Yes I Doooo

The air is hazy and thick, the floor sticky with god knows what, and Yoongi reaches for you beneath the table. His own large hand finds your smaller one, those knobby knuckles almost uncomfortable when he twines your fingers together. He’s still staring at Taehyung, and you want to do something, say something, it’ll be someone else soon, stop watching, you’re only gonna hurt yourself, but you know him, and you know when he gets like this it’s best to just let him ride it out. Suffer a little.

(Right now, it doesn’t seem like it’ll be tortured as last time, at least—when all of you had gone someplace else, some seedy spot in an Itaewon basement, and Taehyung had some girl pressed against the wall outside the bathrooms, fingers buried deep in her cunt as she shook and came. And Hobi, smarter and sharper than any of you but still so fucking stupid, had just—

“Fuck, man, they’re gonna need a mop and bucket for that. I mean, shit, it was so much? The sound when it hit the floor—”

Jeongguk had pulled a face. Half doe-eyes, half mortified terror. “When what hit the floor, hyung?”

“Her fucking squirt, Jeonggukie, what the fuck do you think—”

And Namjoon, just as wide-eyed and terrified as Jeongguk but for an entirely different reason, had laughed awkwardly and said, “Haaa, maybe we should talk about something else?” as he looked between Hoseok and Yoongi.

That night had been shit-tier, nearly unsalvageable, so at least it doesn’t seem like Taehyung’s in that kind of mood. At least the girl in his lap still has her clothes on. At least his hands are someplace you can see them. At least Yoongi’s still beside you.)

So you bide your time. Take stock of who’s still here and where they are, because the girl in Taehyung’s lap has her lips on his neck and things might go south faster than you’d originally anticipated. Hoseok and Jimin are on the dance floor, hips doing something sinful and too much; Namjoon’s at the bar, jaw clenched as the bartender passes him over for the fourth time in a row; Soyeon and Hyungseo are in the other side of your booth, tongues sloppy as they kiss just because they feel like it; Jeongguk, shoved in the corner on Yoongi’s other side, is slack-jawed as he stares at them, and Jeongguk is a fucking pervert so you know he’s hard.

“Put your dick back in your pants, Jeonggukie,” you say, loud enough for him to hear you over the music. The bass is heavy as it drops, feels like it’s thrumming through your veins, and Jeongguk startles. Bangs his knee on the underside of the table in his panic, and Soyeon and Hyungseo don’t bother breaking apart to look. “You want another drink?” you ask Yoongi, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

He shakes his head, finally drags his attention away from Taehyung. There’s someone new in his lap: chin-length silver hair, thin legs that go on for miles, tan skin covered in boldly-colored tattoos, could be anyone. Yoongi isn’t looking anymore, but you are, so you catch it when Taehyung looks up. Looks right at Yoongi, wants to see if he’s watching, but instead he just finds you. “Gonna go smoke,” Yoongi answers, and you slide out of the booth to let him leave.

“Is hyung okay?” Jeongguk asks when the two of you are pressed back together. He sips leisurely at his drink, trying to make it last until Namjoon makes it back from the bar with another one. Something baby blue and shockingly green, a little umbrella on top. Two cherries. “He seems sad. Hey, watch this.” Jeongguk pops one into his mouth and presents the knotted stem to you seconds later.

This is the part you never know how to explain: that Yoongi loves you but sometimes he wants someone else. Not instead, but too. That you love Yoongi and want him to have whatever he wants, and that jealousy is foreign to you. That you and Yoongi love each other but do things a little unorthodox, which is not out of the ordinary for a friend group as ran-through and commingled as yours, but still takes patience and care to explain.

So you just ruffle Jeongguk’s hair, laugh at his squawking protests, and wrangle him so you can press a kiss to the top of his head. “Don’t worry this pretty little head about your hyungs, okay?”

Jeongguk surfaces with a glare, surface-level because you’ve embarrassed him in front of two hot girls that are still making out, and hides his flushed cheeks behind his drink. “Is it about Taehyungie-hyung?”

“What’d I just tell you?”

He pouts, but you’re saved from another interrogation by Namjoon’s unceremonious return to the table. He’s so flustered by his one-sided feud with the bartender that he slams the blue-green drink down a little too hard, spills half of it in Jeongguk’s lap. “Move over,” he says to you, and you cock an eyebrow in return. “Please,” he amends, like that’s what you’d been looking for, but when you still don’t move he gets a little whiny and panicked. “They’re relentless,” he says, pointing his thumb at Soyeon and Hyungseo like you can’t see them. “Don’t make me—”

“What about me!” Jeongguk wails, pressing his hands pathetically to his groin like he’s trying to stem bleeding, at the same time you roll your eyes and fire a, “Says Mr. Eight-gigabyte Porn Folder,” at Namjoon.

You receive another glare, this time from Namjoon, and he doesn’t hesitate to steal Jeongguk’s spot against the wall when he goes to the bathroom to deal with his soaked pants, only to start swearing when he realizes the seat is wet, too. “Jesus fuck—”

“That’s what you get.”

“Fuck off,” Namjoon fires back. “Where’s Yoongi-hyung?”

“Outside smoking.”

“Smok—why is he smoking?” At your silence, he jerks his head up, intent on getting an answer out of you. Instead, his question dies on his tongue as he follows your line of sight. Another new person in Taehyung’s lap, sucking Taehyung’s fingers into their mouth. “Ah, yeah. That fucking guy.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Be nice, Namjoonie. You know Taehyung would hook up with a microwave if it gave him attention.”

“What number is that, then? Hasn’t he gotten enough attention?”

“Third I’ve seen. The first one was cute. I thought for sure he was gonna leave with her.”

Namjoon huffs, shakes his head. Takes a long pull of his beer. “He’s not gonna leave with anyone. He just does this to piss off hyung.” Then, like he’s coming to a realization, he turns to look at you with a quizzical look. “Wait, where’d Seokjin-hyung go?”

You stare back in disbelief. “How long were you at the fucking bar? He left hours ago.”

“Did he?” Then, quieter and to himself, “How long was I at the fucking bar?”

Whatever game Taehyung is playing, Yoongi is woefully inept at playing along.

Doesn’t know when it’s his move or when it’s time to sit and watch. Doesn’t know the rules. Doesn’t really listen when you try to explain it to him; probably doesn't want to hear it. Yoongi seems to think he’s at his best when he’s a little sad, a little miserable and yearning. At its core, that’s what the game is, and as much as he keeps touching the thorns to see if he’ll bleed, you know he still enjoys it.

(Know he gets off on it, too.)

Yoongi reaches for you. Steadies himself with his hand on your shoulder, pupils wide as saucers—dark dark dark in the corner of this grimy club—eventually breaking into a smile when you grab his sweat-slick hands and guide them to your waist. Your bodies move together like waves, pushing apart only for Yoongi to continuously pull you in closer, dazed from the feeling of you pressed against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, words impossible to hear over the music, “look at you. So fucking pretty.”

He threads a knee between your legs, the sound of his groan drowned out as you roll your hips against him. Maybe Yoongi doesn’t know the rules to this game, but you do, and you make sure Taehyung’s watching when you drag your core against Yoongi’s thigh. He groans again, and his hands grip your hips tighter, moving you back and forth on him the way he does when you ride him.

You watch as he drags his eyes upward, see the exact moment he spots Taehyung across the club. His profile is lit up by the strobe lights, filling in the contours of his bone structure with greens and blues. He’s with Jimin and Hoseok now, dancing with the girl from earlier with the pink hair, her back pressed to his chest. He leans down and whispers recycled filth into her ear that she seems to buy. You watch as Yoongi closes his eyes tight; watch him pretend it’s Taehyung dancing with him; it’s Taehyung’s hips he’s gripping onto; it’s Taehyung who’s moaning and desperate for him in this moment.

You watch as his eyes snap open again.

You watch as he realizes he’s in this daydream alone.

And you wonder, briefly, if this should bother you. If this is fucked up, that Yoongi’s hard against you because he’s thinking about someone else, and you find that you don’t care. What you and Yoongi have doesn’t need to make sense to anyone except the two of you.

“Wanna go home,” Yoongi slurs into your ear, fucked up from the feel of you, the thought of Taehyung.

You smirk, tangle your hands in his hair and tug a little just to fuck him up even more. “Yeah? What d’you wanna go home for? It’s still pretty early.”

“Wanna fuck you,” he whines. Tries to hold you in place to grind harder against you and whines again when you move just out of reach. “Baby.”

“You know the rule.” There’s a drop of sweat that rolls down the side of Yoongi’s neck that you chase with your tongue. “Tell me what you actually want and we can leave.”

The breath he sucks in is harsh, fractured, like your question is a special kind of torture. You know it is. Unlike with Taehyung, this is a game both you and Yoongi know the rules to. Unlike with Taehyung, this is the game Yoongi plays to win. The song changes again, this time to something filthy and slow, and Yoongi fits himself to your back, moves until both of you are facing Taehyung. “Want you both,” he says into your ear. Nips at the lobe. “Want to watch you fuck him the way you fuck me.”

“Don’t wanna fuck him yourself?”

You feel him shake his head. “Not this time.”

“What are you doing, then? In this fantasy of yours?”

Yoongi presses closer, the outline of his hard cock pressing into the small of your back now. “Watching, at first. Wanna see you ruin him.” His hands skim along your skin, dip beneath the hemline of your shirt, dance across your stomach. “Wanna watch you make him fucking cry.”

“Are you telling me how?”

Yoongi’s laugh is low, a little caustic. “I won’t need to. He’s so fuckin’ easy.”

“And yet you want him this bad,” you taunt. “Someone easy like that—doesn’t seem to be your type.”

He bites along your neck. “Watch yourself.”

“I’m not the one all fucked up over Kim Taehyung.” You make eye contact with the man in question. Watch as the look on his face fades into a smirk, syrupy and slow. Sleezy, you think. He probably is as easy as Yoongi says. “I should tell him how fucking hard you are. Should tell him you’re gonna take me home and fuck me and come thinking about him. That’s pretty fuckin’ dirty, Yoongi.”

It’s nothing you haven’t said before. Sometimes you press even harder, humiliate him a little when he seems to be in the mood for it, but this time he goes stock-still. Silence stretches between the two of you, the only people standing still on this dancefloor, and you’re halfway turned around to see if Yoongi wants to fuck or cry when he says, “Do it, then.”

You laugh. All part of the game. But then Yoongi grabs your hand, moves it to his cock, straining against his skin-tight jeans, some kind of message that’s gotten fucked up in translation. “Yoongi—”

“Tell him,” he says, expression shuttered and serious.

“You wanna think about this for more than ten seconds? You haven’t talked to him since the last time you guys hooked up and you want me to go tell him you… what? That you want to have some weird cuck threesome with him?”

That’s exactly what you told him.

(Because you know Yoongi, and you also know Taehyung. Your dig at him to Namjoon was very much based in truth, and with how fucked up the dynamics of your friend group are, it hadn’t taken much more than sending Yoongi out into the cold to order a taxi, swaying your hips a little, re-glossing your lips, and disposing of the girl with the bubblegum pink hair. No one had batted an eye.

“I’m going home to fuck my boyfriend,” you said, leaning into Taehyung’s space. He was draped on the couch again, legs spread in a way that was frankly obscene. “Would you like to join us?”

“That depends, angel. How do you fuck him?” he asked, spreading his legs wider.

You stepped closer. Cupped his cheek, dug your nails into his skin a little, and said, “Better than you ever did,” all condescension.

Taehyung had just laughed. Pressed his tongue into the fat of his cheek. “I guess we’ll see about that.”)

And now you’re here, Taehyung sprawled on the bed beneath you. You can see why a sight like this would have Yoongi fucked up as long as he has been: Taehyung’s golden skin contrasting against the crisp white of the sheets, dark hair fanning against the pillows, curls falling into his eyes, chest heaving. Each time he throws his head back you’re torn between sinking your teeth into the column of his throat and wrapping your hands around it. It’s easy to ruin him when he looks like this; easy to give Yoongi what he wants.

“What should I do with you?” you think out loud, and Taehyung’s responding whimper draws a laugh out of you. “Yoongi wants to watch me fuck you,” you continue, hands teasing toward the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. You pinch, slap away the sting. “Would you like that?”

Taehyung’s cock—long and thick, still glistening with spit from when you sucked him off—twitches at the thought. “Y-yeah, fuck, want that,” he answers, hands moving to fist the sheets. He’s been so good. Has done exactly as you said. “Wan’ you to fuck me.”

“Should I fuck you the way you used to fuck your hyung?” Both Taehyung and Yoongi moan at the same time, and it’s so stupid, you think, this game they’ve been playing. Cat and mouse, as if the conclusion hasn’t been inevitable this whole time. “Use your words, Taehyung.”

“Yeah,” he says again, Adam’s apple bobbing heavily in his throat. “Y-yeah, like that.”

You hum, reach behind you for the bottle of lube. Yoongi mutters a quiet shit from the other side of the room and you glance over. Mouth hung open, lips wet; jeans pushed halfway down his thighs, the outline of his cock visible through his briefs, hand squeezing at the base. Cheating a little, but still not touching himself the way you know he wants to. He’ll be the first to cry, at this rate.

Eyes back on Taehyung. You wonder if he’d normally preen, put on a show. You wonder if he did that with Yoongi, some whole thing. “He’s told me about it, you know,” you say, clicking the lube open. Sounds more like a gunshot in the small space of your bedroom, where the only other sounds are labored breathing and the city outside. “Told me all about how you used to split him open with that big cock.” You tip the bottle sideways, let the lube dribble out and over Taehyung’s balls. He hisses at the cold, mutters a swear. “Told me he’d struggle to take it sometimes.”

“You two are—fuck.” Whatever Taehyung was going to say is cut off as your finger follows the lube, trails down to his hole. You circle it there, make sure it’s wet, press a little just to watch his hips jerk. “You two are fu-fucking weird.”

“Mm, maybe,” you concede, “but you should see how hard he comes when he’s thinking about you.”

You gather more lube on your finger, then, and press it inside. Just to the first knuckle, just enough to make Taehyung whine. “I guess you already know that, though,” you continue. Pour a little more lube on Taehyung’s skin. Pull your finger out enough to slicken it, push it back in a little further. “Was it good for you?”

His moan is broken and low, deep and heady. A sound that makes the world feel like it’s tilting; a sound that makes you want to chase it. “Yeah,” Taehyung answers, and it could be a response or a declaration when it’s followed by, “so fucking good.”

“Yoongi is good, isn’t he? He listens so well.” With your free hand, you grab Taehyung’s face roughly, turn his head in the direction of where Yoongi’s sitting. “Look at him,” you instruct. He already looks fucked-out. Cheeks flushed, breathing hard, knuckles white where he’s gripping onto the arm of the chair. “Look at how good he’s being, not even touching himself.”

And Taehyung… Taehyung almost looks ashamed. Won’t meet Yoongi’s gaze, now that they’re so close, now that it’s real, and this won’t do, will it, so you dig your nails in a little harder, drag them down his cheek, tell him again to look at his hyung. Then—

For the first time all night, their eyes meet at the same time.

Yoongi’s whimper is loud. The loudest you’ve ever heard him outside of actual sex. You work in a second finger alongside the first, build up a steady rhythm, and Taehyung isn’t faring much better. Little by little he opens up for you and you’re thankful for the way he sucks you in, adjusts. It’s getting harder to ignore the heat between your own legs, watching two beautiful men fall apart in vastly different ways, even though you want to drag this out, want to make Taehyung cry and give Yoongi exactly what he wanted.

And, god, Taehyung is so fucking pretty.

You tell him as much, and his smile is greasy, looks even more lewd when you crook your fingers and his eyes roll back. He’s still tight around you when he asks for a third so you shake your head, tell him no, tell him he’s greedy, and you think people must not make him beg much, the way he’s pouting. Taehyung has a face that gets him whatever he wants and a cock to match, and you’d understood it before, why Yoongi couldn’t really let it go, but it’s different when it’s right in front of you, making a mess of your sheets.

“I must be going soft on you,” you tell him, working in another finger the next time he asks. “Yoongi wanted me to make you cry and here I am, giving you whatever you want. Maybe I should let him decide what you get.”

Taehyung shoots a hand out, grabs at your forearm. “Don’t,” he says, voice hoarse, bordering on pleading. “Please. He’s still mad at me, won’ give me anything.”

A huff of breath escapes you. “He doesn’t look very mad to me. Looks like he could probably come on command if you told him to.” It’s not an exaggeration, not really; Yoongi is gone, looks like a stiff wind could have him spilling all over himself. “But maybe that’s what you deserve.”

You nail Taehyung’s prostate the next time you crook your fingers and he sobs. You do it again, then a third time. Precome oozes out of his cock, deepens the pool on his belly. You keep it up until tears pool on his waterline, until he’s reaching for you again, begging you to stop, words cracking as he tells you desperately that he’s going to come. “Angel, fuck, please, I’m gonna—”

“No, you’re not,” you tell him, all authority. “You’re not going to come, are you, because I haven’t told you to. Yoongi hasn’t told you to.”

The first frustrated tear streaks down Taehyung’s cheek. “Oh my fucking god,” he chokes out, forcing his hips flat to the bed, tries to force you to stop moving. But your rhythm is steady, confident, three fingers working with the space he’s left you, and it isn’t until you watch his balls tighten that they slow. Taehyung’s sweat-slick, looks even more golden under the amber lamplight, and it’s dizzying, the way the color shifts as his chest heaves with his ragged breaths.

There’s only enough time for you to slip your fingers out, grab the lube, slick up the strap-on that’s fastened around your hips, before you’re pressing the head against Taehyung’s hole, still dripping wet. “It’s so big,” you muse, grinning wickedly at the man beneath you, “I don’t know if it’s going to fit. What do you think, Yoongi? Is this how you used to feel?”

When you look over this time, Yoongi has his cock out, briefs tucked beneath his balls, stroking fast. Clicking your tongue, he looks up through half-lidded eyes, hand stilling immediately. His nod is almost imperceptible, too disoriented to answer, and you’ll give him this one. Won’t push it. What you will push, though—

“Shit.”

You’re not sure if it comes from Yoongi or Taehyung. It might’ve even come from you, because you’re transfixed, can’t tear your eyes away from the sight of your stupid flesh-colored dildo disappearing into Taehyung’s body. Fucking greedy, you think, mostly at yourself, because if this sight is good you can only imagine what you’d see if you were watching his face. Brows furrowed, mouth pinched. A look not far off from that night in the club, the determination on his face as he fucked that girl with his fingers, uncaring who heard or saw.

But this is your show. Yoongi’s fantasy. Whatever girls—people—Taehyung has fucked in seedy clubs across Seoul are of little importance here. All that matters is the steady push of your hips, the slow roll once you’re fully buried, the pleasure that jolts through you when you’re able to grind a little against the toy, the way Taehyung thrashes against the sheets, incoherent as he babbles, stuck between more and too much.

