#akshstudios

“Are you nervous?” the makeup artist asks, noticing the way your fingers fumble with the tie of your robe.

“Yeah,” You admit, but you leave it at that.

There's too much on your mind, too many emotions swirling inside you. Namjoon's words and actions from last night should have eased your nerves, and yet, they haven’t —not entirely. Maybe it’s the weight of the traditions looming over the next 24 hours, each one an expectation you must fulfil. Among them, the consummation of the marriage lingers at the forefront of your thoughts. A shiver runs down your spine —not just from anxiety, but something else. As your mind flickers between apprehension and desire, you exhale, bracing yourself for the day ahead.

“Mo-mo,” You hear Hwan's voice. Your mood is instantly a little better as your hear the boy’s sunshine voice, you turn around startling the makeup artist a little, greeting him as he runs to you in his red suit.

“Boo-boo!” You cheer, picking him up to place him on your lap, “You look so handsome!” You squeeze his cheeks, attacking him with kisses, as the adorable boy giggles loudly.

“Hwanie?” You hear Jangmi’s excited voice and you roll your eyes as you hear her heels click against the floor as she practically runs to you, “You look so handsome!” She pulls the boy away from your lap, perching him on her hips, “Did you miss me?” She asks, and much to her betrayal, Hwan says no, giggling loudly at her betrayed face.

You join in the laughter, “Give him to me,” You pull him into your lap again, “Who bought you this, Hwanie?” You asked, fixing his little coat.

“Googie samchun,” Hwan said, jumping down to the floor and twirling to show off his little suit, “It's nice, right?” You nod, chuckling at him.

“Suits you,” You press yet another kiss on his cheek.

“He couldn't have chosen a much more attention-grabbing suit, right?” Jangmi laughs, bending down to hug and lift the boy up in her arms. “But it suits you, Hwan-ie.” She kisses his chubby cheeks.

“Where's your Omma?” you ask, scanning the room for Saera. 

“I'm right here,” Her cheerful voice comes, and you barely have time to turn before she pulls you into a warm hug. 

“Did you really think I’d miss the honour of attending the next Don and Madam’s wedding?” She teases, squeezing you lightly. 

“You mean you wouldn’t dare miss your Namu’s wedding,” You counter, jutting out your lower lip in a rare pout —something utterly uncharacteristic of you at twenty-five. “I know you have favourites,” You add, shooting her a mock glare. “And it’s not me.” 

 “Hey, that’s my baby brother!” Saera laughs shamelessly. “Of course, he’s my favourite.” 

“Wow,” Jangmi interjects, clutching her chest like she’s just been mortally wounded. “So, I’m just the spare, I guess.” 

Saera grins, offering a sliver of hope before swiftly yanking it away. “No,” she muses, pausing just long enough for dramatic effect. “You're my third favourite.”

“Bloody Jungkook is the second, isn’t he?!”

“Are you wearing lingerie under that robe?” Saera asked, her voice laced with playful mischief.

Jangmi giggled, nodding furiously in agreement. Earlier, she had whistled when you'd adjusted your robe, catching a glimpse of the delicate white lace beneath. You had shot her a glare and reminded her that it was forher brother, to which she’d dramatically gagged before promptly shutting up.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you closed your eyes, hoping to salvage at least some dignity. “It's tradition to wear something pretty for the husband,” You mumbled, willing the conversation to move on.

“I know,” Saera teased, her giggle full of amusement. “And you wear garters for the husband too.”

“Garters?!” you screeched, eyes flying open. “I didn’t know we had a garter tradition! I've never seen—”

“Oh, we definitely do,” Saera interrupted, smugly folding her arms. “It's just a private tradition —one not meant for an audience. The garter is part of your lingerie, and your husband gets to remove it himself later that night.” She even had the audacity to drop you a wink.

“Yet another gift for the husband.” Jangmi scoffed, rolling her eyes, but hummed in agreement a second later. “Adds to the moment, I suppose.” Jangmi and Saera giggled again, and you fought the sudden urge to shove them straight off the balcony.

