you closer. It was slow, reverent, a worshipful undoing. He carried you to the bed, laying you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, kissing your neck, your collarbone, peeling your dress off like he was unwrapping something sacred.

You tugged at his hair, a playful edge to your voice. “You’re damn right I am. So you better make this good, Jin.” Your nails scraped his scalp, possessive, and he chuckled against your skin, clearly delighted by your fire.

“Oh, I will,” he promised, voice husky. His lips trailed down your chest, kissing every inch, his hands mapping your body with a tenderness that felt like an apology.

He parted your thighs, his mouth finding your core, and you gasped, arching into him. His tongue was slow, deliberate, worshipping every part of you. “So perfect,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “My good girl, all mine.”

You pulled his hair harder, possessive and needy. “Say it again,” you demanded, voice breathy. “Who do I belong to?”

“Me,” he growled, nipping your thigh before returning to his task, his tongue driving you wild. “Only me. And I’m yours, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You came undone under his mouth, crying his name, your hands clutching him like he was your lifeline. He climbed back up, kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

When he entered you, it was slow, deliberate, each thrust a vow. “I love you,” he whispered against your mouth, over and over, as you moved together, bodies entwined, hearts fractured but healing.

After, he held you close, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. “Yours... I am all yours,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Always yours.”

Life wasn’t a fairy tale, but with you, it felt like one. Jin still ran his empire, but he kept its shadows far from you, a silent guardian of your light.

The mansion transformed into a home—your home—bursting with color and warmth. You filled it with potted plants that spilled over every windowsill, their leaves catching the sunlight.

You painted the walls soft pastels, hung fairy lights that twinkled like stars, and left little notes for Jin everywhere: “Don’t skip breakfast, silly!” on the fridge, “I stole your sweater, it’s mine now <3” on his pillow.

Every morning, you woke him with a kiss, giggling when he grumbled but pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck.

You’d drag him to the kitchen, where you’d bicker playfully over who made better coffee—yours was always better, you insisted, and he’d laugh, conceding with a kiss to your forehead.

He never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it again, not unless they threatened you. And every night, you curled up on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, his arms wrapped around you like you were his entire world.

Sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, he’d whisper, “I married you to kill you, but now I'd die if I lost you.” You’d pretend to sleep, letting the words settle in your heart, a reminder of how far you’d come.

One evening, you sat on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, watching the sunset. Jin joined you, handing you a mug of hot chocolate—extra syrup, just how you liked it.

You leaned into him, smiling as he tucked the blanket tighter around you. “You’re gonna spoil me,” you teased, nudging his side.

“Good,” he said, kissing your temple, his voice soft and warm. “You deserve it, my love. You deserve everything.”

And in that moment, with the sky painted pink and gold, your hand in his, you knew you’d built something beautiful—a love that had survived blood and betrayal, a home filled with laughter and light. You’d chosen each other, and that was more than enough.

A/N: So I just checked and found out, this has been sitting in my drafts for a while, so I’m finally sharing it! Now that Tumblr has lifted the shadowban on this account, let’s bring it back to life.

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