“Okay?” you ask, hands skimming along his warm skin. Goosebumps trail in their wake, and you settle them on his thighs. Press them up and to the side as he nods, giving yourself more space, and Taehyung’s moan is loud, unabashed. His cock lies neglected against his stomach, begging you to reach out and grab it, stroke him, make him come too fast so you have another bruise to press on, some way to embarrass him.

But this is your show, Yoongi’s fantasy, and you don’t have to look because you can hear how close your boyfriend is to getting himself off. Can hear the way his breath hitches, can hear when his rhythm changes. Quicker, now. More insistent. If Taehyung looked over at him, it’d be all over, and you almost tell him to do that, too.

“Stop touching yourself,” you say to Yoongi. A second time when he disregards the first, too far gone, too close. “Yoongi.” He whines but he listens, shoves his fingers in his mouth to stem the urge, and Taehyung watches it all.

You’re still thrusting, thighs burning, sticky where they meet Taehyung’s, and it won’t be your lengthiest performance, that’s for sure. So you call Yoongi’s name again, beckon him over, and he hesitates, looks so unsure. But it’s so stupid, the way he and Taehyung dance around one another—and you know, you know Taehyung wouldn’t be shaking like this if it were just you, if Yoongi wasn’t in his head, wasn’t watching—so you’re insistent. “Come here,” you tell him, and you make sure your voice is spun sugar when you say it.

Yoongi listens. Stumbles over on unsteady legs, knees nearly buckling when he gets close enough to also watch the way the strap-on fucks into Taehyung’s hole, the way it stretches obscenely to accommodate it. “Baby.” He threads his hands into your hair and kisses you hard and messy. Taehyung moans beneath you so you know he’s watching, and you will your body to move faster, fuck him harder.

When Yoongi pulls back, it’s obvious. The longing in his eyes. “Tell him,” you say, and he looks caught-out, would almost look angry if he were capable of it. “This is your fantasy, isn’t it? So tell him.”

“I—” He looks down at Taehyung again, meets his gaze again, and he must see something there you can’t, because all the hesitation is gone when he says, “I want to kiss you.”

And you know what it means.

Because that had been the rule between the two of them. No staying the night, no kissing. You know what it means for Yoongi to ask for that, what it’d mean if Taehyung allowed it, and it nearly cracks your heart in half that it’s the only thing he’s willing to ask for when his wants are endless when it comes to Taehyung.

“Oh my god,” Taehyung moans. “Fuck, hyung, yeah—yeah, c’mere, kiss me, please, fuck.”

Yoongi looks like he’s been punched in the gut. Looks overwhelmed, given this kind of permission, so he goes about it all wrong. Starts to kneel at the side of the bed before you tsk and grab him by his own hair. “Do it right,” you instruct.

He moans. Aborts whatever he was about to do and climbs over Taehyung on the bed, straddles him, fitting in between both of you perfectly, close enough for his cock to slot against Taehyung’s. They both moan, and their game had been so fucking stupid it sends a lick of anger through you. Yoongi ruts his hips once, twice, and then he’s leaning down and cupping Taehyung’s face and pressing his lips—still wet from you, still wearing your spit—to Taehyung’s.

And Taehyung comes immediately, nearly untouched. Spills all over himself with a loud, broken sob.

“Holy shit,” you say, hips slowing until they’re still. “Holy shit, that was fucking hot, what the fuck.”

Taehyung trembles in the comedown and Yoongi presses in closer, kisses him through it. Can’t seem to stop now that he’s allowed. He’s still rutting, has Taehyung teetering on oversensitivity, so you grab Yoongi’s hips to slow him. “Careful, baby,” you say softly into his ear. Press a kiss to the nape of his neck. Give him a minute to back away from the ledge again and get himself under control, let Taehyung catch his breath. “Are you okay, Taehyung?” you ask, hands once again touching any of his skin you can find. You knead at the muscles in his calves.

There’s some garbled response. Something you think is supposed to sound like an affirmation. “Words, please.”

“Y-yeah,” comes his response.

“Okay. I’m gonna go grab something to clean you up, all right?” You press another kiss to Yoongi’s shoulder, turn your attention to him. “Then we’ll finally give you what you want, yeah? Finally let you come.” A shiver runs up his spine and he nods weakly. “Can you prep yourself while I’m gone?” Another shaky nod. “Good boy. Gonna pull out now, Tae.”

You do so slowly. Taehyung hisses, sucks in a breath through his teeth. Hisses again when you replace the toy with your thumb, try to ease the discomfort of being so suddenly empty. With another kiss pressed to Yoongi’s shoulder, you mumble an I love you into his hair, and then you’re gone.

There’s always been something about the way Yoongi touches himself.

Like the goal is more than simply getting off. Like there’s reverence in it, something beyond purpose. Yoongi touches himself the way other people drop to their knees at church and pray.

Sometimes it’s long and drawn out. Sometimes his hands skirt over every inch of his own skin before he finally brings them to his cock. Sometimes he rests on his haunches in the middle of the bed and angles himself toward the mirror and watches, his cheeks aflame the entire time because he’s embarrassed to see himself like that, three of his own fingers fucking himself, but the embarrassment almost feels just as good. Sometimes he has you beneath him, raining down praise as his fist works the length of his cock.

Sometimes he does it entirely wrong, like now.

Two pale, lube-slick fingers work in and out of his hole. His own, then, and not Taehyung’s. Just like you’d asked. You’re a little surprised, thought maybe Yoongi might panic and retreat with you gone, but they’re both where you’d left them. Taehyung’s talking all the while, saying god knows what in that deep timbre, and it’s straight up pornographic the way his large hands rest on the cheeks of Yoongi’s ass, pull them apart.

The damp cloth in your hand feels useless. Is useless, you think, because Yoongi had told you something, once, deep in the throes of another cerebral fantasy—

“I can’t believe I have to keep telling you this,” you say, and everything immediately goes still at the sound of your voice, “but do it right, Yoongi.”

Taehyung lifts his head, stares at you skeptically. Probably mirroring the look on Yoongi’s face that you aren’t privy to with his back to you. “We’ve talked about this,” you continue, stalking closer. All eyes on you as you drop the cloth to the floor. “Are you clean?” you ask Taehyung, and he nods, expression still dubious.

And then you’re reaching between both of them, swiping your fingers through the mess of cum on Taehyung’s stomach, and he understands immediately. “Are you gon—fuuuck. Fucking christ.” The first swipe goes to Yoongi’s mouth, and there’s no hesitation as he sucks your fingers clean. Your free hand finds Yoongi’s, the one he’s working himself open with, and pulls it away. Replaces it with your own, your two longest fingers covered in the second swipe of Taehyung’s cum, and you fuck them in and out faster than Yoongi had been.

“Filthy,” Taehyung chokes out, clearly overwhelmed; another groan when Yoongi starts sucking at his neck, biting, claiming.

It’s primal, the way Taehyung reacts, the way Yoongi embeds himself under his skin, tries desperately to make a home there. Something permanent this time; or, at least, a home that won’t burn down like the last one. Won’t be reduced to a smoking heap of bitter ash. And you wonder, as you watch the way these two beautiful men fit together, if Taehyung will be holding the match or the key this time.

You press slow, open-mouthed kisses along the knots in Yoongi’s spine. Drizzle more lube on your fingers, work him open more. Whisper I know, baby, I know when he gets impatient and a little too demanding. Swap the condom on the strap-on and slick it up, just like last time, and then you’re pressing into Yoongi instead of Taehyung, the way you’ve done so many times before.

Everything is familiar and different: the drag, the pull, the noises spilling out of Yoongi’s mouth. Those staccato whines varied in pitch, sometimes drawn out and sometimes punched and short. This is what you know. This is your home, and you think, as Taehyung looks at Yoongi, so fucking endeared, as he gently cups his face, as he says—

“Hyung, you look so pretty. You’re doing so well, hyung, fuck, I didn’t think I’d ever see you like this again.”

—you think your house might look nice with an addition. An extra space carved out only for Taehyung. A room where Yoongi can exist in endless adoration.

“Make yourself useful, Kim Taehyung.”

Because Taehyung listens. Because Taehyung is good in all the ways that Yoongi is good, and he doesn’t have to be told twice when the order deals in Yoongi’s pleasure. So all of you adjust until Yoongi’s on his hands and knees, gripping tightly onto the headboard, and Taehyung shuffles down the bed until he can get his mouth on Yoongi’s cock.

“Fuck, yeah, just like that,” you say, and Taehyung moans at the praise, the vibrations making Yoongi gasp and jerk.

You know when you hit his prostate, too; know this is going to be over soon from the way he buries his face in the crook of his elbow and screams. You know it from the way he starts to shake. From the unintelligible filth that pours from his mouth as Taehyung swallows him all the way down. From the way he stutters out a, ba-baby, wha’bout you, gonna come like this, and you pet his hair, voice soft again when you say, this is for you, Yoongi, you can come, I know it’s so much.

There’s a final husky, drawn-out moan, and then there’s quiet.

Lucidity returns slowly.

The heat kicks on. A police siren wails in the distance, seven floors below you. You re-wet your cloth and do your best to clean the dried cum from Taehyung’s skin, your smile fond as he whines at the cold, tries to squirm away. Yoongi doesn’t move an inch, just collapses face-first onto the mattress and lets everyone fuss over him. Starts snoring a few minutes later, after you’ve pulled the duvet up to his ears and he’s tucked in and warm.

You move to the dresser. Pull out two t-shirts—oversized on you, tight in the shoulders on Taehyung—and clean underwear. And then you pause, because Taehyung’s already plucking his own clothes off the floor, already has his fucking socks and briefs on, and it’s… it doesn’t feel right, is the thing. Doesn’t feel like he should be leaving. Not tonight, maybe ever.

“Where are you going?” you ask, and you do a good job of keeping the hurt out, at sounding normal.

Taehyung doesn’t get it. Looks at you like you’re a little stupid and a lot crazy, because he looks at you, then at the world outside the window, and finally at Yoongi before answering. “I—leaving?”

“Why?”

Taehyung looks at you like you’re a lot stupid this time. “I don’t…” Pauses. Tries to sink into the floor to no avail. “Look, I think maybe this was a mistake? Hyung and I—I don’t think this is what he wants.”

“And how do you know what he wants?”

“Because we’re here,” he answers, anger seeping in. “Because I’m standing in your apartment. His girlfriend, and—”

You sigh. “If you want to leave, I’m not going to stop you, but I think it’d really hurt him if you left.” You leave off the again. It’s not your trauma to dredge up. Yoongi wouldn’t want you to, and that’s reason enough. “I would like it if you stayed, if that means anything.”

“The two of you are fucking weird,” he says again, but he looks less torn. Looks less like he would plow you over to get to the door, and it’s… progress. It’s good. You can work with a halfway thing. “Hyung would really—you think he wants me here?”

It’s spoken about in the way a broken thing always is: delicately, hesitantly, like Taehyung’s afraid of the answer, afraid to find out the results of this stupid game of his own design. “He does. It’s not my place to say much more than that, but I think the two of you are overdue for a conversation, if nothing else.”

Taehyung nods. Starts looking less and less like he’s out of place; starts looking like object permanence, takes a corporeal form within the four walls of your bedroom. “There’s space here for you,” you say, with the amount of care words like these require, “if you want it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Whatever you want it to. Nothing has to be decided right now, but I know Yoongi. You know him, too. I just don’t want to see him hurt again.”

Taehyung nods again. Peels his socks off. “You’re sure?” he asks, and when you nod, he climbs back into bed, seems to somehow know which side of the bed is Yoongi’s, two magnets drawn together. Something inevitable.

You breathe out a sigh. Finally slip the t-shirt and underwear on. Flick the lamp off and let yourself have a minute to enjoy the calm, Yoongi’s body heat next to you, still snoring softly between you and Taehyung. And then, because you can’t resist—

“You two are really fucking stupid, you know that?”

You hear Taehyung swallow. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sounding the part of a scolded child, and as much as you try not to, you’re smiling again, fond and endeared, into the dark. “I know.”

“Okay. Go to sleep, Tae. I expect a very nice thank you gift in the morning.”

It doesn’t happen in the morning. Not really.

It happens sometime in the middle of the night. The light streaming in through the sheer curtains gives away nothing more than silver-amber light, the moon and the city. Could be minutes since you fell asleep, could be hours; all you know is Yoongi’s at your back, arm slung possessively over your middle, and his heat is stifling.

“Yoongi,” you hiss, because it’s not just his heat. He’s hard again, cock pressing against the swell of your ass just like it was in the club, and you feel him smile against your neck when he realizes you’re awake. Feel him rock his hips, just a little.

He nips at your lobe, your jaw. “Hi, baby,” he says, like this is just another morning. Like he’s about to present your favorite mug to you, coffee fixed exactly how you like it. “Why didn’ you wake me up?”

“For what?” you breathe out, voice already wavering. All Yoongi has done is skim his warm hands under your oversized t-shirt, swirl a finger around your navel.

Yoongi tuts. Feels weird to be on this side of it, the illusion of condescension. “To fuck you. Make you come. You didn’t earlier.”

“I meant what I said—”

“I know you did,” Yoongi interjects, “but I don’t find that to be a very acceptable excuse.”

You roll your eyes, no heat in it, but then Yoongi’s hand moves to the hem of your underwear and slips inside. Your hips jerk when he moves two fingers lightly over your clit, jerk again when he finds you already wet and groans deep and husky into your ear. And it’s not loud, but it’s loud for this room at whatever-the-fuck time it is. “Gotta be quiet,” you whisper to him, and he laughs, thinks you’re joking. “I’m serious,” you say, and you want to sound authoritative but it comes out as a whine when he sinks those fingers into your cunt.

“Why would I need to be quiet?” he asks. Crooks them as best he can from this weird angle, you on your side with your back pressed to him, Yoongi halfway on top of you. “Shouldn’t I be loud?” He hits a spot that whites your vision. “Shouldn’t everyone in this fucking place hear it?”

Usually you wouldn’t care. Your apartment building has heard worse, including whatever debauchery the three of you had gotten up to mere hours ago, but—“Taehyung’s asleep.”

Yoongi startles, goes still. “What?”

“What.”

“What d’you mean Taehyung’s asl…” You feel him turn. Feel him realize, for the first time, that there is a very-asleep Taehyung on his other side, and you want to ask how he hadn’t noticed before, want to say didn’t you realize how cramped this bed is, it’s not big enough for three people, we’ll have to get a new one, but. Yoongi hadn’t expected him to stay, hadn’t expected it to even be an option, so of course it would’ve been a blind spot.

Your heart cracks in half again.

“What’d you say to him?” he asks. Not accusing, almost awed, like you knew a code, the secret passcode to getting Taehyung to stay that Yoongi hadn’t had before.

You reach back, find Yoongi’s hair. Scratch gently at his scalp. “Just that I thought you’d like it if he stayed. That’s it, nothing else. I wouldn’t.”

“I know, I wasn’t…” He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, lets it go. He’s okay. “This is okay with you?”

A laugh spills out of you. “You’re asking me that now? I was nearly fist-deep in his ass a few hours ago but him sleeping in our bed is crossing some kind of line?”

“Sex can be different,” Yoongi argues, “and it’s me, you know, like it’s my hangup, not yours—”

“I want you to be happy,” you answer honestly. “Whatever that looks like. I told him there’s room for him here if he wants it, but they’re not my knots to untangle. If he wants to stick around, if you two can get your shit together… we’ll figure it out. It only needs to make sense to us.”

Silence. Then—“I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard in my fucking life,” Yoongi groans. “Jesus Christ.”

“I should’ve known hyung was the type to get a boner from open and honest communication.”

Yoongi startles again at the low rasp of Taehyung’s voice. “And that’s exactly why I said I fuck him better than you,” you fire at him, deadpan. He laughs. You don’t have to look at Yoongi to know how red he’s turned.

“You said that to him?” he chokes out, all mortified disbelief, at the same time Taehyung says, “Maybe you’ve got a point, angel.”

The mattress sinks under Taehyung’s weight as he shuffles closer to the two of you. Must touch Yoongi somehow, because there’s a high-pitched whine from the back of his throat, so loud in your ear, has heat coursing through you. “Finish what you started, hyung,” Taehyung says, and Yoongi’s nod is jerky, his hands uncoordinated under Taehyung’s watchful stare.

Yoongi moves over you fully, wastes no time before he’s working his fingers in and out at a steady rhythm, sucking at your skin. Taehyung groans quietly, doesn’t need to be told a goddamn thing; rids you of your shirt so Yoongi can mouth his way from your jaw to your neck, collarbones to chest, one nipple and then the next. Pleasure licks up your spine, outweighs how overwhelming it is to have Yoongi this geared-up, wound this tight; to have Taehyung’s hands roaming over every inch of skin his hyung doesn’t have his mouth on.

“Yoo-Yoongi,” you choke out, because this has really gone from zero to a hundred and he’s been pressing incessantly on your g-spot for too long to remain unaffected.

It’s building, building, building, and you’ve fully lost control of your hips, grinding against the heel of Yoongi’s palm like you’re desperate for it. (You are.) And Taehyung just laughs darkly, says, “Think she’s gonna come, hyung,” just to get under your skin.

“Mm, yeah. Might make a mess.” He slaps at your clit and that’s it, that’s what does it.

And Yoongi knows you, doesn’t he, because he knows how you like to get fucked. Knows to click his tongue at you, give you that disappointed look; knows to wipe your release on your thighs. Knows to barely let you catch your breath before he’s slipping on a condom and pushing inside of you.

After his fingers, the stretch from his cock feels dizzying. Feels on the edge of too much, and Taehyung’s commentary is doing fuck-all to help you come back to earth. Keeps saying shit like goddamn, hyung, yeah, fuck her like that. Maneuvers you so your back is pressed to his chest, now, your head on his shoulder, so Yoongi can slip his tongue into Taehyung’s mouth while he ruins you. It’s filthy, it’s so fucking filthy, and you think, selfishly, that a room won’t be big enough. You’d build Taehyung an entire goddamn house to keep it like this, to keep the three of you safe in this bubble.

“Imagine, hyung,” Taehyung starts, and you know what comes out of his mouth next is going to be nasty. Yoongi knows it, too, eyes starting to go glassy. A million constellations reflected as he looks at the two of you. “If we fucked her at the same time. Both of us in that tight pussy. Our cocks togeth—”

You’re not sure if the deafening moan comes from you or Yoongi. Either way, his hips falter, cadence reduced to stuttered thrusts as he tries desperately not to come just from Taehyung spewing more filth out of his devilish mouth. But you want to see it. Want to see what happens when he’s pushed to the brink of horny delirium, so you say—

“Do it.”

—and Yoongi has to stop altogether. Grips your hips so hard you know they’ll bruise, and you think, for a second, that he actually did come. Everything is quiet for a second, just more labored breathing, and then Yoongi picks his head up. Looks more fucked-out than you’ve ever seen him, even more than earlier, and looks straight at Taehyung.

“Put your fingers in her.”

Taehyung breathes harshly through his nose. Waits for you to nod, give him the okay, and then his hands leave your hair and skim down your body. They’re so warm, so large, cover so much skin that it truly feels like he’s everywhere, like it’s more than just him touching you. The closer he nears to your cunt, the more overpowering it is, the harder it is to breathe.