“You do realize I'll return this torture in full on your wedding day, right?” you shot back, narrowing your eyes at her. “When you marry Taehyung, I will have my revenge.” Jangmi stuck out her tongue before darting behind Saera as you lunged forward, her laughter ringing through the room.

“Yah, settle down,” Saera chided, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “Don't get yourself hurt. Namjoon will want you in one piece.”

You rolled your eyes but relented, sinking back into your seat. Saera smiled approvingly before producing a velvet box and placing it in your hands. “Wear the garter. And your heels. Omma asked the staff to bring the dress —she’ll be here soon.”

Lifting the lid, you found the garter nestled inside, a delicate creation of white lace adorned with shimmering blue sequins and a silky blue bow. It was intricate yet elegant —subtle, but undeniably alluring. You nodded wordlessly, slipping the garter over your thigh, the soft lace feeling cool against your skin.

Jangmi reappeared beside you, holding out your shoes. “And here’s your torture for the day,” she smirked.

The heels had been custom-made for the wedding —designed with comfort in mind, knowing you’d be wearing them from morning until night. The thick, supportive block heels ensured stability, while the elegant straps wrapped securely around your ankles, promising a perfect fit. The craftsmanship was exquisite —baroque-like details etched into the golden embellishments, adding a regal touch. Despite their height, they were surprisingly light, making movement effortless. You slipped them on, fastening the buckles as the pieces of your bridal attire was slowly coming together.

The moment you slipped your feet into the towering heels, you wobbled, the unexpected height throwing you off balance. Your stomach flipped as the ground felt farther away than usual. Jangmi and Saera both rushed forward, hands outstretched to steady you, but you quickly lifted a hand to stop them, catching yourself before they could.

“I'm good,” you muttered, exhaling sharply.

Saera arched a brow. “Barely.”

Jangmi giggled. “We should tie you to oppa before the wedding so you don't trip at the altar.”

You shot her a glare but didn't respond, instead turning towards the large mirror. You had barely looked at yourself since this morning, too distracted by the constant rush of preparations, too focused on following instructions, listening to Saera and Jangmi’s playful banter —just like old times, after they had sent Hwan away with Jungkook and Taehyung.

Now, as you finally took yourself in, your breath caught.

Your makeup was soft, elegant —ethereal. Shimmering eyeshadow caught the light every time you blinked, a gentle glow dusted your cheeks, and your lips had just the right tint of colour to look effortlessly perfect. Your hair had been curled and styled into a bun —it was arranged meticulously, structured yet romantic, designed to accommodate the tiara.

Your fingers trembled as you reached up to lightly touch the heirloom.

The tiara was stunning —massive diamonds and pearls intricately woven together to form a halo-like design. A Kim family treasure, it had first been crafted for the very first Madam, a symbol of power and legacy. Only eight women before you had worn it, including the current Madam and Saera herself. It was over six generations old.

And now, it was yours to wear.

You swallowed.

“You should put on the blindfold now,” Jangmi said suddenly, breaking your trance. She pulled a sleep mask out, holding it up with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Let’s hope this is secure enough, and you don’t catch a peek of the dress before time.”

You frowned. “Is this really necessary?”

“It’s tradition,” Saera and Jangmi chimed in unison, their synchronized answer almost eerie.

You sighed, rolling your eyes, but took the mask and slipped it over your eyes.

You hadn’t seen your wedding dress yet. It was a long-standing Kim family tradition for the mother-in-law to choose the bride’s gown —a custom meant to symbolize acceptance into the family, though to you, it felt more like a test of blind faith.

A part of you had been disappointed at first, longing for the experience of selecting your own dress, of running your fingers over delicate lace and shimmering silks, of deciding for yourself that you would wear on one of the most important days of your life. But you knew better than to dwell on it. Madam Kim was nothing if not extravagant, and despite her simpler nature, she had impeccable taste. You trusted that she would choose something fitting of her son’s bride. Besides, Jangmi had assured you, more than once, that if her mother dared to pick an ugly dress, she’d personally set it on fire.

You had tried it on a few times, of course —blindfolded, another tradition meant to preserve its sanctity until the big day. Each fitting had been a strange, almost surreal experience. Standing still as seamstresses flitted around you, their fingers adjusting fabric and pinning lace, you had felt the weight of the gown, the soft rustle of its skirts, the gentle tug of a corset being tightened just right. It was heavy, luxurious, something undoubtedly designed to make a statement.

But what did it look like? Was it sleek and regal, or romantic and flowing? Were there pearls stitched into the bodice? Embroidered roses trailing down the train? You could only imagine, left to build a vision from the fleeting sensations of silk against your skin and the whispered compliments of the women around you.

Soon, the blindfold would come off. Soon, you would see yourself as a Kim bride.

“The dress is here,” Saera announced.

The sound of wheels rolling in filled the room as staff carefully brought in the dress stand. There was a rustling of fabric, the low murmurs of the assistants working swiftly, and the occasional sharp inhale from Jangmi —undoubtedly reacting to the sight of the gown.

You, however, saw nothing. Instead, you felt.

The next several minutes passed in a flurry of movement. The weight of the fabric as it was draped over your body, the soft whisper of the material against your skin. The careful slide of sleeves over your wrists, the structured bodice fitting snugly against your frame, the gentle tug as they fastened the gown in place. You reached out blindly, fingertips grazing the textured embroidery, the intricate beading —trying to imagine how it looked.

You couldn’t tell much, but knowing the Kims, it would be a statement piece for sure.

Finally, they stepped back, their hands leaving you.

A moment of silence settled. Then, Saera spoke. “Perfect,” she murmured, voice full of something unreadable. There was a pause before she called out, “Go get Omma.”

You shifted slightly, fingers twitching against the fabric of your dress. The anticipation was unbearable. Then, Saera's hands found your shoulders. She turned you gently, repositioning you to face where you thought the mirror should be. Her voice was softer this time, almost reverent, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the moment.

“You can take off the mask now.” You hesitated for half a second before lifting the blindfold.

And when you finally saw yourself —you almost didn’t recognize the woman staring back at you. You exhaled, pressing your hands to your lap to steady yourself. It was really happening.

Your breath hitched.

The dress —your dress was unlike anything you had ever seen before.

The bodice was sheer perfection, sculpted to your figure like it had been crafted just for you. Delicate illusion sleeves clung to your arms, barely there yet impossibly stunning, an extension of your own skin. Pearls and crystals cascaded across your collarbones like stars scattered across the midnight sky, shimmering with every breath, every movement. They trailed down your shoulders, tracing elegant patterns along your arms, wrapping around your wrists like fine jewellery.

The sweetheart neckline was graceful yet bold, accentuating your neckline with a regal softness. The sheer fabric at the back was adorned with the same delicate embellishments, creating the illusion that the pearls and crystals were floating over your skin. Then, there was the skirt.

The moment your gaze dropped; your breath left you entirely.

It was magnificent. Layers upon layers of the softest, most ethereal fabric pooled around you, forming an A-line silhouette that was both grand and weightless. The skirt was full, poofy—but not overwhelming. It moved like liquid moonlight, each fold catching the light, each gentle sway exuding effortless grace.

And the train –long and regal. It billowed behind you in a cloud of opulence, embroidered with subtle floral patterns that glimmered under the lights. Tiny, hand-sewn pearls dusted the hem like morning dew, a final, exquisite touch to an already breathtaking masterpiece.

You didn’t even realize you had been holding your breath until you exhaled shakily.

“Holy shit.” Jangmi let out a dramatic gasp. “You look beautiful!”

You swallowed thickly, your fingers brushing against the sleeves, the beading, the skirt —feeling every inch of the craftsmanship, the details, the weight of history and tradition stitched into its seams.