“Is this what you want, angel?” he asks, words warm on your skin as he presses them just below your ear. “You’re a greedy girl, getting hyung’s cock and my fingers.” He rubs circles into your clit, sends you spiraling. You’re dangerously close to a second orgasm (could be a third, could be a hundredth, considering Yoongi never let you come down from the first) and there’s a split-second right before he dips his fingers into your cunt, works them in alongside Yoongi’s cock, that you feel engulfed.

Everything is on fire.

You, most of all.

Taehyung sucks his fingers into his mouth, gets ‘em wet, works in slowly. Just his middle finger at first, and Yoongi falters again, moans out an oh fuuuck that betrays exactly how far gone he is. And you aren’t far behind, the stretch from both of them unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. You can’t imagine how it’d feel if it was more than just Taehyung’s fingers, except you can, and Taehyung notices when the thought has you clenching, has you a little wetter, because he laughs at you, tells Yoongi like he can’t tell on his own. Like your boyfriend is a little dumb, like he’s never fucked you before, and that does something to both of you.

One finger turns into two. Yoongi’s a fucking mess, absolutely gone of the feel of them inside you, against his cock, can’t stop moaning. The tight fit has Taehyung’s fingers pressed snug against your g-spot, exactly how Yoongi’s had been, and it’s too much. Too much.

“I’m, fuck—I’m gonna—”

When you come it feels like the end of the world. It feels like rapture. It feels like every atom in your body has been rearranged, like the gods themselves are rewarding you specifically with the sound of Yoongi following right behind you, moaning low and ragged, spilling into the condom.

In the comedown, he kisses you—soft, tender, with every iota of love and affection contained in him. “I love you,” he says. Presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You okay?”

“Not sure,” you answer honestly. “Give me three to five business days to decide.”

Yoongi’s smile is shy, almost embarrassed. More gums than anything else. Behind you, the rumble of Taehyung’s laughter against your back, rattling your ribs. Rattling your heart, maybe, lodged safely between them.

It expands, makes more room—the one for Taehyung, that house—and Yoongi’s lips find Taehyung’s next and you know it’ll be okay. These two stupid boys, they’ll figure it out, put a cease fire to their foolish game.

Yeah, something inevitable.

and the first time he ever found out about your little infatuation, he seemed to have grown a little more comfortable with roughing it up a little.

“oh god… oh baby. fuck, you feel so good.” on your stomach, face pressed into the sheets, san’s face nudged in the tight space where your neck meets your shoulder. his arms caged either side of your head, resting his forearms next to your ears.

his chest was glued to your back, your spine digging into his stomach. bare and hot and wet, your bodies pressed against each other without an inch of space to speak for. your entire body shivered when he forced himself deeper into you, his curved, thick cock splitting your cunt open.

this position had him so deep, so invasive, so full. his hips rolled against the flesh of your ass, san’s voice dipping low in needy moans when you squeezed around him while he pulled his hips back, listening to the slick sound your pussy made, trying to keep him inside.

“pussy’s so warm today, baby.” he lets his mouth fall open against the shell of your ear, panting and groaning to make your brain melt. “making me feel so fucking crazy, you make me feel crazy, pretty.”

you forced your head out of the pillow when you felt his thrusts slow to a deep grind, pulling a ragged whine from your mouth. you pried your eyes open to watch as his arms moved around your head.

“turn, look at us.” he kisses below your ear, and drags his tongue up the side of your cheek. his right arm reaches and grabs his phone from the corner of the bed, holding it tight in his hand and scrolling and pressing buttons.

you forget he keeps a tall mirror against his bedroom wall, right next to the end of his bed. you can see the top halves of your melded bodies. his big, broad shoulders shadow your littler form under him. his soft, flushed face meeting your eyes in the reflection, his big, meaty arms flexing and twitching around your head every time he moved.

you watch to try and see what he was doing, and he punishes your nosiness with a sharp, deep thrust that makes your calf lock up.

“mind your business, babydoll.” he grumbles, then you feel it. his left arm curls around the front of your throat, tight. the muscles twitch and contract over your neck, just enough to limit your breathing. snug, warm and secure around the front of your throat.

he feels you tighten around his cock, and it makes his skin prickle. “ooh, fuck…” he groans and you feel his voice vibrate against your back. you forced your eyes up and you can see his phone recording your reflection in the mirror. catching the fucked out look on your face, his thick arm wrapped around your throat in an owning headlock.

his mouth spreads into a sly grin when your eyes roll when he pulls back his hips and then sinks his cock back into you so slowly, so smoothly, your legs jerk under him to try and escape the feeling.

“my soft little slut…” san leans down to whisper in your ear, the flash of his camera moving with each thrust. he licks the tears that pool at the corner of your eyes before he drags his head back up to watch you both in the mirror.

“look at you go, baby.” he praises around a heated smile. “drooling all over my arm like some kind of puppy. does that feel good? hm?”

you whimper out an incoherent agreement, and he giggles softly, littering the nape of your neck with soft kisses. he adjusts his hips to drag against that deeper, sweeter spot, that makes you still and lightly sink your teeth into his arm.

he keeps that meaner pace, deep heavy strokes in your guts that you can do nothing but lie under his body and take. his arm around your neck made clouds swim around in your brain. he tightens the hold, and you squeal loudly, barely catching the way he zooms in with his phone to better catch the pretty look on your face.

your cheeks squished by his muscles, your eyes desperate and heavy-lidded. he thought you looked so cute, and who would’ve thought that all he had to do to get you this needy was to put you in a headlock.

san fucks you greedily, the curve of him perfectly hitting that spot that turned your mind off. his voice egged you on, his low moans, and his pretty heavy breaths. groaning ’mhms’ of approval with every thrust into you as if he was grading the feel of your cunt around him. with every stroke, you only seemed to get even wetter, and the proof was the sticky web of your slick that clung to his base.

“mm, i love fucking my baby, slow… and stupid.” he attaches his lips to the pulse point on your neck, sucking and running his tongue over the sensitive spot of skin. “jus wanna fuck you so deep it hurts.”

he’s in your ear, talking to you and only you. all the while his phone catches every moment, every thrust and every moan.

his lower stomach repeatedly brushes against your back, his cock stirring up your insides at the most, torturous and delicate pace. the slow smack of flesh, the sticky hollow sound of your cunt swallowing all of him.

you feel his knees brace against either side of your hips again, adjusting his posture a little. his arm around your throat tightens to your near limit, his head nudges against your neck, his lips whispering against your cheek.

this way he uses your neck as leverage to anchor is body to allow him to fuck his cock into you a little faster, a little rougher.

“yeah, baby, yeah. take all of me. all of me.” san’s voice drops into a breathy purr, pressing his lips directly against your ear, the soft skin tickling you. “givin this pussy a workout hm?”

you groan and kick your feet, and he laughs at you as hand from the arm he’s got your neck trapped in buries itself in your tangled hair and yanks your head to the side so you’re fully facing the mirror, your ear resting below his jaw.

“you like to be lazy. you like to lie here— fuck… lie here and take dick, helpless and limp. let sannie do all the work huh, princess? let this pussy do all the work for you?”

he turns his head and your eyes catch in the mirror. his eyes are lidded, competent and heated. yours are foggy, tear-glazed, spent. he smiles at your expression and growls under his breath when you clench around his dick again.

his fingers scrape against your scalp with every heavy stroke of his hips, his pretty grunts and moans making your belly twist into swirls.

your hands grasp at the sheets, your cries coming out choked and breathy then more san fucked you, and he seemingly forgot that you needed to breathe until you tapped on his bicep to tell him to let up.

he does immediately, loosening the hold on your throat. you gasp and choke, but he doesn’t stop moving his hips, fucking you slow and deep while you regain your breath.

“aww, ‘m sorry babydoll.” he kisses your temple and you could feel him giggle against your skin. his voice lowers to that brain ticking whisper and you feel your air stolen from you again.

“bet you would’ve looked so pretty passed out on my cock.” he finally sets down his phone and takes his now free hand and trails it down your body, running along the side of your waist, his hips never stopping that deep, languid push and pull.

“looking all soft and sleepy.” his hand snakes between your body and the bed and finds your clit with his coarse fingertips. you gasp and squirm under him, your body shaking as a plea for mercy. san only laughs, circling upwards against the sensitive nerves while he splits your pussy open, over and over and over again.

“think i could still make you cum in your sleep princess?” he whispers against your throat and you feel as his arm tightens its hold around your throat once again. you feel the bed start to shake and your cunt start to burn with pleasure as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, filling you long and deep at just the right angle.

“mmhm, soak my cock baby.” he growls under a moan, letting his tongue fall from his mouth and tasting the flushed skin on your throat. “make it smell like you.”

he bites his bottom lip and his eyebrows furrow, his cock pounding into you so full he just might had been close to fucking your cervix.

his fingers on your clit continue to move at that dragging, spherical pattern that helps that pressure build slowly. stroke my stroke, praise by praise. you melt under his body while he uses you as he sees fit. your pussy sucks him in everytime he draws back, your pretty little moans make san’s head spin.

“gonna fuck myself to that video everynight while im on tour.” he promises against your skin, your orgasm dangerously close to sweeping you onto the floor. he rolls his hips with every thrust, forcing his fat tip to press against your gspot.

“eee..every n-night..?” you whimper deliriously, his cock effectively having cut off all cognitive function, a stupid smile spread across your face.

he laughs and kisses your shoulder as he rolls his hips a little harder. “mhm, every night baby. i'll send you some videos so this pussy-” he thrusts hard this time, as if acknowledging her himself. “-doesn't miss me too much. want you to remember how good i make you feel while i'm gone.”

you shake violently when his tip nudges that spot just right, and right at that moment you cum on the spot. your limbs jerk and twitch and once san’s felt you cumming he eases his hips into a faster rut, pounding your pussy through your orgasm, fucking you through it.

“there we go, there we go. let it take you baby, keep cumming, keep cumming for me.” he pinches your clit and teases it with gentle brushes while he mounts you on his mattress.

his arm is covered in your drool, the red indentations of your bite marks inflamed on his skin. san looks back at you in the mirror, and you’re too out of it to notice as he pulls out his phone again and starts to record the reflection.

your eyes are shut and your brows are furrowed in bliss, lips parted in pathetic whines, your cheek resting against his bicep. he keeps his eyes on the mirror as your face twists in overstimulation when he starts to grind his cock deep into you.

his muscles flex, and he can feel the strain in his wrist from continually holding the camera up to capture you two. your shoulder twitches every time he bottoms out into your pussy, and your eyelids flutter every time he presses his palm against your lower stomach. he catches every change in expression, every twitch of your body, every lilt in your moans.

he always misses you so bad when hes away, so he always makes sure he fucks you so unbelievably well that you could probably do without him for at least a few days.

until you’re sore, or your stomach burns, or you physically can’t cum anymore. and he’ll be so methodic, so thorough, so gentle. anything to get you satiated for the first few days in his absence.

he's gotta work you out of his system somehow anyway, or else he'll be a horny, delirious wreck on tour.

the videos help with his withdrawal symptoms.

You were already soaked from making out earlier. Hoseok settled between your thighs, rubbing the head of his cock between your folds making you shiver.

He took his time kissing your neck sloppily as he squeezed your breasts until you were squirming on your bed.

“Hobaa.. please,” you whine, needing him to put his cock inside already.

“I know, princess,” he whispered in your ears as he slowly slid into you with one smooth deep thrust.

You gasped, arching off the bed as he started immediately moving. A steady rhythmic pace that was almost lazy, Breathing so heavily on your face.

The feeling of his shaft sliding in and out, stroking your sensitive walls was so overwhelming, your eyes rolled back into your head. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, trying to get him deeper.

“Fuck,” He let out a a soft grunt feeling you squeeze around his cock.

He kissed you, swallowing your moans. His hands were everywhere—in your hair, on your face, gripping your hips to keep his slow, maddening pace. You were getting lost in it, in the feel of him moving inside you, in the heat of his skin, soft wet noises that your pussy makes.

He watched your face change. Seeing your eyes get a little unfocused, your mouth soft and slack. He saw the moment you slipped into that quiet, pliant headspace. He smiled nudging his nose and lips on your cheek.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured against you, his voice thick with affection. He kept the pace steady, rocking his hips into you. Keeping you right there on the blissful edge.

His gaze drifted to the huge mirror in front your bed, and the corner of his lips lifted as an idea struck him.

Then, he slowed. Pulling almost all the way out making you whine at the loss. "Shh," he soothed, kissing your cheek. "I've got you. Turn over."

Rolling you to your stomach. you went easily, boneless. He arranged you on your knees pulling you hips up as you arch your back, his hands wrapped gently around your forearms pulling you back to him, supporting you as your hazy headspace made your entire body weaken.

“Eyes up, princess,” he said softly.

You blinked slowly, dizzy enough that it took you a few seconds to finally look up.

The mirror on the wall was right in front of you. You saw yourself—hair messed up, skin flushed pink, lips swollen. You looked fucked-out and peaceful.

You saw him move behind you. He guided his throbbing cock back inside with one hand as the other locked around your elbows like it was nothing, keeping you still. You moaned, your head dropping for a second.

“Look,” his voice firmer now. Setting a deep and hard pace, his hips slamming into your ass with a sound that filled the room. Your head was too heavy to hold up. Dropping forward, voice so small as you let out incoherent words.

“ i- i can’..” voice vibrating from the force of his thrusts.

He tsk a sound, wrapping one arm around your waist pulling you hard on his chest as his hand help your chin up.

“Open up,” he demands.

You opened your mouth, pushing two fingers inside. They pressed down on your tongue, making you drool on his fingers.

“Suck,” he said

You closed your lips around his fingers and sucked. Applying a weak rhythmic pressure. It was easy. Almost comforting as It gave you something to do.

“Yeahh..good girl”

“Now look at your pretty face on the mirror,” he said pounding harder into you.

You were trapped. In a good way. Your eyes went back to the mirror.

You saw it all. You saw your face, your cheeks hollow from sucking his fingers. Watching the tears that tracked silently down your cheeks from the sheer, overwhelming everything of it. You saw how your breasts bounced every time he pushed into you. You watched his face, a mask of fierce concentration and adoration, his eyes glued to where his fingers disappeared between your lips.

It was a lot. Too much. But you couldn't look away. He wouldn't let you.

“That’s it ,princess” he rasped, His breath was hot on your neck. “Juuust like that. See how pretty you are? See how well you take it?”

He was everywhere. Inside you. In your mouth. In your sight. He was the only solid thing in your soft, dissolving world.

“Good girl,”he rasped, the words vibrating through his chest and into your back. The praise sank into you, warm and steady, even as his thrusts became frantic, losing their rhythm. “Perfect girl. Just like that. Don't look away.”

It happened fast. One second you were lost in the rhythm, his fingers heavy on your tongue, your eyes glued to your own wrecked reflection. The next, a hot, sharp wave curled low in your belly, a clenching, electric pulse that stole your breath and your thoughts.

You didn't make a sound. Your mouth just hung open around his fingers as you held your breath. Your eyes went blank in the mirror. Your body locked up, every muscle tight, and he could feel your cunt pulsing around him, gripping him in waves.

“Oh fuck—” his voice cracked.

It sent him over the edge. slamming into you hard, burying himself deep, and then he was coming. The first spurt hit inside you, hot and thick. He groaned, a low, broken sound, his hips jerking against your against your ass.

It was so warm. So wet. It filled you up spreading deep in your belly. The feeling of it, the sudden wet heat, made your own orgasm kick harder. Your pussy clenched again, milking him, pulling more out of him.

“Shit—“ he gasped. “Keep doing that—“

He kept coming. Long, thick spurts that he could feel pumping out of him. Each one made you twitch around him. Your body kept squeezing, kept pulling. It was like you were trying to take everything he had.

The feeling was dirty and perfect. You were Stuffed. warm and slippery. It was too much to hold. Some of it leaked out around his cock, dripping down your thighs, wetting the sheets under you.

His chest pressed against your back, his breath hot and ragged on your neck. His cock kept twitching inside you, giving little spurts of cum even after he thought he was done. Your pussy kept squeezing back, little aftershocks that made him whimper.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, baby.”

You just stayed there, limp and used, your body still shaking. You could feel everything. The mess between your legs. The wet spot growing under you. The warmth of his cum inside you. The weight of him on your back.

He finally moved. He slowly pulled out, and the feeling made you gasp. Empty. Wet. A gush of his cum followed, warm and thick, sliding out of you and down your thighs.

He turned you onto your back. His eyes went straight to the mess between your legs. His cum was still leaking out of you, a slow white drip that pooled on the sheets. He stared at it. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark.

“Look at that,” he said, his voice rough. He reached down and ran two fingers through the mess, spreading it around. “Look at what I did to you.”

You looked down. Your thighs were wet. Your pussy was red and swollen. His cum was everywhere, slick and shiny on your skin.

He brought his fingers up to your mouth. “Taste.”

You opened your mouth and he pushed his fingers inside. You sucked them clean. The taste was salty and bitter and him. His eyes watched you, hungry.

“Good girl,” he said. “All mine.”

He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue pushing into your mouth. You could taste both of you mixed together. It was filthy. It was perfect.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. Soft now. His eyes looked almost doe-like, open and unguarded, filled with affection. He brushed your hair off your face.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

You shook your head. Words were still hard.

“Good.” He kissed your forehead. “Let's get you cleaned up ᡣ𐭩.”

━ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ━

A/N: holy… this was so intense and im very proud of this one cuz it really effected me lol just honest emotions here.

So many paths that will never cross–this is a thought you constantly have as you stare at the museum and gallerygoers wandering through the exhibition hall, their footsteps muffled by the polished wood beneath them, their gazes fixed on frames capturing bodies, brushstrokes, and meaning.

You often find yourself watching people as much as you watch the art. Maybe it’s habit. Or maybe it’s the same flicker of wonder you felt the first time you ever walked into the Guggenheim Museum in New York. You’d gone to help a close friend move into the Columbia University dorms to start her first year as an architecture major, and she took you there on a whim. You didn’t expect to fall in love–not with a person, but with the silence between walls, with the hush of reverence, and with the people who stopped in their tracks, struck by something they couldn’t name. Art pieces obscure and beautiful of all shapes and sizes.

That feeling never left you. You chased it all the way to Seoul, through your grad school years at Seoul National University and working at their Museum of Art, through internships at Gana Art Center, and temporary roles at Gallery Hyundai and the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Seoul. You finally landed here at Kukje Gallery about eight months ago. First as an archivist. Now, you're curator.

And yet, for all the ways you study art, you’ve always studied people too.

You can’t help it. The way your mind drifts when you see a stranger paused in front of a sculpture or squinting at a canvas. The thoughts creep in.

Who are they? What brought them here today? What are they carrying that you’ll never know?

Moments of sonder, you’ve always called it. Realizing every person is living a life as vivid and complex as yours. Yet you pass each other without ever intersecting.

You’ve carried that thought with you ever since.

Still, you never acted on it. Not until one quiet afternoon, in late August, when your body moved before your mind could catch up.