This wasn’t just a dress.

It was a crown —a crown fit for the Bangtan’s Madam and you were wearing it.

“I look… beautiful.” You say, utterly mesmerized with yourself. You twirl around, loving the way the train followed you.

“Beautiful is a small word for you, right now,” Saera smiles, looking proudly at you, “Namjoon is gonna be on his knees when he sees you, I swear.”

You giggle excitedly because, yeah —today, you could have any man on his knees praying for you, worshipping you.

“Omo!” You hear your mother-in-law, the Madam’s voice ring through the room. You grin and give her a bright smile, “Oh my god! You look absolutely divine, my darling! Namu is a lucky boy!”

“Thank you, ommo-nim!” You let her give you a hug, flushing when she holds both of your hands and tears up.

“I can’t believe this day has finally come,” She sniffles, “You have grown up so fast and so beautiful,” She lets go of your hand, wipes her tears, “I can’t wait to watch you have a family and grow to be an amazing woman I know you can be!”

“She is already an amazing woman, Omma,” Jangmi rolled her eyes at her mum, “Oppa—”

“I know that, you brat.” Madam Kim shot a dirty look, though cracking a smile as Jangmi giggled at being called a brat. “I am just so excited to see what life holds for them in the future,”

"Are you about to give another lecture?" Saera asked, eyeing him with suspicion. "You did the same thing while putting on my veil."

"Do I seem like someone who lectures all the time?"

"Yes." Saera and Jangmi nodded in perfect unison; their expressions solemn. You giggle, and the Madam shot them a glare, and turned to you.

“Did you not wear your earrings yet, sweetie?” Madam Kim asked, suddenly noticing that your ears were bare. Your eyes widen slightly, as you make an apologetic face.

“Almost forgot,” You smile abashedly, “Let me wear them right away.”

“Let me, honey.” Your mother-in-law said, thanking Saera as she brought forward your box of accessories.

You bent down a little to help her reach your ears, feeling oddly emotional at the care she was showing as she meticulously helped your put on your simple pearl and diamond earrings.

“All that is left is a veil,” Madam spoke again, “Bring the veil,” She instructed and Seara brought in a long veil.

The veil is soft between Madam Kim’s fingers, a delicate piece of lace, tulle and embroidery, its weight light in her hands but heavy with history. Generations of Bangtan brides have worn it before, each one stepping into a marriage bound not only by love but by duty, by power, by a world that does not forgive the weak.

As she lifts it, her movements are slow, reverent —like she’s not just placing fabric over your head, but bestowing something far greater; something weighty with meaning.

She adjusts the veil, stepping back to admire her work, before reaching for your hands. Her palms are warm, her grip firm but comforting. When she speaks, her voice is gentle, but there is steel beneath it.

“Nari,” she begins, eyes searching your face, as if memorizing this moment, “Marriage is… a lot of things. It’s love, yes, but love is not always enough. Love is easy in the beginning —when everything is new, when the world feels like it belongs to just the two of you. But love alone won’t carry you through the years.”

Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, her expression turning solemn.

“You will have to be forgiving. Not just once, not just when it’s easy, but over and over again. Some days, you will wake up and feel like Namjoon doesn’t understand you. Some days, you will feel like he is pulling away, or that the weight of his responsibilities is greater than the space he has left for you. And you… you will have to choose patience. You will have to remind yourself why you chose him in the first place.”

She squeezes your hands gently, but there is an unspoken warning in her words.

“You are marrying into a world that demands everything from its men. You are marrying a man who carries the world on his shoulders. There will be days when he comes home with blood on his hands —sometimes his own, sometimes others’. There will be nights when he cannot tell you where he has been or what he has done. And there will be moments when you will wonder if the man standing beside you is the same one you vowed yourself to.”

You swallow hard, your heart beating fast.

“But listen to me, my love,” Madam Kim continues, her voice unwavering. “You must never let this life make you bitter. Do not let silence build walls between you. Do not let anger turn to resentment. Be his peace, not his war.”