He was tall. Broad shoulders, muscular frame. Thick thighs that tapered into lean legs. Thick-rimmed glasses, sometimes paired with a mask and a ball cap, sometimes not. His outfits rotated from pressed button-downs and slacks to oversized hoodies and shorts. Casual. Low-key. Purposefully anonymous.

He came often, yet never drew attention. Quiet. Observant. Always lingering in front of each painting for longer than most, as if he were dissecting every brushstroke, every nuance.

And despite the hundreds of visitors who passed through the gallery, there was something about him that made your eyes follow him every time.

One day, you left your desk to retrieve documents from the archive room across the hall. As you returned, you spotted him again. He was standing in front of Kim Heungsoo’s Untitled (Two Nudes) and Une Pose. There was something about his expression this time–creased brows, a slight frown. Frustration?

Your curiosity got the better of you.

“Something wrong?” you asked, in Korean.

His head jerked slightly, startled. “Huh?”

His eyes flicked to your chest–your name tag. L/N, F/N. Recognition flickered behind his lenses. Foreign name. He thinks he’s seen you here before, working. Somehow, that small confirmation calmed him.

You noticed the way his stance eased. Still quiet, still a little guarded, but less… rattled.

“Oh, uh,” you continued, “you looked like you were looking at the paintings and thinking really hard, so I was curious to see if you were okay.” Should you not have asked? Maybe he thinks you’re weird. You’re not sure why after all this time of observing people at museums looking at paintings, that you decided to finally interact with one of them in their most pensive moment.

He just nodded, weighing his next words. For a second, you thought he might brush you off. You wouldn’t blame him for it. But instead, he followed it up with a question. 

“Um, do you know who wrote these artwork label descriptions?”

“Oh, these?” You glanced at the placards and then back at him. “That would be me, the art curator of this gallery. Why?”

He glanced at you, and then back at the art, lost in thought.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he began, his gaze returning to the paintings. “I know art is subjective and open to interpretation, but…” He paused, then looked back at you. “I think you’re missing something in your interpretation of Untitled (Two Nudes) and Une Pose. Especially in terms of Kim Heungsoo’s perspective on form and desire. It’s not just about appreciation of the body. It’s about the subtle tension between abstraction and eroticism. Your labels don’t really touch on that.”

Your mouth opened, stunned. You weren’t used to being challenged–at least not like this.

“Uh, what do you mean? I studied these pieces,” you said, defensively. “I curated this exhibition. I spent months researching the cultural context, the artist’s interviews, the stylistic evolution–”

He gave a small shrug, then responded in English, shocking you completely.

“I still think you’re overlooking something important. But I’ll agree to disagree. Thanks.”

And with that, he turned and walked ahead. Just like that. Leaving you standing in the quiet gallery, blinking at the space he left behind.

He turned and walked away, disappearing further down the hall.

You stood frozen, utterly thrown off, appalled. What was that?

Did he just… mansplain a label you wrote? Who the hell is this guy? You doubt he’d have any understanding on erotic modern art pieces like you do. This is your forte after all. You learned about all of this through blood, sweat and tears. What does he know?

Ugh. It left you feeling like after eating a sour hard  candy,

You wanted to say something back. Something witty, cutting, professional yet scathing. But you held your tongue. You had a job to do. So you sighed, going back to the office as there were some remaining things you had to do before you head home.

Still… seriously? Who does he think he is?

A few weeks pass.

It’s a slow Tuesday evening in the late summer–still a bit warm, golden light stretching through the tall glass windows, shadows melting across the polished floor. Foot traffic is light. Most people don’t visit galleries on weeknights unless there’s a special event, and tonight, it’s just a few quiet souls drifting through the current nude modernist exhibition.

You’re at the front desk, going through the evening checklist, when a familiar figure enters. The same figure that lit a flame in you not too long ago.

This time, he isn’t wearing a mask. His black baseball cap casts a soft shadow over his face, but you see him clearly–hoodie, matching gray 5-inch shorts. Still effortlessly tall. And frustratingly… attractive. No surprise to be completely honest. There’s handsome men like him who frequent museums in Seoul just to feel something or to feel nothing, just performative for their social media or social rich circle.

You’re still mildly irritated with this guy as you see him approach a painting at the entrance, lost in his own thoughts. You shouldn’t play with fire, but something about him doesn’t let you just ignore him. So you stand behind him and pounce on the moment.

“Are you here to look at an exhibition and tell me I’m bad at my job again?” you ask dryly in English, remembering how this man went on a whole rant in Korean only to end it in perfect passive-aggressive English.

A small chuckle escapes him as he settles into your language. “Hey, no, I’m actually here to sign a few papers. I was just looking at the painting while waiting to see if one of the people I know here would come out, but even the front desk is vacant.” His head gestures to the empty front desk. You assume he wanted to see the chairwoman, who left to go to a small event earlier. Sekyung’s not even here to help because she went to grab dinner with a friend. So much for a quiet night.

“Oh, I see.” You quirk a brow. “Well, what papers did you need?” Once again, a hint of hesitation that you catch in seconds because it becomes nonchalance.

“I don’t really like to mention this because I hate bragging,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck, “but… I donated a bit of money to the gallery. Just to keep supporting research and future exhibitions. I like coming here, and I want to keep coming.”

You pause. Wait, what. Who the hell is he, even? Donating money for the arts? No way… but this would make so much sense as to why he was being so critical when you first met him.

Your tone softens, caught between guilt and surprise from your previous thoughts about him. “Oh? That’s actually really kind of you. I can pull up the paperwork for you. What’s your name?”

And again! The hesitation. A flicker in his eyes as he speaks before it goes away.

“…Kim Namjoon.”

Okay?

“Ah. Okay. Mr. Kim Namjoon.” You type it into the system, and sure enough, his name pops up. “I see you here and the pending paperwork. I’ll get the documents printed out.”

He watches you, his gaze studying your face with care. Still no flicker of recognition from you, he thinks.

Do you really not know who he is?

He doesn’t want to be obnoxious, but… he’s Kim Namjoon. BTS. Global phenomenon. Cultural ambassador. A foreigner like you must know who he is, right?

He waits for a double-take at any moment. Even a pause for you to say something about him.

But nothing.

“Oh,” you add, scrolling through the screen, “there’s also a form here about submitting your own pieces for a future exhibition? You collect art?”

His earlier thoughts dissolve. “Oh, uh–yeah. I do.”

“Well.” You flash him a tight-lipped smile. “That explains why you were so critical of my work. You’re a collector after all.” Another petty remark you throw out. Why are you like this? You’re going to get yourself fired if he reports you to the execs. 

He winces a little, chuckling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you the other day, Y/N.”

You freeze.

Your name.

You aren’t wearing your name tag today–you forgot it at home.

Your eyes slowly lift from the screen to meet his. Your heart thumps once, heavy in your chest.

“How did you…” you start, but your voice fades.

He looks back at you, unreadable behind his glasses and cap, and continues before you can press further. “I apologize about the other day. I was too deep in my thoughts and said something rude without thinking. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

I’m sorry, what?

Your fingers hover above the keyboard. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

Is this… an apology? From him? Mr. know-it-all?

You clear your throat, trying to steady yourself. “You don’t have to do anything. Really. It’s part of the industry. I’ve seen it happen to others when critics walk in–I just didn’t expect it to happen so suddenly. At least… not like that.”

He nods slowly, turning each of your words over in his mind. “I get that,” he murmurs. “I’m not a critic or anything, but I care too much about art sometimes. Especially when it moves me.”

“I can see that, but you’ve already given back to the gallery,” you reply, your voice softening. “That’s more than enough to show you care.”

“But I want to make it up to you, Y/N.”

You blink, caught off guard by his insistence. You hesitate.

Maybe this could help smooth over the tension between you two. He’s a donor. Maintaining good relations is in the gallery’s best interest–your best interest. For your research. Your exhibitions. Your job.

Yes. That’s a good reason.

“…Maybe,” you say slowly, eyes dropping. “Buy me a coffee?”

You bend down to retrieve the printed forms from the tray beside the desk. “Sign here on this page, and then again on the back.”

You place the papers in front of him and hand over a pen. Your fingers brush, just briefly, but it’s enough to send a flush creeping up your neck.

He signs quickly, glancing up afterward.

“How about dinner instead?” he asks. “I know a laid-back spot that has great food. No pressure–just… a peace offering.”

You look at him, a little amused, a little surprised.

“So this is how you bribe people you offend?” you tease.

His lips curve faintly. “Not exactly. Maybe I just want more than five minutes to talk about art… and to hear your point of view.”

You smile, slower this time, your gaze lingering.

“Then sure,” you say softly. “I’d like to hear more about your thoughts, too.”

“Alrighty.” He picks up one of the business cards in the acrylic holder on your desk, flips it over, and writes neatly–his number and KakaoTalk ID.

Namjoon slides the card across the counter. “I’ll message you. Does Friday evening work?”

You nod, tucking the card away into your blazer pocket. “Yeah. That works.”

He bows slightly before heading to the exit, the warm evening light catching the back of his hoodie as the glass doors slide open.

For a long moment, you just stare at the space he leaves behind.

You’re not sure what just happened.

Only that it leaves your heart beating faster than it should.

That night, after your shift, you return to your small studio apartment, kick off your shoes, and curl up on the couch with your phone still in hand.

A part of you hesitates. Should you message first? Will he really follow through?

[You] Hey! Just wanted to confirm for Friday. What’s the name of the place we’re meeting?

A moment passes. Then another. You tap out of the conversation, scroll through Instagram aimlessly, then tap back in.

Still nothing.

Then–a reply. A few minutes later.

[Namjoon]Yetnal Guksi in Yongsan. 8pm. Let me know if you have trouble finding it.

You pause, staring at the profile photo he uses–some anime character in profile, hair tousled, playing a saxophone. His display name isn’t even his real name. It’s a casual, half-joke Korean nickname. It doesn’t match the polished, reserved guy you met at the gallery at all.

But you don’t question it.

You type back:

You: Got it. Thanks. See you then.

And then, without overthinking it, you set your phone aside and go to bed.

You leave work earlier than usual. Your coworkers agree to cover the last two hours of special guest tours, and you’re quietly grateful.

Still, the journey is long. You take the subway from Anguk Station, transferring at the stop connected to Lotte Department Store. Weaving through corridors of glowing cosmetic ads and the rush-hour crowd, you switch lines again until you finally arrive at Noksapyeong Station.

From there, it’s a ten-minute uphill walk. The evening is starting to cool; your hair sticks slightly to the back of your neck as you pass small bars, cafés, and the slow hum of a residential neighborhood waking for dinner.

Almost an hour in total. Maybe you should have asked him to pick you up. But maybe he’s busy before this. Maybe that’s why he didn’t offer. You hope that’s the reason. And not that he’s some prick after all.

You finally arrive at Yetnal Guksi (옛날국시), a modest, old-school noodle joint with handwritten menus taped to the window and the steady clatter of bowls from inside. Nothing fancy, but comforting. You like that, honestly. You check your watch. 7:53 p.m.

He isn’t there yet.

You stand just off to the side of the entrance, pretending to browse your phone. Minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.

No Namjoon.

Your chest tightens. Anxiety blooms slowly beneath your ribs. You pride yourself on punctuality–getting somewhere early helps you stay calm. But it also means sitting in that discomfort longer when the other person doesn’t show.

At exactly 8:15pm, you send him a message.

You: “Hey, I’m here. Where are you?”

No reply.

A part of you starts to spiras. Maybe meeting him outside of work is a mistake. Did he seriously stand you up? Why bother giving you a time, a place? You’re not sure where he lives. Not like you bothered looking at any of his personal info in his file, but you can’t imagine he’d get here any time soon. It took you awhile to even get here yourself after all.

You suddenly feel eyes on you. An ajumma from the restaurant steps out, drying her hands on her apron.

“Are you coming in to eat, miss? Or…?” Her tone carries the unspoken question: Or are you just going to be loitering suspiciously outside this establishment?

“I’m waiting for someone,” you explain with a forced smile. “But he hasn’t arrived yet.”

Just as you finish, a soft gust of wind lifts your hair–and then a low voice behind you, in Korean: “I’m here.”

You turn.

Namjoon stands there, slightly breathless, baseball cap pulled low, a thin sheen of sweat on his neck. His hoodie clings to him like he jogged the last few blocks.

“I’m sorry,” he says gently, back in English. “I should’ve texted. Got caught in traffic.”

Irritation that was flickering inside you fades into relief.

He really came after all.

The ajumma nods at you both and waves you inside.

You follow Namjoon into the narrow space–walls slightly yellowed from time and oil, the clinking of metal chopsticks and bowls playing beneath the low hum of a TV in the corner.

Most diners are older–old people sharing soju, middle-aged couples eating quietly, a few solo regulars bent over their bowls. No one pays you any mind, which feels strangely comforting compared to other places out in Seoul.

Namjoon slides into a booth near the back, tucked by a wooden window cracked open for the breeze. You settle across from him, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as he pulls a laminated menu toward him.

“Want me to order for us?” he asks, glancing up.

“Please do. You said you’ve been here before, right?”

He nods. “Yeah. I come whenever I want something simple and quiet. Their bibimguksu is solid. And we’ll get a small plate of gomabap, too. Mini gimbap rolls.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He flags down the ajumma with a warm, familiar tone–nothing overly polite or stiff, but respectful, like he’s done this many times before.

Soon, two steel cups of barley tea are placed in front of you. You lean back slightly, watching him.

“You come here alone?” you ask.

“Uh, yeah, usually,” he says. “Sometimes with a friend or two, but mostly on my own. It’s pretty peaceful. Away from the crowd.”

You see why. Despite the lack of frills, the place has a worn charm. The light is yellow and soft. The air smells like sesame oil and chili paste. No one’s here to impress anyone.

When the food arrives, the scent makes your stomach flutter. The bibimguksu glistens red with sauce, sliced cucumbers and boiled egg resting on top, noodles glossy and tangled. The gomabap rolls sit neatly beside a small bowl of soy sauce.

You pick up your chopsticks, twist a bit of bibimguksu around them, and take a bite.

Your eyes widen instantly. “It’s really good!”

Namjoon smiles at your reaction. “I’m glad you like it too.”

“It’s… sweet, spicy, cold…mmm–it has so many layers. I wasn’t expecting this level of flavor.”

“Right? The sauce is just the right kind of fermented. And they don’t cheap out on the gochujang.”

You try a piece of gomabap with soft rice, crisp vegetables, a hint of sesame. Clean and light. Perfect alongside the fire of the noodles.

“I have to admit,” you say, grinning between bites, “I was kind of dreading it being bland. But this might be better than some trendy restaurants I’ve been to lately.” “That’s the thing,” he replies, leaning on one elbow. “Places like this… they don’t try hard. They just know what they’re doing.”

You nod thoughtfully, then look up. “So what’s your usual order here?” you ask, half-teasing. “Or is this it?”

“Sometimes kalguksu if I’m tired. But usually this.” He pauses, eyes scanning your face. “I didn’t want somewhere fancy. Figured this would be better.”

“It is,” you say sincerely. “Thank you for bringing me.”

He looks down for a moment, hiding how his smile pulls wider.

You fall into a comfortable rhythm–eating, talking, trading casual stories about art. You tell him about how you once dropped an entire tea tray at your old gallery job and cried in the archive room for twenty minutes. He tells you about buying a sculpture he thought was two feet tall but turned out taller than him. He hesitates to say where he ended up putting it, scared it might reveal too much. But despite all of his efforts to put up a wall to prevent you from learning too much about him. There’s a part of him that wants to tell you. He has a feeling. A good feeling. A feeling that you’re a safe person he can confide this with.

And once you ask him this question, it truly has battling with opening up himself to you, to his world.

“So what do you do for work outside the art world, Namjoon?”

Caught off guard, he wonders what to say. Should he really tell you he’s an idol? The fact you haven’t recognized him still surprises him. What would you say if he told you? Judge him? Freak out?

He reminds himself again that he doesn’t know you well, and the thought scares him to share too much given what he’s seen in the past. To him, to his members.

But he decides to be genuine. Lying feels worse. Plus, the feeling he has about you is something he’s never felt about someone before.

He sets down his chopsticks gently, wiping his hands on a napkin, stalling a moment. “I’m… actually a musician,” he says carefully, watching your reaction.

You blink, chopsticks hovering. “Oh, really? Like… producing? Or do you perform too?”

He hesitates. “Both.” You tilt your head, lips quirking. “That’s cool. What kind of music?”

He laughs softly, almost in disbelief. You still don’t know after all these hints, he thinks. 

“Mostly hip hop and pop. I’m… in a group. We’ve been around for a while.” A while is twelve years, he thinks.

Your brow furrows. “A group? Like a band?”

“Not exactly.” He leans in quietly, readying for the grand reveal. “BTS.”

A beat of silence.

You stare. For a moment, your brain lags behind your ears.

You run his words over–BTS–and something clicks. The glasses, the quiet composure, the careful words, the way he observes art like air. You knew about BTS–your close friend back home was obsessed with K-pop in her teen years, trying to rope you in with playlists and videos, especially featuring their “leader,” Rap Monster… or RM. You’d listened here and there, curious, but fangirling over K-pop always felt a little unrealistic. A little too delusional Life was hectic, so the interest faded.

You’d heard headlines about Kim Namjoon in the art world, maybe seen a photo or two online, but none of it mattered much–until now.

Now you’re here, eating dinner with him.

Your chopsticks lower slowly, words whispering out in the quietest voice, “Wait. Like… the BTS?”

He nods, almost sheepishly. “Yeah.”

You laugh, stunned, sitting back. “Wow. I… I didn’t recognize you at all. That’s insane.”

His eyes flick to yours, searching for a change in tone. But there isn’t one. You’re not freaking out. Not grabbing your phone. Just surprised. Maybe a little amused. A bit of disbelief too.

“I thought you looked familiar,” you admit. “But I didn’t want to assume. You didn’t act like… you know. Someone that famous. So i shrugged it off,”

“I try not to,” he murmurs. “It gets tiring.”

“I can imagine.”

You pause, looking down at your nearly-empty bowl, gathering thoughts. “So that’s why you knew so much about those pieces. You’ve probably been studying art a long time.”

“I try. It started as just going to a museum while on tour years ago. Purely a hobby, just collecting, but now it’s… part of my life. Something I love.”

You nod slowly, still a little floored but smiling. “Well, you’re were still kind of rude about my curated labels.”

That makes him laugh, low and genuine, warming your cheeks.

“Yeah. I deserved that.”

You sip barley tea, shaking off the surreal feeling of sitting across from a global icon who just asked you to dinner at a tiny, greasy spoon. But he’s still the same man who stands in front of paintings, deeply, frustratingly thoughtful.

He doesn’t ask for special treatment, and you won’t give it.

You lean your chin into your palm, eyes softening across the table.

“I’m glad you told me.”

His gaze meets yours, grateful behind his glasses. “Me too.”

You both linger over the last bites, the plates mostly cleared, spice tingling pleasantly on your tongue. The restaurant has thinned out, leaving only a few older couples finishing in silence. The air is warm and still, laced with sesame oil and the clink of silver chopsticks against ceramic.

Namjoon sets down his spoon, wiping his hands with a napkin. “That was nice,” he says quietly, the moment calling for softness.

“It was,” you agree, smiling. “I’m glad you didn’t stand me up.”

His hand comes up, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was close, apparently.”

You both laugh.

“I should probably head back,” you say, glancing at your phone. “It’s getting late.”

“I can take you home,” he offers immediately.

You shake your head gently, already anticipating. “That’s sweet, but I live a bit far. The train’s faster.”

A flicker of hesitation passes his face.

“But,” you add, standing, light in your voice, “if you’re not in a rush… I wouldn’t mind you walking me to the station. Just ten more minutes.”

That makes him smile–the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to grin. “Yeah. I can do ten minutes.”

Outside, the night greets you with a soft breeze. Namjoon quietly pulls a black face mask from his pocket and tugs it over his nose and mouth. You notice but don’t comment. It makes sense.

“You don’t have to worry,” you say after a few steps, voice light but sincere. “I won’t tell anyone… about you. I’ve worked with private clients before. I know how to keep things quiet. If you want, I’ll sign something.”

He chuckles, low and warm beneath the mask. “I’m not going to make you sign anything. Honestly, I get a sense about people. And I don’t think you’d do that.”

You glance at him as you walk. “Thanks for trusting me.”

He shrugs, hands in pockets. “It’s not just that. I… don’t have many female friends to talk art with. Mostly my younger sister, my mom or older gallery owners and retired curators who send me handwritten notes.”

You smile at the image. “I feel honored to be in such company.”

He laughs quietly. “No, I’m honored to have you spend time with me. I’d like to see you again. If you’re up for it.”

“I’d like that,” you say, meaning it.

You continue toward the station in a quiet, easy rhythm. Just two people sharing a corner of the night.

This is the nice boundary to keep. He escorts you to the front entrance of Noksapyeong Station, the traffic humming low in the background, headlights glinting off passing cars. You come to a stop just before the stairs lead down.

“I’ll text you,” he says, his voice muffled slightly behind the mask but still warm.

“That sounds good. See you around, maybe, Namjoon?” You give him a polite bow, hands folded in front of you. It feels a little too formal for what tonight was, but you don’t know what else to do. When you rise, you catch the flicker of something in his eyes–like he wants to say more, maybe even lean in and hug you, but holds himself back.

Silly Namjoon, he thinks to himself. He can’t afford to be careless in public. Not here. Not with who he is. Any passerby could snap a photo, leak a name, turn a small moment into a scandal. And the last thing he’d want is to inconvenience you with something like that. You’re a kind and smart woman, he thinks. A bit feisty, but he find that endearing. Even just by the conversations he had today, his heart began feeling something, which is rare for him.

Despite all his thoughts about you, he settles on a soft, almost wistful smile. “Will see you sometime in the future. Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night,” you say, your voice quiet as you disappear down the stairs, heading home.

Two weeks pass. No messages.

You don’t dwell on it. Not really. You get it. This is RM. Kim Namjoon. BTS. You’d be naïve not to assume his days are consumed by meetings, recording, traveling, photoshoots, whatever comes with being who he is. You heard he was recently discharged from the military. It makes sense he’s adjusting, returning to a rhythm that doesn’t leave much room for casual texts or catching up with the art gallery girl.

So, on a quiet Saturday afternoon, you throw on an old tee and decide to do a deep clean of your loft in Myeongdong. The space is small but cozy, perched above a cosmetics shop with a big bay window that lets in too much sun during the afternoon. You don’t mind. It’s not like you’re home that often anyway.

You’re wiping down your kitchen shelf, halfway through reorganizing your spices, when your phone buzzes on the counter.

[namjoon] hey y/n. i apologize, i've been busy so i haven't had the time to message you. how have you been?

You stare at the screen for a beat, lips quirking before you even realize it.

And just like that, the long, continuous, conversation begins. Slowly at first. Then steadily. Messages weaving in and out across days, with gaps and time zones and all the signs of two people trying to find a bubble of time in the chaos of their lives. He asks about your favorite artists. You ask what exhibitions he’s excited for. The conversation flows easily over the course of days–sometimes a few texts a day, sometimes long pauses between messages–but neither of you seems to mind. You send him photos of art pieces that leave you breathless, and he sends back voice notes when he doesn’t feel like typing.

You both fall into rhythm talking about painters and sculptors and entire exhibitions you wish you could relive. Namjoon talks about his admiration for Yun Hyong-Keun–how the earth tones and minimalist brushwork feel deeply meditative to him–and how Kim Whan-Ki’s dot paintings remind him of memory fragments and starlight. He brings up Roni Horn too, her approach to identity and landscape through sculpture and photography. And Thibaud Hérem, with those intricate architectural drawings. “There’s a weird comfort in the details,” he texts. “It’s obsessive, but beautiful.”

You tell him you’ve always been drawn to the emotional tension in Rothko’s color fields, the sense of vast stillness in Agnes Martin’s grids, and the chaotic sensuality in Cecily Brown’s layered canvases. You mention you once stood in front of Girl on a Swing for twenty minutes, not even realizing you’d been holding your breath. He sends a voice message: “I totally get that. Brown’s stuff is like... the aftermath of a dream.”

Namjoon replies late one night with:

You pause, rereading that line. There’s something deeply sincere in the way he talks about art–as if it’s a language he’s been speaking longer than he’s known himself.

[you]Woah, I’ve always wanted to go. Rothko makes me feel both grounded and like I’m floating. It’s weird but calming.

The next morning, he sends a photo of his bookshelf–several monographs, poetry collections, and a thick exhibition catalog from a Kim Whan-Ki retrospective.

You send a picture of your coffee table covered in old gallery pamphlets and the Cecily Brown zine you picked up in London.

You ask what exhibitions in Seoul he’s excited for. You send him photos of art pieces that leave you breathless, and he sends back voice notes when he doesn’t feel like typing. 

Later on he asks about your favorite music artists. You talk about what brought you to Korea, the music you listen to–The Marías, Emotional Oranges, Frank Ocean, Wave to Earth, Se So Neon.

He likes them too. You exchange playlists. Listen to new music you’ve never listened to before. You tell him you paint in your free time. For fun, not for any hope of becoming famous. He says he admires that, because he only painted something once and thought it’s not his thing after all.

Gardening comes up. He says it calms his mind. You have several plants as well though, you accidentally forget to give them water and have killed a few in the past. He tells you he’ll help you pick the right ones that will be easier to care for next time. You say, next time?

You even get into film. One night, the thread leads to Park Chan-wook’s Decision to Leave.

“It’s one of my favorites,” he texts. “I love how it plays with longing and detachment.”

You admit you haven’t seen it.

A pause, then:

[namjoon] do you want to watch it together?

Your thumbs hesitate above the screen.

[you] uhh, how is that gonna work? is it showing in theaters again?

His reply is instant:

[namjoon]lmao no. it came out a few years ago. we can stream it.

You bite your lip, grinning.

[you] so… you’re inviting me over to your place?

Seen.

Typing…

[namjoon]only if you’re okay with that. no pressure.

Typing…

[namjoon] i’ll even make you tea. or wine. or beer. or ramen. whatever works.

You stare at the message. Then you smile to yourself, heart beating just a little faster.

[you] only if it’s good ramen.

[namjoon] challenge accepted.

October 11th.

It’s another Saturday, exactly three weeks since Namjoon messaged you again after that dinner, and now you’re standing at the entrance to Nine One Hannam.

The building looms ahead, all sleek lines and understated opulence, tucked behind tall stone walls and trimmed hedges. A sign gleams beside the entrance gate. You’ve heard whispers about this place before. A-listers, diplomats, generational wealth. The kind of neighborhood with valet spots for Teslas and private elevators.

And apparently, this is where he lives. Kim Namjoon.

You pause a few feet away, adjusting your long cardigan as your nerves start to hum. Are you seriously going in there? Is this outfit appropriate for a casual hang out with you, art mutual? These thoughts linger as you look down to your outfit: a navy blue oversized cardigan, a white spaghetti tank top, a denim mini skirt, white converse sneakers.

You spot the small booth outside the pedestrian gate, a security officer already eyeing you as you walk up. The air feels strangely still, as if even the trees here breathe quieter.

You clear your throat. “Hi, I’m here to visit Unit 244A.”

The officer–middle-aged, buzz cut, clearly alert–looks you over with polite suspicion. A foreigner, he likely notes. He reaches for a clipboard and pulls up the visitor log.

“Name?”

“Y/N L/N.” You hand him your ID without hesitation, just like Namjoon told you to do.

He checks the list, confirming. A subtle nod. “Alright. Go on in.”

You give him a quick thank you, stepping past the gate. The building ahead is massive, its exterior modern but quiet in that rich-people-don’t-need-to-try-hard kind of way. Your sneakers feel too loud on the pavement. And now that you’re in–how the hell are you supposed to find his unit?

“Hey.”

You practically leap out of your skin.

He’s there. Namjoon, leaning casually against the wall, dressed down in a forest green Tyler, The Creator Chromakopia Tour hoodie, the hood pulled halfway over his face. His black shorts barely hit his knees, and his long legs look even taller without trying. He’s got his phone in hand, smiling as if this whole thing is the most normal Saturday hangout in the world.

“God, you scared me!” you exclaim, laughing in relief.

He chuckles, easy and deep. “It’s hard to explain directions to a place like this in English, so I figured I’d just come down and walk you up.”

“Well, thank you for the rescue,” you say, nudging his arm lightly.

“You’re welcome,” he grins. “Let’s go. I got food delivered for this occasion, instead of ramen.” “No ramen?” You say sarcastically. “Might just go home then.”  “Oh, come on. I got something better,” He gently tugs at your shoulders with both hands, before pulling away. He had a moment of realization that maybe he was being a bit touchy when he hasn’t been like this to you before. He’s been like this with his members ever since they all came back from enlistment, but never with anyone else. He doesn’t want you to think he’s weird, like some of these other men out in this city. The walk to his building is quiet, save for the crunch of gravel and distant birdsong. Inside, the elevator glides up without a sound, and he makes some small talk–but it doesn’t feel awkward. There’s a calm between you two that neither of you feels the need to fill.

When you step into his unit, you blink in surprise.

It’s spacious–more spacious than you thought any Seoul apartment could be. A clean hallway leads into an open-concept living room, where daylight pours through sheer curtains. Stacks of books sit against the walls, climbing toward the ceiling like curated towers. A soft grey couch stretches along the far end, low to the ground, lived-in but elegant. Potted plants fill corners. Sculptures and minimalist furniture round out the space.

But the art. The art.

“Whoa,” you whisper. “This place is… beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Namjoon says, sliding off his slippers. “Took a while to make it feel like home. Got some pieces I really care about, too.”

Your eyes sweep over the walls and freeze immediately on one familiar work.

“Oh my god–” you gasp, walking closer without even thinking. “You have Roni Horn’s ‘But the Boomerang That Returns is Not the Same One I Threw’ artwork? That’s so cool!”

He grins at your recognition, clearly pleased. “Oh yeah! That one hits me hard the first time I see it. I keep thinking about how memory isn’t linear and how we come back to people and places and ideas changed. I have to get it.”

You step closer, looking at the piece with reverence. “You know, I referenced this once in a thesis. It’s about the circularity of memory in contemporary installation art. This line stays with me.”

Namjoon smiles, brushing his knuckles over the side of his hoodie. “See? I knew you’re the right person to talk about this stuff with.”

You turn to him, arching a brow. “Are you saying you lured me here with art and food?”

“Maybe a little,” he laughs. “But mostly for the company.”

You flush slightly, feeling the easy warmth between you again. He motions toward the couch. “Come over, let’s eat before it gets cold.”

You sit on the soft, clean-lined sofa while Namjoon brings over the food–a spread of tteokbokki, fried mandu, japchae, and a couple of dishes you don’t recognize. “You weren’t kidding when you said food was already here.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says as he sits next to you, cracking open a couple of sparkling waters.

Impress you? There really is no need for that. If anything, you should be the one trying to impress him, the client of the art museum you work for.

The two of you begin eating. Between bites, you look around the curated chaos of his apartment–organized piles of art books, records stacked near a turntable, a small bonsai on the windowsill, and paintings and prints on nearly every wall. There’s a calm sense of order to it all, but nothing sterile. It feels lived in, thoughtful. Like him.

“Do you ever get overwhelmed living here?” you ask softly, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of sweet potato japchae.

“Yeah,” he admits, “sometimes it feels too big. I’m used to small spaces. But I’ve learned to make it feel... grounding. Plants help. Books help. Art helps.”

You nod. “I get that. Your place doesn’t feel like a celebrity’s house. It feels like a collector’s sanctuary.”

He smiles at that, modest but proud. “That’s kind of what I want.”

After you finish eating, he clears the plates while telling you to scroll through streaming apps looking for Decision to Leave.

“It’s on here,” you call out. “Should I start it?”

“Go for it,” he replies from the kitchen, rinsing off a bowl. “You want beer? I’ll get some out from the fridge after I’m done?”

“Oh yes, please.”

By the time he comes over and dims the lights, the film has begun. He settles in beside you on the couch again, this time a little closer. Your elbows nearly touch.

The opening scenes of Decision to Leave unfold quietly. Detective Haejun, a murder mystery, his insomnia, his marriage already dissolving at the seams. A routine case turning seductive, falling for a strange foreigner, his restraint slowly breaking.

You watch in silence, fingertips loosely wrapped around the sweating bottle of beer, but your focus begins to drift–not from the film, but from the proximity. The way Namjoon’s arm lightly brushes yours when he shifts. How his thigh rests just close enough to yours that you have to force yourself not to notice.

You try to focus on the film, but from the corner of your eye, you see the way his arms fold, the slope of his shoulders, the flickering light catching on the sharp cut of his jawline.

Ten minutes in, a sex scene fills the screen. Slow, quiet, achingly intimate but very awkward.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of your own breathing. Of Namjoon’s proximity. His scent, clean, soft, like cedar and something faintly citrusy, fills your lungs.

You clear your throat.

He doesn’t look at you, but he smirks. “It’s... definitely not a movie to watch on a first hangout,” he murmurs, chuckling as his eyes stay on the screen.

“You didn’t mention that,” you pout, sinking lower into your seat.

“I forgot, I swear!”

You let out a breathy laugh and try to focus.

Every now and then, you glance at Namjoon, who watches with furrowed brows, like he’s mentally cataloging everything. It’s kind of attractive.

“I’ve always loved how Park Chanwook balances contradiction,” Namjoon murmurs during a lull in the dialogue. “Like that line–‘grief as an envelope or slowly spreading ink.’ It’s brutal, but elegant.”

You turn to him, the glow of the screen painting your profile. “That one gets me too. The metaphors in this film are so carefully placed. It’s not just a love story at all.”

He nods. “Yeah. Like when the detective lies to his wife about sushi, but brings the best for Seo-rae. His values contradict, but love bends people that way.”

“Oh! You’re so right!”

You realize he’s such a yapper; now you’re really hanging out with him in the comfort of his home.

“You like Yun Hyong-Keun, right?” he asks at one point during a slow moment. “That scene with the fog rolling through the mountains? It reminds me of his palette. That kind of smoky grief.”

You nod. “I see the vision, filled with the same exact emotions.”

He turns his head to look at you. “You really know how to talk about art.”

You smile, a little shy. “It’s kind of my job.”

Later, when Haejun mentions he has insomnia, Namjoon stirs beside you. “That part hits close.”

You turn to him, brows drawn. “You have insomnia?”

He gives a half-shrug. “Since I was in the military. Something about the routine… or the lack of it. Stress, maybe. Sometimes I think it’s just residual from everything–work, my members, the future. Not knowing what will happen while I’m in there and when we get out.”

There’s a heaviness in the way he says “we.”

You want to say something comforting, but then Seo-rae whispers: “I wish I could give you a piece of my sleep. Just like a battery.”

That’s it.

You both fall quiet.

Neither of you speak for a while after the credits roll. The silence that follows isn’t awkward–it’s full. A current of thoughts stretching out beneath the stillness, taut and invisible.

You finally speak. “You know… when Haejun tells her to throw away the phone, he’s basically telling her to hide the murder, right? But to me, that’s the closest he ever gets to saying ‘I love you.’ Because if he didn’t, he’d let her get caught.”

Namjoon exhales through his nose, slow. “Yeah, it’s tragic. But it’s also… pure, in a way. Like loving someone means making a choice that could destroy you.”

Loving someone… it’s been too long since you’ve done that. Why bother thinking about this now?

You turn toward Namjoon now, fully. The room is dark but you can still see him, his brows drawn in quiet thought, the subtle tension in his jaw, the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes.

After a pause, he sets his empty beer bottle down, the soft clink echoing in the quiet. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“It’s getting late,” he says. “But I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. It’s gonna take a few hours, but that’s life.”

You hesitate for a second, then lean in just a little, close enough to really look at him. “Might be silly, but I wish I could give you my sleep,” you say softly. “So you could rest. So you didn’t have to carry so much, all the time. Living the life of an idol. Plus, I don’t really need mine anyway.”

Namjoon turns his head toward you, his expression faltering for a moment. Like your words knock the wind out of him a little. There’s something startled in his eyes, almost boyish. But then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. Small. Disbelieving. Touched.

He laughs once…quiet, breathy. Not teasing. Not dismissive. Just... moved. Like maybe he hasn’t heard something so gentle in a while. But you think otherwise, “Sorry! It’s late and I’m just yapping away. I don’t know–”

“Is that your way of telling me you like me?”

The question lands like a spark in your chest.

Your eyes go wide. “H-Huh?”

Your heart stumbles. Trips. Nearly crashes. The beer bottle in your hand feels like an anchor now–too cold, too slippery. You suddenly feel very aware of everything: the slope of his knees beside yours, the faint warmth radiating from where your thighs nearly touch, the low hum of the movie credits still rolling.

“I–I mean–not like that,” you blurt out. “Not like Seorae or anything, I think I’m just a bit tipsy so the words just–”

Namjoon lifts his hand in mock defense, grinning now, though not unkindly. “I’m kidding,” he says, the words slow and gentle. “Just teasing.”

But the glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. And neither does the silence that follows.

You take a breath, trying to ease your pulse. “Don’t play around like that, Namjoon,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching downward. “Don’t you have someone you’re with?”

The words fall out before you can stop them.

Regret pricks at you the moment they hang in the air. because it sounds invasive. And maybe it is. You’ve established this simple friendship through your love for art and other miscellaneous things, but questions about anything else–his members, his deeper relationships, his family–certainly feel off-limits.

You shift your gaze down to the neck of your bottle, feigning casualness, even though your mind is screaming. God, he’s thirty-one. He’s too attractive. Too grounded. There’s no way he’s not seeing someone. Even if it's not public. It’s not like you keep up with tabloids, but every friend you’ve had who followed Western bands swore up and down about many secret flings and long-term hidden lovers. Why would Namjoon be any different?

Why wouldn’t he?

But then he answers.

“No,” he says simply. Calmly.

Your eyes snap back up to his face.