Her words settle deep, pressing into the spaces of your heart that are already bracing for what is to come.

“There will be fights,” She says, her mouth curling into a small, knowing smile. “Oh, there will be fights. He will frustrate you. He will shut you out. He will think that by keeping you in the dark, he is protecting you. And you… you will want to break him for it.” She exhales, shaking her head slightly. “But you must learn to forgive. To love him even when he makes it hard. To remind him, every single day, that he is not alone in this life. That he is not just a leader, or a soldier, or a man carrying the weight of an empire —he is your husband.”

Your throat tightens, vision blurring for just a moment. Madam Kim reaches up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the same way a mother would.

“Most of all, Nari… never stop choosing each other. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Because at the end of the day, love is not just a feeling —it is a decision. And every day, you must wake up and decide that no matter what, you will not give up on each other.”

She blinks rapidly, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a quiet laugh. “Aigoo, look at me, getting sentimental.”

You shake your head, blinking back your tears as you grip Madam Kim’s hands tighter. “No… this means everything to me, ommo-nim.”

In that moment, she became everything your own mother never was, and for the first time, you truly felt that having her as your mother-in-law was a blessing.

Madam Kim smiles, pride and affection shining in her gaze. “Then hold on to it, my sweet girl.”

She steps back, smoothing out the veil one last time, before whispering, “Now, let’s go —there is a husband waiting for you at the altar.”

And with that, she presses a final kiss to your forehead before stepping away, letting the moment settle between you like a promise —one sealed with love, with duty, and with the quiet strength that comes with choosing forever.

The door creaked open, slow and deliberate. The room was quiet except for the rustling of fabric as you adjusted the last details of your dress, smoothing out invisible creases, steadying the breath that had suddenly become shallow in your chest.

Then, you looked up. And there he was.

Your father stood frozen in the doorway, his broad shoulders squared out of habit, but there was something else in his stance —something almost hesitant. As if he were seeing you not just as you were now, but as every version of you he had ever known. The child he carried on his shoulders, the teenager who tested his patience, the woman who now stood before him, ready to step into a new life.

His eyes —those same eyes that had always held quiet strength, softened in a way you had never seen before. His lips parted, as if to say something, but for a moment, words failed him. His gaze drifted over you, taking in every detail. The delicate embroidery of your gown, the way your hair fell in soft waves, the way your hands trembled slightly before you clasped them together.

A slow breath left him, almost unsteady. He blinked once, twice, before finally shaking his head with a quiet chuckle, as if in disbelief.

“You look…” His voice was rough, edged with emotion he wouldn’t fully reveal. He cleared his throat, trying again. “You look beautiful, honey.”

A lump formed in your throat, unexpected but undeniable. Tears pooled in your eyes; your lips lightly trembling as you reached out to him.

He stepped closer, reaching out with careful hands —the same hands that once guided you across the street, that held onto the back of your bicycle, that fixed broken things without ever being asked. He straightened the delicate jewellery at your wrist, smoothed a stray wisp of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Then, he exhaled, his eyes meeting yours. “I’m so proud of you.”

It was soft, but it landed with the weight of a lifetime.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the nerves, not the anticipation, not the photographers clicking pictures, not the ceremony waiting beyond these walls. Just this. Just his first look.

The sleek black limo hummed softly as it cruised through the streets, the golden glow of streetlights flickering across the tinted windows. The weight of your dress pooled around you, heavy against your lap, matching the heaviness in your chest. Your fingers twisted together; knuckles pale with tension.

Beside you, your father shifted, then sighed. As if sensing the unease in your posture, he reached for your hand, covering it with his own. His grip was warm, firm —steadying.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart.” His voice was soft, laced with quiet pride.

You swallowed hard, turning to look at him. His face, lined with age and wisdom, carried something else—something unspoken.

“Are you ready?”

A part of you wanted to shake your head. To tell him no, to beg him to take you back home, back to a time before all of this. But instead, you only exhaled. “I don’t know.”