He meets your gaze without hesitation, his posture still relaxed. But there’s a weight behind his words that makes them feel true. Not performative. Not for effect. Just honest.

“I’m not,” he repeats. “I haven’t dated in a long time. There was someone over four years ago. And someone else… maybe seven years before that.” There were others he was seeing for a bit, but it never evolved into anything. And usually always, he seemed to be the root cause of that. Not really worth mentioning that, he thought.

He shrugs one shoulder slightly, as if brushing it off, but the quiet undercurrent in his tone betrays him.

“They didn’t last. Not because they weren’t good people. They just–” He pauses. “There wasn’t really time before. Not real time. Not the kind where you could actually… show up for someone.”

You stare at him now. Not just his face, but his whole being. The slope of his shoulders. The tension in his jaw. The lines around his eyes that you now recognize not as age but weariness. You wonder how many pieces of himself he’s had to give away. How much of him is left for himself. For this version of him now–barefoot on a couch in sweats, sipping beer with you at midnight.

You’re about to respond when he shifts, looking over at you again.

“What about you?” he asks, and there’s something shy behind it. Hesitant. Like maybe your answer matters more than it should.

You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the floor.

“Me? I haven’t dated in a while either,” you admit. “College was… busy. Two or three flings that never really turned into anything. I always chose work, my projects. I guess I just figured there wasn’t room for both.”

Namjoon listens intently, eyes on you, head slightly tilted.

You swallow, voice softer now. “And at some point… I think I just stopped believing I was the kind of person people waited for. I settled just to not date.”

The room falls quiet.

He looks at you–not just looks, but it feels as if he sees you. Like you opening up about your love life rearranged something in him. His brow softens. He sits up a little straighter, knees brushing yours.

“That’s not true,” he says, voice low and sure. “You’re... someone people definitely remember.”

His hand reaches out, tentative, searching. His fingers graze the side of your face, knuckles brushing your cheek in a slow, reverent touch. You freeze under it, heart in your throat.

He leans in a little closer. Not rushing, not assuming. Just closing the distance like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you don’t move. You’re eagerly waiting for the next move.

And your voice wavers. “Namjoon…”

“I’m not trying to complicate anything,” he says, his forehead nearly touching yours now. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about you… and I don’t want to pretend like I don’t want to know you beyond art.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

And in the next moment, you both move–together, unsure of who initiates–but it doesn’t matter. Your lips meet in a kiss that’s hesitant at first, barely a brush. Then again, longer. Surer. Warmer.

Namjoon feels the shape of your mouth, the curve of your breath, the way you sigh into him like you’ve wanted this too.

God, he thinks. She tastes like an escape. A great escape. From all his stress. From sleepless nights. From this whole life he chose to live many years ago.

You both pause, pulling back a fraction, breath mingling. The room pulses with something unspoken.

Then you dive in again. This time slower. Deepening. Exploring. His hand cups your face more fully, thumb stroking your cheekbone as if to memorize the curve of it.

You kiss again and again, and somewhere in the middle of it, you shift forward, knees brushing his. He pulls you in gently, and before you know it, you're climbing into his lap. Straddling him.

Your knees are planted on the cushions below, your hands resting on his shoulders as you settle against him, close enough to feel his heartbeat hammering through the thin cotton of his hoodie.

Namjoon lets out a low breath, stunned at first. Then his hands move instinctively to your hips, steadying you, holding you there like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real. 

You’re facing him now, fully, and the sight of you this close, your flushed cheeks, your kiss-bitten lips, the wide, searching look in your eyes, undoes him.

You feel his breath against your neck, his hands warm through the fabric of your tank top. He tilts his forehead to rest against yours, the closeness unbearable in the best way.

“Fuck…I’ve thought about this,” he admits, voice roughened with restraint. “A lot.”

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

“You have?” you whisper.

Namjoon nods. His eyes flick between your own. “Since that evening I saw you at the museum. Since you sent me instagram reels that reminded you of things i’ve mentioned.” He grins, but it fades fast into something more serious. “Since you told me what you loved about Yun Hyong-Keun. Since I’ve seen you wear these sexy, yet simple, casual outfits,”

Your breath hitches.

“I’ve tried not to think about it too much,” he continues. “Tried to stay in control. Be good. Remember that you’re a curator probably just trying to maintain a good relationship with me, your client. But that wasn’t just it for me. You’re just not easy to forget.”

Neither are you, you think. In the last few weeks, you’ve grown to wait for his messages, and hear about his thoughts and his feelings. You’ve enjoyed him sending you selfies. You’ve thought about him late at night. But the words don’t come out to let him know.

Instead, you lean in again. And this time, there’s nothing tentative about it.

And underneath it all, you have no idea how long he’s wanted this.

To touch you. To consume you. It might’ve even been from the moment he met you. Reading your labels, opening up a new world to him that amused and frustrated him at the same time.

His hands grip your hips more firmly now, thumbs pressing into the rough fabric of your denim skirt as your mouths crash together again–deeper, messier. You're no longer holding back. The second your hips rock forward, you both inhale sharply. It’s instinct, friction, need–years of restraint unraveling between stolen breaths. You want to feel him, no, need to feel him.

Namjoon groans softly against your mouth, like the pressure against his cock beneath his  shorts surprises him. His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you feel how hard he is beneath you–thick and straining against the cotton of his shorts. Your breath stutters. You grind down again.

“Shit,” he whispers, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he sucks in air. “You can’t… you can’t move like that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” you breathe, the words barely formed. “I mean it.”

Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, pulling him in as your hips start a slow, grinding rhythm against his. There’s nothing frantic about it. Just drawn-out, indulgent friction. Dry, but heady. Heated. Real.

Namjoon kisses your throat now, lips warm and reverent, dragging along your skin like he’s desperate to memorize the taste of you. You tilt your head back to give him more, gasping when his tongue darts out to soothe where his teeth grazed. His hands remove your cardigan and slip under your tank, splaying wide against your back, dragging up slowly until his thumbs brush just under your breasts.

You arch into him. He pulls back slightly, searching your face.

“Okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, trembling with restraint.

You nod. “Yes. Please.”

And then his hands find your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your blue lace bra. Your back curves with the sensation, thighs tightening around him, as a low moan escapes you. He watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and reverent.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fuck.”

Your hips grind down harder, and the sound that escapes him is almost guttural. He grabs your waist with both hands, guiding your movements now, slow and deep, grinding the shape of his cock against your clothed center.

Every motion sends sparks along your spine.

When Namjoon’s fingers slip under the hem of your tank. He doesn’t rush. He just pauses there, his thumbs brushing soft circles against your skin. Then he tugs, gently, not forceful, not demanding. Just a question, wordless but clear.

Your breath catches. The haze in your head lifts slightly, the thrum of arousal edged now with hesitation.

You pull back a little, just enough to meet his gaze. “Wait…” you say softly, fingers curling around his wrist to still him. “Can I tell you something first?”

Namjoon’s eyes are immediately alert, open. “Of course.”

You take a breath. Then another.

“I’m not really… confident about my body,” you admit, trying to keep your voice steady. But it honestly just sounds like word vomit. “Especially not with my chest. My boobs are kind of… weird? They’re not perky. They droop, but not in that cute teardrop way people talk about online or show in porn. They’ve always been like that. Just… heavy. Uneven. And I guess I always worried that guys wouldn’t know what to do with them. Or worse, would see them and just… lose interest.”

God, he’s going to think you’re ridiculous, isn’t he?

However, Namjoon just stares at you for a moment, and then he smiles. So soft, so full of something almost like wonder. A giggle slips from him, not mocking but sweet and earnest.

You blink. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” he says, resting his forehead briefly against yours, “You’re talking to someone who once spent an hour staring at Koo Bon-woong’s Nabu at the MMCA, completely mesmerized by the lines of a woman’s back and the uneven curve of her breasts.” His hand strokes slowly over your side, not daring to go further yet. “Or Lee Kwae-dae’s 기대어 앉은 나부 1940년대. Have you seen it? One breast is visibly fuller than the other. Her arms look a little too long. It’s imperfect. But it’s alive. It stays with you.”

You swallow, something cracking open in your chest.

God, you really picked a intelligent man.

“Art doesn’t care about symmetry,” Namjoon continues gently. “It cares about presence. About the truth of something. And you…” His voice drops, reverent now. “You’d be a masterpiece. No matter how you look.”

Your eyes sting suddenly. You don’t know what to say.

Namjoon leans in, kissing your cheek, your jaw. “I want to see you,” he murmurs. “Only if you want me to. But I promise, there’s nothing here that could scare me off.”

You hesitate one last second. Then you nod.

And when he lifts your tank off, slow and careful, his eyes don’t drift. They stay locked on yours, until the fabric slips away and your skin meets the air between you.

Namjoon exhales. A soft, almost awestruck sound.

His hands glide up your sides, reverent, and he murmurs something in Korean under his breath you don’t quite catch. But you can feel the meaning in the way he holds you. Tender. Certain. Present.

Like you were never anything less than art.

And then his mouth is on you again, kissing a path down your collarbone, over the swell of your breast. His hand comes up to cup you while his lips close around your nipple, tongue swirling, sucking gently. New sensations storming through you with these actions.

“Namjoon–” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair.

“They’re beautiful, just as i thought.”

He moans against your skin, one hand lifting up your skirt to rub at your clit covered by your blue panties. It only pushed Namjoon further seeing that you matched your lingerie just to come hang out with him. You rock into his touch, needy, grinding down onto his hand and the firm press of his cock beneath you. The pressure is maddening. Delicious. Not enough.

You both move like you’re chasing something–chasing release, connection, the safety of each other’s hands. His thumb rubs slow circles where you’re aching, and your whole body shudders. You’re soaking through your underwear, can feel the wet heat smeared against the curve of him through all the layers between you.

Namjoon’s head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as your hips roll harder, faster. “Fuck, if we keep going–”

“I know,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “But I want to.”

He kisses you again–desperate now. Bruising. Starved. You rut against each other in sync, messy and quiet, until both of you are trembling.

Your breath hitches. Your stomach coils tight. You’re so close.

“I–” you start, but your voice breaks. He hears it anyway. Feels it in the way your body tenses.

“Come for me,” he whispers, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Just like this. I’ve got you.”

You do. With a broken cry muffled against his shoulder, you shake in his arms as your orgasm hits. It rips through you, drawn out by the relentless friction and the heat of his voice in your ear.

Namjoon curses low, grinding up into you a few more times before his hips stutter beneath you. He buries his face in your neck, breath shattering as he comes hard, cock twitching in his shorts against the soaked heat of your center. His grip on you tightens, then softens.

The silence after is thick. Heavy with breath. With everything that just passed between you.

Eventually, you both go still. Your forehead rests against his, your chest still heaving.

Namjoon chuckles softly, breathless. “Shit, so much for taking it slow.”

“Agh, I’m actually embarrassed.” You laugh weakly, arms still wrapped around him. “We didn’t even make it off the couch.”

He chuckles, “Don’t be embarrassed. I don’t regret this at all,” he murmurs, voice low and tender.

You kiss the corner of his mouth, smile against his cheek.

“Neither do I, though now i can’t go home like this.” you groan, carefully getting off of him not trying to stain his likely very expensive grey couch. “Just throw your ruined clothes in the washer,” he says, nodding toward the laundry area. “Stay the night.”

“Stay the night?” You blink, caught off guard.

He reaches for your hand and threads his fingers through yours. “It’s late anyway. I don’t want you out there with all the drunkards on a Saturday night. I’ll get you one of my shirts…”

Wearing one of his oversized shirts does sound dangerously comfortable, but then he adds with a smirk:

“After we move to the bed and finish what we started.”

Oh my god.

“Kim Namjoon?!” you gasp, then lower your voice with a sharp whisper. “Did you plan this all along? Are you really that deprived of sex as an idol–?”

“Yes. God, yes,” he giggles, dimples flashing. “But hey–I didn’t know you’d actually feel the same way. You played into it too, so we’re in this together.”

You roll your eyes, heart thudding wildly. You had thought about it, of course. But the risk, the reality of getting involved with someone like him always held you back. And yet, he’s the one making the moves. Making it real. And harder to resist.

“I was perfectly content being art buddies,” you mutter, teasing.

“But now we’re doing more than just talking about art. Doing art,” he grins.

“Clearly.”

“Starting again…right now,” he declares before scooping you up into his arms. You yelp in surprise.

“W–Woah! Hey!”

He mutters something under his breath–probably praying he doesn’t drop you–and somehow makes it to the bed in one piece. He sets you down gently, brushing your hair back from your face.

“I have condoms,” he says, already reaching for the drawer in his nightstand.

“Good to know,” you reply, then cock an eyebrow. “But… you’re not gonna make me sign an NDA or anything? This is kind of a big risk, no?”

Namjoon looks at you seriously, hand pausing on the packet. “I already told you. I trust you. There’s no need for all that.” “I admire that,” you say softly. “And I’d never dream of telling anyone. Not even my K-pop-loving friends from back home. They’d combust on the spot and probably crucify me.”

“Glad to hear it,” he murmurs, then leans in to kiss you again.

The kiss deepens quickly, all tongue and hunger. He lifts your knees gently, unbuttoning your skirt, fingers hooking onto your underwear and skirt and sliding them down with care. You shiver when the cool air hits your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by his touch–his fingers slipping between your thighs, finding your slick heat.

He strokes you slowly at first, kissing you through each quiet moan, then teasing your entrance with one careful finger, then two. When he feels how wet you are, he pulls back from your lips and shifts lower, eyes full of dark, focused hunger.

You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel his mouth on you–warm, insistent, devoted. His tongue slips inside you and your head falls back with a strangled cry. He groans against you like he’s starving for it, like the taste of you is something he’s imagined far too many times.

You buck your hips against his mouth, chasing the wave rising in your core–but just as you’re about to tip over the edge, he pulls away.

“Wait–what–”

Immediate sexual frustration hits you.

But then he flips you gently onto your stomach, his hand sliding under your hips to raise them. You hear the soft rustle of clothes being shed, followed by the rip of a foil packet.

“I’m going to put it in, that okay?” His voice is hoarse with restraint.

You nod into the pillow, voice a breathy whisper. “Y–yeah–ah!”

He presses into you slowly, the stretch making your eyes fly open.

“Oh fuck–” you choke out, nails gripping the sheets. “Couldn’t even wait, damn..” “I’ve been waiting a bit too long, baby.”

Oh, baby…

You haven’t even seen his dick–but you can feel how big he is. Each inch pushes deeper, and your body trembles around him, overwhelmed. 

Is it even possible to fit it inside you? You’ve been thoroughly prepped, but still! You haven’t done this in a few years.

Namjoon lets out a low groan behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You feel–fucking amazing…”

Namjoon’s thrusts start slow–but deep. Each drag of his hips feels like he’s trying to memorize the way your body fits around him, how you twitch and squeeze at every pullback. But it doesn’t take long for him to build rhythm, and then he’s pounding into you like he can’t help himself.

“F-fuck, Namjoon–!” you cry out, forehead pressed to the sheets, grabbing the same said sheets for dear life.

He grunts in response, fingers digging into your hips as he drives himself in again and again, filling you completely every time. You’re reeling–your body not used to this kind of stimulation. No one has ever stimulated you this way. No one has ever wanted to make it known how much they wanted you. Or how badly they wanted to ruin you.

You’re definitely soaking him and these sheets. The sounds between you two are obscene, and it only turns you on more.

Your mind spins. How did this happen so fast? You’re usually so cautious, so calculated when it comes to sex. But he has you unraveling. There’s something about the way he takes you–how open and vocal he is, how tender and filthy all at once. It makes your pulse pound with something deeper than just lust.

Another orgasm sneaks up on you before you can even brace for it.

You clench hard around him with a gasp, your whole body seizing with pleasure. “Shit–shit–I’m cumming again–!”

Namjoon groans loud into your neck, the sound vibrating through your spine. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

Your arms give out under you, and you collapse against the bed, panting into the sheets. He slows for a moment, breathing heavy, eyes searching your face.

“You okay?”

You’re flushed and pissed–and not at him.

“No,” you snap weakly, breathless. “I’m fucking mad.”

He freezes. “Wait–what?”

“I lost myself too quickly,” you groan, turning your face to look at him. “I told myself I’d take it slow, and now I’m already cumming twice like I’m in some kind of fever dream.”

Namjoon’s lips twitch in a smile, clearly amused.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn. “I can go for more.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“I want to make you cum this time,” you declare, sitting up and pushing your messy hair from your face. “Let me ride you.”

That wipes the grin clean off his face, replaced by something darker.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. He is gonna fucking love this.

“I’m sure.”

He smirks, impressed. “Alright then. Let’s see what you can do, baby girl.”

You roll your eyes, move quickly, both of you shifting positions. Namjoon lies back, head propped against his pillows, arms resting behind him in a slow, cocky sprawl. His eyes track your every move, and now that you have space to look at him fully–fuck.

You finally see him.

Your gaze drops–and your breath catches.

Holy shit.

His cock, slick and flushed and painfully hard, looks even bigger now that you’re seeing it properly. Veiny, thick, girthy in a way that makes you second-guess every confident thing you just said.

You’re about to put that inside you again? You’ve officially lost your mind, L/N F/N.

Still, you climb over him, hands trembling slightly as you wrap your fingers around the base.

“You good, baby?” he murmurs, watching your expression with quiet concern. Constantly calling you baby… God…he will be the death of you. This man feels the same too, though you don’t know that.

“Y-Yeah, just processing your... situation,” you mutter.

He laughs, husky and low. “Take your time.”

You hover over him, grip tightening as you angle him toward your entrance. Slowly–so slowly–you lower yourself down.

The stretch makes you groan instantly, your thighs trembling from the effort.

Namjoon’s eyes flutter closed, brows furrowing in pleasure. “Fuck, you feel good.”

You inch down further, and further–until you’re seated fully in his lap, completely filled. Your nails dig into his abs for support.

“God,” you pant, adjusting your hips. “How are you fucking real?”

He gently rubs circles into your back with his palm. “You’re doing amazing, baby. Just go at your pace.”

You nod, focused, letting your body settle before testing the motion–shifting your hips in a slow, grinding roll.

Namjoon opens his eyes to look at you–and the moment your rhythm picks up, his mouth parts in awe.

She’s beautiful, he thinks. Completely unfiltered. The way your brows pinch in concentration, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, the way your chest bounces slightly with every motion–he’s fucking obsessed.

He swore he’d let you take the lead. He swore he’d hold back.

But that restraint doesn’t last long.

Your pace quickens, and the look on your face–the pleasure, the determination, the way you ride him like you own him–it breaks him.

“Shit–” he groans, hands flying to your hips. “Sorry, baby–I need to–”

He slams up into you with force, taking control again, driving himself deeper as you gasp out his name.

“Namjoon–!”

He pounds into you from below, hands guiding your hips down to meet each brutal thrust.

You can barely breathe, let alone think. All you can do is ride the wave of it–the rhythm of his cock stretching you open again and again, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls.

You’re both already close–so close–and the heat between you builds to another breaking point–

You ride him hard, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing in rhythm with your quickening breath. Namjoon’s grip tightens on your hips, grounding you through the rapid push and pull of pleasure mounting on both ends.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling sharply beneath you. You’re barely holding on–thighs trembling, eyes fluttering shut as another orgasm builds low in your belly. And then it crests, stealing the air from your lungs as you cry out, clenching hard around him as your body shudders from the release.

Namjoon gasps under you, brows furrowed deep, his voice cracking in that final second as he comes too–hips jerking up as his cock twitches and empties inside the condom, thick and warm, filling it far more than you expected.

He groans, head tipping back, completely undone. “Shit…”

You collapse forward a little, hands splaying out on the solid plane of his chest, using him to steady yourself. He’s warm, his heart thudding against your palms, the faint sheen of sweat across his skin glowing soft in the low light.

You're spent. Or at least, your body should be. But your mind is still racing. You want more. Want to see him fall asleep completely relaxed–without tension in his jaw or worry in his eyes. You want him to feel cared for, too, in a way you’ve never really offered to anyone else.

Carefully, you lift yourself off of him with a whimper at the sensitivity, reaching between your bodies to gently roll the condom off his softening cock. It’s heavy with his release, warm in your hand.

Namjoon lets out a slow, almost incredulous breath as he watches you. “Already eager to keep going?” he asks, a lazy smirk curling on his lips.

“Of course,” you murmur, tossing the condom aside and shifting your body again. You crawl up between his legs, knees pressing to either side of his thighs, hands sliding along his skin. “Now doing this…”

You lower your head and give the underside of his cock a soft, lingering lick–kittenish and slow. His body jolts faintly, oversensitive but already responding. You glance up at him, eyes wide, a faux innocence in your expression that makes his throat bob with a swallow.

You let your tongue trail up from the base to the tip, deliberately teasing, holding eye contact the whole time. His cock twitches against your tongue, not yet fully hard but already awakening under your gentle attention.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he rasps, watching you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

You press a kiss to his tip and then lick again, this time with a firmer stroke. “Wanna help you sleep like a king tonight,” you whisper against his skin. “No tension. No stress. Just melt into the pillows and let me take care of you.”

He exhales shakily, his hand lifting to brush your hair back from your cheek. “You’re so dangerous,” he mutters, but the way his fingers linger says he likes that about you. 

You giggle softly and wrap your lips around the head of his cock, coaxing him back to life with every warm, wet suck. One hand cups his balls gently while the other strokes the base of his shaft, your mouth working in slow, tantalizing pulls. You can already feel him growing hard again under your care–eager, despite just having cum.

Namjoon groans, one hand clenching the sheet beneath him. “You’re seriously gonna make me fall for you deeper by doing shit like this.”

You hum around him–intentionally letting the vibration tease him deeper–and keep going.

You suck him slowly, deliberately, coaxing him into full hardness again with your mouth, your tongue teasing every ridge and sensitive vein along his length. Namjoon’s hands slip into your hair, not forcing, just grounding himself in the sheer pleasure of your lips around him. His breath grows ragged, eyes fluttering as he tries–really tries–to hold back.

But then your tongue swirls around the head of his cock and you moan just a little, like you enjoy the taste of him, the feel of him stretching your lips. That’s all it takes.

“Fuck–baby, I’m gonna–”

He chokes on the rest of the warning as he comes hard, cock twitching in your mouth, hot spurts of cum hitting your tongue–and more. A thick, sudden spill lands warm on your cheek. You close your eyes and take it all in stride, swallowing every last drop with ease.

It tastes…surprisingly good. Slightly sweet, salty, clean. He really must eat well. Idol diet and all.

You finally pull off with a soft pop, licking your lips, and wipe your cheek with the back of your hand as you glance up at him. Namjoon looks absolutely wrecked–mouth parted, chest heaving, the remnants of disbelief in his eyes.

“Damn…” he exhales, voice hoarse.

His head tips back against the pillows, muscles twitching with aftershocks. He wants to go again–you can see it in the way his eyes trail over you, hungry and dazed–but this time, his exhaustion catches up to him first. For the first time in a long while, his eyelids actually start to flutter shut on their own.

“That…was so fucking hot,” he mumbles, still breathless. “But we need to take a hot shower before we sleep. I also need to change the sheets…”

You glance at the state of the bed and smile lazily. “If we go in together, we could finish faster and head to sleep?” you tease.

Namjoon laughs and instantly reaches for you, sweeping you into his arms again. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

He carries you–again, praying he doesn’t trip over his own feet (he’s a bit clumsy) and brings you into the bathroom just to the left of his room. It’s massive. Double sinks, a wide soaking tub set in dark marble, and a luxurious glass-enclosed shower with rainfall and handheld settings.

You both step in, the hot water already running and filling the space with gentle steam.

Namjoon pulls you under the spray and wordlessly reaches for the body wash. His touch is gentle as he lathers his hands, then begins softly washing your arms, your shoulders, your back. His fingers linger, not overtly sexual, but reverent. Almost too reverent. It makes your insides twist with tenderness.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice husky and close to your ear.

You nod, but your voice is small. “Yeah. Just…sensitive.”

He leans in and kisses your temple. “I know. You don’t have to push yourself for now.”

You shake your head, eyes closed as his hands gently trace suds over your waist. “It’s not that. It’s just–this feels really nice. And it’s making it hard to go back to a professional relationship.”

Namjoon’s hands pause. His chest presses into your back. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he says, almost too softly.

You don’t reply. Not yet. You simply turn and take the body wash for yourself.

“Your turn,” you say with a little smile, wanting to keep things light.

You gently start working the lather across his chest, over his broad shoulders, and then down his back. The muscles move under your hands like smooth, sculpted marble. He sighs deeply at your touch.

“You know,” you murmur as you wash down the center of his spine, “your back looks like a landscape to me.”

He chuckles. “A what?”

“Like a canvas. Like–I could paint a tree on it. Or wings. Or maybe a river cutting through hills.”

Namjoon hums low, smiling to himself. “You’re such an artist. Everything you touch turns poetic.”

“You’re the one who quoted nude paintings during sex, remember? You even make music about poetic euphemisms of riding you,”

He laughs, the sound echoing off the tile. “Touché.”

When you’re both finally rinsed and clean, he shuts off the water and steps out, grabbing the largest, fluffiest towel and wrapping you in it first. Then he ruffles another towel through your hair, drying you gently like you’re the most delicate thing in the world.

Once you're mostly dry, he hands you one of his oversized white t-shirts. It swallows you completely, falling down to mid-thigh, and smells just like him–earthy, clean, with a hint of something musky and expensive.

“You look really good in that,” he murmurs with a grin as he pulls on his own sweats.

You help him strip the bed, tossing the stained sheets into a hamper tucked in the corner of the room. Then, together, you remake the bed–Namjoon smoothing the fitted sheet while you fluff the pillows and pull the new comforter into place.

When everything’s set, you both crawl under the covers, bodies warm and damp and soft with sleep.

Namjoon pulls you into his chest, your back to him, his arm draped protectively over your waist. He exhales one last time, burying his nose into your hair.

“Can’t believe I’m going to sleep without checking my phone for hours,” he mumbles, already dozing. “You’ve gotta be magic.”

“That’s honestly all just you,” you smile to yourself, your eyes fluttering shut. “Goodnight, Joon.”

“‘Night, baby.”

And just like that, for the first time in a long time, he sleeps soundly through the night.

+

That night became the catalyst for a series of sexcapdes with Namjoon. You started visiting his place regularly–what started as late-night hangouts became something far more intimate, far more regular. Despite the chaos of his world tour preparation, long hours at the dance studio, late-night recording sessions, and relentless content filming, Namjoon always made time to see you. He'd slip home in the narrow windows between his schedules just to wrap his arms around you, to kiss you like he’d been starved, and to fall into bed tangled together.

Your sex life evolved into something rich and varied, a secret world just for the two of you. Namjoon, surprisingly attentive and open-minded, explored your body with curiosity and care, never rushing, always wanting to understand how you responded to every touch, every angle, every rhythm. You enjoy this too, and opt to go on birth control after some time just to ease the process for you both, while still using condoms at times to maintain protection. These are risky activites after all.

The kitchen table became your first unconventional setting. One late night, dressed in one of his oversized T-shirts and nothing underneath, you’d leaned against the marble countertop while making kimchi jjigae. One look from him, slow and hungry, and somehow you were up on the dining table seconds later. He tugged your hips closer until your toes barely touched the floor, then lifted one of your legs to rest on his shoulder as he thrusted his cock into you. The cold contrast of the table made you shiver, but his body was warm and grounding. His hands gripped your thighs tightly as he shoved himself into you, slow and deep, each movement echoing off the kitchen walls. The stew became cold, forgotten. Namjoon’s breath came heavy against your collarbone as he muttered, “Fuck, I could take you like this every night. Watching your body shake just from this angle–God.”

Another time, in the living room, you’d found yourself in his lap one late afternoon, straddling him while his back sank into the plush couch. You were both reading a book, which soon became forgotten. The light from the window cast golden streaks across his chest. You pressed your hands against his shoulders and sank down on him slowly, the stretch sharp and perfect. You moved with languid rhythm, your knees digging into the cushions, hips circling as your eyes fluttered shut. Namjoon couldn’t look away. His large hands spanned your waist and guided you as you rode him harder, your rhythm growing frantic, both of you getting lost in the slick, slapping sounds filling the space. One hand slid up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a messy kiss. She’s so fucking beautiful when she’s above me like this, he thought, hips bucking upward. “Just like that, baby… keep using me.”

The shower was chaotic in the best way. Slippery skin, fogged-up glass, and steam curling around your bodies as he pinned you against the wall. Your legs up, wrapped around his waist, water cascading down his broad shoulders as he thrusted into you, the sharp clap of wet skin muted under the patter of the spray. You gasped against his neck while he braced one hand against the tile and the other held your ass, adjusting your angle so he could hit even deeper. “You drive me fucking insane,” he growled into your ear, barely holding back. And even when he was losing control, he still reached down between your bodies to rub you gently, expertly, pushing you over the edge even as his own release built.

And then even at times, the bathtub. It started as a soak, your back against his chest, legs resting atop the edge, wine glasses on the side. But the moment you turned to straddle him under the water, your mouths met in a slow, heated kiss, and his cock slipped between your thighs. You guided him inside, gasping as the hot water surrounded you both. Your movements were slow and indulgent, bodies rocking beneath the surface, water spilling over the sides with every rise and fall of your hips. Namjoon held your waist with reverence, marveling at how your breasts bounced gently with every motion, your lashes wet and cheeks flushed. He whispered, “Baby, you look like something out of a dream,” just before his head fell back against the rim of the tub, lost in the pleasure you gave him.

One night, he brought up the Kama Sutra. You were sprawled on the bed, still slick and panting from a particularly intense session, and he casually flipped through the app on his phone, showing you diagrams. “For art and science,” he teased, nudging you with his elbow. You grinned, your curiosity piqued.

You laughed. “You’re actually such a pervert, Kim Namjoon.”

“You’re no different from me!” “I’m not even going to argue with that, let’s just try one.”

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a ritual. It helped him sleep better, too. You felt more livelier again after living in such a draining city. A surprising bonus.

He wanted to visit your place next, but you lived in Myeongdong, right above a busy alleyway filled with cafés and foot traffic from both tourists and locals. Too risky. One slip and someone might spot him, and you refused to be the reason his privacy got breached. So instead, his Hannam-dong apartment became your second home. His sanctuary turned into a shared one.

You started leaving things behind–changes of clothes, your favorite moisturizer, a toothbrush. Eventually, you even had a drawer, then a shelf. He didn’t mind. His closet was massive. You began using his place to rest after museum shifts, sometimes staying the night even when he wasn’t around. He’d given you the door passcode weeks ago, murmuring how precious you were to him while he typed it into your phone himself.

There were quiet nights when things were reversed. Sex first, then lounging, late night talks about music, art, artists, exhibitions, life, etc. One evening after a steamy sex in the shower, still wrapped in towels and slightly damp, Namjoon brought up something you’d mentioned during your first night over.

“You said you wanted to paint a tree on my back,” he says, rummaging through the closet.

You blink. “You remembered that?”

“I bought some body-safe paints and brushes. Even got a canvas drop cloth so we don’t ruin the floors.” He lays everything out with boyish excitement. “I thought it might be fun.”

Your eyes light up. He smiles, gently patting your head. “You’re seriously so cute.”

You both sit naked on the drop cloth, backs resting against the couch, warm lighting casting shadows across the room. Namjoon sits in front of you with his back to you, strong shoulders relaxed, spine straight. You dip your brush into black paint and start with the roots, then move slowly upward–every stroke intentional.

“So… what are we?” you ask suddenly as your brush moves along his lower back.

He chuckles. “Isn’t it a little late to ask that? We’ve been seeing each other for three months.”

“Just checking,” you say with a smile. “We’ve never put a label on this, so I want to know how you feel.”

He pauses for a moment before speaking. “I don’t mind labels. Or not having them. Some of my members don’t like being tied to those terms, especially with our jobs. But… being able to call you my girlfriend?” He turns slightly, flashing you that warm, dimpled smile. “That makes me even happier.”

You blush, caught off guard by his honesty. “Stop… you’re making my cheeks heat up…”

He laughs with his whole body, shaking his head in amusement. “What about you, baby?”

You hesitate. “I’ve been scared of labels, to be honest. I wasn’t sure if that would burden you. I didn’t want to add pressure on top of what you already deal with as an idol.”

Namjoon tilts his head slightly, sensing the sincerity in your voice. “If it’s you, I don’t mind it. Honestly, I think it’d give me more energy if you called me your boyfriend.”

You smile to yourself and dip your brush back in the paint. “Then, okay, my lovely boyfriend, I have finished the art.”

He stands and walks over to the mirror in the hallway between his bathroom and the closet. His eyes widen. “Is this a plum blossom tree in traditional Korean ink style?”

You walk over beside him. “It is. Plum blossoms symbolize resilience, hope, and perseverance in adversity. I think you embody that completely, especially after everything you’ve told me about your journey as an idol.”

Namjoon looks at you softly through the mirror, your reflection beside him glowing with warmth. His expression softens. His heart swells.

He turns and hugs you close, your bare chest pressing against his. You feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek.

“I truly love you, you know that?”

You giggle softly. “Yeah… of course I know. And I love you too.”

He pulls back with a playful smirk. “Now it’s my turn to paint you. Maybe I’ll put some flowers on your chest.”

He’s so precious. You burst out laughing at his cuteness, already reaching for the brushes again.

“Go for whatever your heart desires.”

January. After months of constant hangouts and long, ongoing conversations, itt’s been two weeks since Namjoon last texted you.

You don’t really mind the lack of communication. You know better than to assume the worst. He’s an idol. He’s juggling a packed schedule with rehearsals, interviews, late-night studio sessions, choreography tweaks, and the constant pressure of the public eye. Silence isn’t always rejection. Sometimes, it’s just exhaustion.

Still, the quiet lingers in your phone like an unopened letter.

You consider texting him to let him know you’ll be at Frieze Seoul, the international art fair held annually in the city, known for bringing together global collectors, artists, and institutions. It's one of the biggest events of the year–a week-long celebration of contemporary art spanning prestigious museums and galleries across Seoul. This year, the after-party for opening night is being hosted by Artue in a private rooftop space above Itaewon.

You’ve seen past articles–photos of Namjoon quietly observing installations at events like this, tucked in black caps or sponsored by a prestigious brand in branded clothing. He’s no stranger to Frieze. He even reposted a sculpture from the fair two years ago. But you doubt he’ll make it this year. With the tour prep underway and pressure all on as the comeback nears, it seems impossible.

Still, you hover over your phone screen. Should you let him know?

Would that be weird? Does he even care about your schedules?

Would maybe seem to him that you’re fishing for attention? Or worse–assuming he’ll be there? You don’t want to seem like a clingy girlfriend and you also don’t want to interfere with whatever he’s been up to. You get it. Maybe you should just get back to work.

You lock your phone without sending anything.

The COEX Convention Center is buzzing by the time you arrive, bright white lighting softened by the elegant glow of uplights bouncing off glass panels and floral installations. You walk through the tall revolving doors beside the Kukje Gallery Chairwoman Hyun-Sook Lee, CEO Charles Kim, as well as 3 other big gallery staff members you closely work with. Your heels click quietly across the marble.

Your For Love & Lemons Ophelia Gown, a floral satin slip dress clings to your figure, swaying at the hem with each step. The corseted bodice shapes your waist, soft ivory fabric catching flecks of light like pearls. You blend in–yet stand out. Clean and classic. Soft and smart.

“Y/N,” the Chairwoman leans in slightly, speaking over the hum of jazz and clinking glass. “You look lovely tonight. Walk with me.”

You heard the big lady boss, so you do.

“Tonight’s about presence. You don’t have to say much–just listen, absorb, and know who to recognize. Frieze is where art meets capital, and relationships are the real investment.”

“Yes, Chairwoman,” you nod, adjusting your clutch as you follow her into the crowd.

You’re introduced to gallerists from Tokyo and Berlin, a Swiss collector who apparently has a soft spot for Korean post-war art, and a British curator who mentions she follows your gallery’s Instagram. You smile graciously, thank her, accept the champagne flute a waiter hands you. Every few minutes, Director Bokyung Park sweeps past with a whispered cue–“That’s the Arario team. Oh, and the woman in green? She used to work with Zwirner.”

Jiwon and Sekyung, fellow Kukje Gallery assistants, are more relaxed now with drinks in hand, joke quietly near the sculpture exhibit by a Norwegian artist–tall slabs of glass stacked precariously like a frozen Jenga tower. You recognize a few celebrities from afar. One of them, a K-drama actor, brushes past your shoulder and nods with a grin. You smile politely, tucking hair behind your ear.

Matthew Thompson, the international liaison working at the Kukje Gallery with you, leans over and murmurs with his usual British charm, “You’re handling this well. Most first-timers freeze up at events like this.”

“I’ve worked under people like Curator Sungah Serena Choo for far too long to freeze up at events like these,” you reply with a small laugh. “That’s impressive of you, especially at your age being in this world.”

The night rolls on with curated elegance. Music swells from a live quartet in the corner, and the soft chatter of artists, dealers, critics, and collectors swirls around you like the fizz of your champagne. You’re perfectly composed, but something nags at the edge of your mind.

Would he have come here tonight?

Would he walk through those doors?

And if he did… would his eyes look for you, with the same thoughts that you’d likely be here?

You sip your champagne, gently sway your hips to avoid a passing waiter, and smile at someone you half-recognize from an online networking panel last year.

You remind yourself you're here for the art.

Not for the chance to see him.

But your eyes still glance toward the entrance.

Just once. Maybe twice.

A sudden roar erupts from outside the COEX venue–louder than anything you’ve heard all evening. It crashes through the air like a wave, spilling into the open glass lobby from somewhere far beyond the polished walls.

You glance up. Fans have been camped outside since sunset, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite idols and actors as they arrived for Frieze Seoul’s opening. Most can’t even get past security, but they wait anyway, with cameras in hand and phones pressed to barricades.

But this time, the noise is different. Sharper. Higher-pitched. Sustained.

Something tugs at your heart.

Could it be…?

“Oh my god–it’s BTS RM and J-Hope! They’re here!”

Gasps flutter across the floor like startled birds. Conversations falter. Glasses pause mid-air. And then the migration begins–art professionals, dealers, and curious attendees flock toward the mezzanine railing of the second floor, eager to catch a glimpse.

You follow slowly, stuck behind a few people in the crowd forming, your heels clicking against the marble as you try to peek between shoulders and heads. Eventually, you find a sliver of space near the glass edge–and there he is.

Namjoon.

Wearing a VISVIM Crosby short-sleeve leopard print shirt, black slacks, and a sleek crossbody bag. Next to him stands J-Hope, dressed in Louis Vuitton, just as effortlessly casual. Both are flanked by tight security and rich older socialites sponsoring the events, surrounded by camera flashes and waves of cheers from fans outside the building’s lower entrance.

Namjoon’s calm in the chaos, nodding politely to a curator you know who greets him. He lifts a hand in soft acknowledgment toward the crowd below. You just barely catch his profile. His sharp jawline, the lines of concentration that crease his brow.

You freeze. It’s glamorous moments like this that remind you how different your worlds really are. The privacy you shared, your bodies tangled together in the quiet of his apartment, feels so far removed from this spectacle. Still, you can’t help the soft awe that creeps in. He’s so composed. So charismatic. So... him. Yet, so different from the Namjoon you know.

You turn away before he can spot you. Not like you think he would amongst such a big room with a lot of people. Back to the exhibit you go. Back to the safe familiarity of your team, who’ve now scattered into small groups across the gallery floor. Just before adjusting the strap of his bag, Namjoon looks up toward the mezzanine. He catches sight of a figure turning away–your silhouette. Was that really you? The thought tugs at him, feeling bad that he hasn’t had the time to message you, or anyone really.  He needs to finish two more tracks on the album so he’s locked himself in the studio with the occasional Yoongi and Pdogg to help him with producing. Today was just lucky enough for him to have a schedule that pulled him out from the hell pit of work. And to see the sight of you after so long, it leaves his heart feeling excitement, yet sorry. He feels bad to cast you aside a bit, but he hopes you understand. But for now, he has other matters to attend to.

The rest of the evening passes in a haze of polite smiles and steady conversation. You network with visiting curators, directors from European museums, and several artists whose work you've followed since grad school. Champagne flutes come and go, passed around by white-gloved staff. You laugh at a lighthearted comment from Matthew Thompson about Americans trying to understand makgeolli, and smile as Bokyung Park introduces you to a pair of Paris-based collectors interested in your last exhibition.

But there’s a dull ache in your chest. You haven’t seen Namjoon again. Not even once.

And yet, you remind yourself–this is your job. He’s doing his. There’s nothing wrong here.

Later, an art world acquaintance you haven’t seen in a year waves you over, and you catch up while waiting for your ride to Artue’s exclusive rooftop after-party in Gangnam. You consider skipping it–your heart feels too unsettled–but something inside you says to go. To loosen up. To reclaim the night for yourself.

And so, you do.

At Artue’s rooftop after-party in Gangnam, you try to loosen up. Lights twinkle above like stars tethered to wires, casting a soft glow across the rooftop. The skyline hums around you, music pulses through the crowd. You sip your drink and sway a little to the sounds of H.E.R. performing, followed by Rosé and Se So Neon. Then Crush, then Dean. It’s electric. Dreamy. The air smells of night-blooming flowers and expensive perfume.

You sip your drink and let your body sway to the rhythm, willing yourself to dissolve into the crowd. For most of the night you’ve managed to stay on the edges, drifting between familiar faces, nodding through conversations, pretending the distance in your chest doesn’t ache.

And then you see him.

There he is.

Front and center near the main bar, Namjoon stands with J-Hope at his side, both of them animated in easy laughter. Two idols flank them, and then Minju Kweon–Head of VIP & Business Development, Asia at Frieze–glides into the circle, her tailored dress catching the light as she leans in to greet them. You recognize a few more faces orbiting in, industry players and rising artists eager for a moment, a smile, a photo. Phones flash discreetly, capturing proof of proximity.

Namjoon poses, not resisting the camera. His hand rests casually in his pocket, his expression gentle, open, polite. He bends down slightly when Minju says something, the corner of his mouth tugging into that warm half-smile that you usually see from him. J-Hope throws his head back at a joke, and Namjoon’s laugh follows, low and familiar.

From where you stand –maybe twenty feet away, tucked into a pocket of the crowd–it feels like a universe. You are close enough to trace the slope of his shoulders, to notice how the glow of the rooftop catches on his rings, yet far enough that he might as well be untouchable. He hasn’t seen you. And a part of you wonders if you want him to.

The divide between you sharpens under the music. Him: easy in his element, at the center of gravity, people orbiting without hesitation. You: an observer on the edge, glass sweating in your hand, caught between the pull of wanting to belong and the urge to disappear.

You start to turn your head, already imagining the neatness of a discreet exit. Better to leave the moment untouched than to risk being pulled into a spotlight you’re not sure you’re ready for. You sway, feeling a bit dizzy. Snap out of it. This isn’t good for you to ponder about. “Y/N.”

A hand taps your shoulder, jolting you out of the thought. You blink and turn.

Sekyung.

"There are a couple of idols who said they wanted to meet you. They’re fans of your works."

You blink. "Oh?"

She steps aside, and you’re introduced to two young men–Ricky and Matthew from Zero Base One.

"You curated the Origins of Silence exhibition at Kukje, right?" Ricky says, shaking your hand with a surprisingly warm smile, followed by Matthew complimenting and doing the same. 

"It was incredible. Your curation notes alone had me googling artists for hours."

"Thank you, that means a lot," you reply, your nerves smoothing into flattery.

You speak in Korean for a while about a few specific pieces with both men, before Ricky nods politely and excuses himself to mingle further. Matthew lingers.

"You’re American?" he asks in perfect English.

You blink. "Yeah–I’m from California, originally. Are you…Canadian?"

"Yeah, how’d you know?,” He chuckles. 

“I can hear it a bit from the accent!”

“Haha, it feels relieving to talk in a language I’m comfortable with." He leans slightly closer, still casual. "I’ve just started tagging along with Ricky at these events, but it feels so awkward trying to act so sophisticated and professional."

You laugh, the tension in your chest loosening more than you expect. "No worries, I feel the same, but hey, you’ve found another international person here to make you not feel too alone."

From across the party, Namjoon spots you.

He had lost sight of you hours ago, but he was sure he saw you earlier. Now, seeing you again–standing so close to Matthew, laughing–it triggers something deep inside his chest.

He knows about Matthew. Funnily enough, before a specific Weverse post of a fan accidently copy pasting the wrong korean meant for Matthew, instead of him. Young, talented, bright-eyed, full of momentum as Zero Base One ride the high of fourth-gen stardom. It’s not that Namjoon doesn’t respect him. It’s that Matthew represents something Namjoon is beginning to fear.

Time. Change. Relevance.

Namjoon clenches his jaw. He hates when he does this–spirals. Doubts. Wonders if he’s too old, too worn down, too deeply embedded in a life of late-night studio sessions and leadership roles to be someone’s... boyfriend.

Especially yours.

You're younger. Bright. Blossoming in your own career. So perfect for him it almost hurts. But maybe… not meant for him after all?

No. Fuck that.

He pulls out his phone and calls you.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. You glance at the screen. Namjoon.

Your breath catches.

“I’m sorry,” you tell Matthew gently. “I have to take this.”

He nods. “Of course.”

You step aside, barely hearing the music over your own heartbeat as you answer.

“Turn toward the center,” Namjoon says.

Your gaze shifts. And there he is.

Eyes locked on yours. A stillness in a sea of bodies.

“You’re here,” you whisper.

“Meet me by the emergency stairwell door in the back. We can’t talk here.”

His voice is low, firm. Sweet beneath the command.

“Okay.”

You weave through the crowd. He moves too, both of you drawn together like magnets. The stairwell is hidden behind a catering table and a black curtain. He reaches you first, hand closing gently around your wrist before tugging you behind the wall and through the heavy metal door. "Woah, Namjoon–"

"So when I'm not here, you decide to go talk to other idols?"

"Huh? What?"

"I saw you talking to Matthew, all smiling and shit. What was that about?"

"Huh? Matthew?" The idol you were just talking to? You had already forgotten his name. "Ah, the member from Zero Base One? Our gallery sales assistant introduced me to him were just talking about art and our upbringing abroad. Nothing more!"

"Really? Because it didn't look like that to me, or maybe even others."

"Absolutely not. What the hell are you on about? Are you jealous or something?"

Namjoon sighs, feeling stupid that he let his emotions get the best of him. "No, I'm not.." He scans you and the dress you're wearing. the way it hugs your body, the way it shows your cleavage. 

"Doesn’t sound like it to me!"

He looks away, "Ugh, let's go home. We've clearly been apart for a little too long and we’re taking this frustration out on each other." Two weeks doesn't feel too long, but dammit, it does to him. And to you too.

"Woah, wait!" He pulls your arm, pulling you walk down the emergency stairwell. He calls his manager to get the car to pick him up from a backdoor emergency exit that leads out an alleyway. no one should be able to see you two leave from here. He texts J-Hope to tell him that he's leaving ahead of him.

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard that you won't dare to talk to another idol and only think of me," he says  as the car arrives and takes you to his place.

You swallow hard.

Tonight is far from over.

The car pulls into the underground parking garage at Nine One Hannam, its tires whispering against the smooth concrete. Namjoon’s hand is already on your thigh, jaw clenched and unreadable, the tension in his body palpable.

The second the door opens, he’s out first, rounding the car to open yours. He doesn’t speak. Just grabs your hand, intertwines your fingers with his, and walks you briskly toward the elevator. His palm is hot, firm, grounding.

The elevator doors close behind you.

It’s like a dam breaks.

His mouth crashes against yours with a hunger you haven’t felt from him in a while–raw, claiming, desperate. He cups the back of your head, tongue sweeping into your mouth, breathing heavy through his nose. Your hands curl around his shirt collar, pulling him closer, gasping when he angles your head and kisses you even deeper. You worry the elevator will open at another floor and someone will enter, but luckily, it doesn’t happen. It seems the stars have aligned just for you and Namjoon here.

When the elevator dings at his floor, he doesn't stop. Just pulls away with a firm, “Come on,” voice dark and low.

He unlocks his apartment with one hand while the other holds your waist, already pawing at the curve of your hip. As soon as the door shuts behind you, he pins you to the wall beside the entryway, one hand gripping your jaw while the other slides down your side.

“This dress,” he growls softly, eyes raking over your body as though he’s just now really letting himself take it in. “God, baby… you look incredible.”

You barely have time to murmur a breathless “Thank you,” before he adds, voice lower, rougher, “But you look better out of it.”

He tugs at the zipper at the side, peeling the floral satin from your body slowly, watching your expression like a man starving. You step out of it, heat rushing to your face as you’re left in your lace white thong and heels. Namjoon’s already undoing his shirt–each button flicked open with precision–but he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, like it’s a fact. Not a question. So domineering, you think.

Your fingers brush at his lips slowly, as if sealing them will silence him and his urge to consume you. “I know.” 

Then he’s kissing you again. Guiding you backwards toward his bedroom without breaking contact, walking you there with strong hands and stolen breaths. Clothes trail behind the both of you: his shirt, his pants, your heels. When your knees hit the bed, he pushes you gently onto it, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

His voice dips. “Lie back. Spread your legs.”

You do–eyes wide, heart pounding–and he climbs over you, muscles taut and tense with restraint. His cock, thick and flushed, presses against your slick folds as he settles between your legs. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he says softly, hips grinding forward so the tip of his cock drags through your wetness. “You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you?”

“It was seriously nothing–” you breathe, but he cuts you off with a thrust.

It’s rough. Deep. Your eyes flutter shut.

“Then you won’t mind me reminding you who fucks you like this.”

He pounds into you again, each stroke controlled and precise, angled perfectly to hit the sensitive spot inside you. He lets your wrists go only to push your thighs up higher, spreading you open more obscenely so he can drive deeper. You moan, high and needy, and he growls as he pulls out, slapping the length of his cock against your soaked entrance–once, twice–before plunging back in. He’s gritting his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, watching you unravel. Your legs are trembling around his waist as he fucks you deeper, harder.

“You like that, baby?” he growls against your mouth. “Only I get to feel this tight little pussy. Only I can make you cry like this.” Thrusts continue as the wet slap of your bodies echoes in the room.

“You’re so…a-ah, f-fuck..Namjoom, please” you moan.

Hell, you are even crying a little–more from pleasure than anything. His pace is ruthless, but he still keeps checking in with soft touches, lips brushing your temple, whispers of “you okay?” that only you can hear.

At one point, he pulls out and flips you over. Presses your chest into the mattress and grips your hips hard enough to leave imprints. When he sinks back into you from behind, he lets out a broken moan–like he’s finally letting his jealousy melt into pure, greedy need.

“Look at you,” he pants, fucking into you with long, possessive strokes. “Taking me so good, even when I’m this deep?”

You whimper something like a yes, your cheek pressed to the sheets, barely coherent.

Then he leans down over your back, lips near your ear. “Let me see that face,” he says.

He grabs your waist, pulls you upright, your spine flush to his chest as he continues fucking you from behind in this new angle. One hand circles your throat lightly, keeping you steady. The other slips between your thighs, rubbing your clit in tight, focused circles. His thrusts grow sloppier as you clench down on him–your body tightening and pulsing in time with the strokes of his fingers.

“Come on, baby. Come with me. Show me who you belong to.”

You explode immediately. Trembling, gasping, your nails dig into his thighs as pleasure rips through you in waves.

He follows, only seconds later, with a guttural moan that sounds ripped from the base of his throat. His hips jerk as he fills you, pulsing deep inside until he has nothing left to give.

Then he pulls out suddenly, breath ragged. “On your knees,” he orders.

You scramble onto all fours, but he doesn't go behind you just yet. Instead, he walks around, grabs your chin, and presses the tip of his cock to your lips.

“Open.”

You do, and he slides in slowly–so slowly–until your mouth is stretched full, lips wrapped around the base. He lets out a shaky groan, hand cupping the back of your head. He doesn’t thrust at first. Just holds you there, watching tears prick the corners of your eyes. Then he begins to move. Controlled, deep strokes that leave you gasping and drooling.

“You take it so well,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your spit-slicked cheek. “All that smart mouth and now look at you. Fuck.” You give me a sly, silly smile. You’d love to argue a little bit more to rile him up, but your headspace is all over the place right now. Let’s just accept this fate being devoured by one of the finest men in Korea.

He pulls out with a wet pop and slaps his cock across your tongue–once, twice–before giving your ass a sharp smack. “Back on the bed. Face down.”

You scramble into position again, heart racing, and he doesn’t waste another second. He slaps your ass once more before grabbing your hips and driving back inside in one deep, punishing thrust. You cry out into the sheets as he pounds into you from behind, rougher now, voice rasping, “That’s it. Let me fuck the thought of anyone else out of your head.”

“Y-yes!! Fuck!”

Your orgasm crashes through you hard and fast, made sharper by the sting of another slap to your ass as you come. And he doesn’t stop–he keeps fucking you through it, body trembling with effort, until his own release overtakes him with a low, guttural growl.

You both collapse after a few more rounds, tangled in sweat-slick sheets and each other, your breathing uneven, hearts thudding out of rhythm before slowly syncing again. His hand strokes your waist lazily, thumb drawing idle circles into your skin. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “I really lost myself… after not seeing you for so long, and then suddenly seeing you talking to another man.”

You giggle, tilting your head toward him. “Ooh, you were jealous? Did you think I lost interest already?”

“Stop, baby,” he groans, hiding his face against your neck. “No. But… I wouldn’t have blamed you, honestly. I’ve been neglecting you.”

“Namjoon…”

“No, really. I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to text you, but I’ve been drowning in work. The album..we’re pushing for release in the next 2 months, and I haven’t been able to–”

“It’s okay, my love.” You cut him off gently. “I figured as much.”

“I missed you so much,” he admits, voice breaking with honesty. “More than I could even say.”

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “But next time… just let me know. Even a short text, so I don’t worry. You were completely M.I.A.”

“I know.” He exhales, brushing a strand of hair back from your face with aching tenderness. “I thought I could power through and surprise you with big news when it was done, but… I was wrong.”

You press your forehead against his, closing your eyes as his warmth seeps into you. “Joonie. Like I’ve always said, don’t worry about it. I’m here now. My worrying yapper king.”

Namjoon chuckles, dimples deepening, eyes soft as he looks at you. “Yeah. You are.”

He lingers like that a moment longer before carefully rolling out of bed, his body still languid from the intensity. He pads to the kitchen and returns with a tall glass of water. The kind of post-sex gesture that’s not flashy, but intimate–like he knows your needs before you do.

You sit up, muscles sore, and take the glass from him gratefully. As you sip, he sits at the edge of the bed beside you, his fingers ghosting down your back.

He hesitates. Then, quietly:

“Y/N… do you want to come by the HYBE building sometime?”

Your lips part, the glass freezing halfway to your mouth. “Huh?”

“I want to introduce you to the members. Officially.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Wait. Really?”

“I think it should be fine,” he explains, careful, like he’s rehearsed this in his head. “People already know I like art. If anyone sees you with me, they’ll just assume you’re an ‘art friend’...someone I know through exhibitions or gallery connections.” His tone softens into something more vulnerable. “But to the guys… I want them to know who you really are.”

The words sink in, spreading through your chest in a way that feels almost too big to contain. Meeting his members. The people he’s built his entire life and career with. The people who have seen every version of him you’ve only caught glimpses of in photos Namjoon has shared with you or just mentions in your late-night conversations with him.

It hits you like a tidal wave. This is real. Not just a pocket of time you’re stealing together, not just secrecy behind closed doors. He wants to bring you closer, to fold you into the circle of trust he holds so tightly guarded. Your excitement prickles with nerves. What if they don’t like you? What if you say the wrong thing? But beneath all that anxiety is something brighter, warmer: the thrill of being chosen, of being claimed, of being seen. By the person you love so dearly.

Namjoon has always moved with intention. Never rushed, never careless. And this? This feels monumental. Like he’s opening a door you hadn’t dared imagine he’d ever unlock.

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a whisper. “Okay.”

His gaze flickers to you, searching. “Okay?”

You nod, a smile curling shy but sure across your lips. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Relief washes over him, loosening his shoulders. “I think the guys’ll love you.”

“You sure they won’t hate me for monopolizing your time?” you tease, though your heart’s racing too fast to sound casual.

“Are you kidding?” His grin is wide, boyish, the kind that makes your chest ache. “They’ll thank you for keeping me sane.”

You both laugh, soft and sleepy, and lean back into each other, your head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist again like muscle memory.

The bath can wait. Sleep can wait. For now, it’s just the two of you. Breathing. Holding. Wondering how everything is somehow moving forward.