He gave your hand a squeeze, a small smile playing at his lips. “That’s alright. No one ever really is.”

The words didn’t comfort you.

You hesitated before speaking again. “I know this is what you wanted, but…” Your throat tightened. “What if it doesn’t work? What if I—”

Your father’s grip on your hand tightened, just a fraction. “You’ll make it work.”

Your breath caught.

He turned to face you fully, his expression still gentle, but now edged with something more serious. “Marriage, in our world, is not something you walk away from, honey.” He stroked his thumb over your knuckles, as if bracing you for the weight of his words. “It’s a bond that holds —promise. You don’t get to undo it because it’s hard.”

You blinked, heart hammering.

“But what if—”

He shook his head. “You can visit me whenever you want, my love. My door will always be open to you.” He paused, his voice dropping just slightly. “But it won’t be the same. This is your home now. He is your home. Your place is with him.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. You turned away, staring out the window as the venue came into view, towering and grand, bathed in soft golden lights.

“Will he treat me well?” Your voice was quiet —small.

Your father was silent for a moment, and then, with careful certainty, he said, “He’ll treat you right.”

Not with love. Not with kindness. But right.

It wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

The limo came to a slow, smooth stop.

Your father let out a slow breath, then cupped your face gently, his rough palm warm against your cheek. “You are strong, sweetheart —stronger than you know. And no matter what happens, you will carry this with grace. Like the women before you.”

A lump rose in your throat. “I don’t want to leave you.”

His gaze softened, but there was something final in the way he looked at you. “You’ll never lose me.” A pause. “But you have to step forward now. Not back.”

The door opened.

With a deep breath, he held out his arm. And, with the weight of inevitability pressing down on you, you took it.

It was time.

The air in the private study is thick, with aged leather, old cigars, and unspoken truths. The weight of generations clings to the mahogany bookshelves, the heavy drapes, the very walls of this room that has witnessed countless decisions shaping the bangtan empire.

Namjoon stands in the centre, sharp in his wedding suit, but tense. His fists curl loosely at his sides, not in defiance, but in restraint, in control. Yet his father sees through him, as he always has.

Behind him, the rest of Bangtan stands in silence. Their presence is a quiet force in the room, the unbreakable brotherhood that has always defined them. They are dressed in their finest, but even in their polished shoes and pressed suits, there’s an edge to them, the unspoken understanding that this is more than just a wedding day.

This is a transition —shift in the ground beneath them all.

“Sit,” the Don commands.

Namjoon obeys, moving to sit on leather chair across from grand desk. The weight of this moment settles in his chest —not just as a son, not just as an heir, but as a man on the precipice of something unknown.

The Don studies him carefully before speaking.

“You are about to take a wife.” The words are simple, yet they carry the weight of a decree. “And with her, a new kind of responsibility. Not one of duty, not of obligation —but of choice.”

Namjoon doesn’t respond, but his father sees the slight shift in his jaw. The way he braces, prepared for the lecture on power, on control.

But the Don leans forward instead, his gaze sharp and piercing.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, voice low. “That this is another contract. That this is another alliance to uphold, another role to fulfil.” He tilts his head slightly. “But listen to me, and listen well, son. Marriage is not a transaction. It is a battlefield. And if you are not careful, if you treat it like anything less, you will lose before the war has even begun.”

Namjoon exhales slowly, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He has won wars. He has commanded men. But this feels like a different kind of fight altogether.

The Don studies him, then leans back in his chair, his fingers interlocking atop the desk.

“You think you understand loyalty,” he says. “But you don’t —not yet.” Namjoon’s spine stiffens slightly, but his father continues. “You have been loyal to me. To this family. To this life. But now, you will learn a different kind of loyalty —the kind that binds two people together in ways more unshakable than any blood oath or family name.”

A pause. Then, softer, not weaker, but more deliberate.

“She will need to trust you, even when she fears you. She will need to rely on you, even when she resists. And you—” he exhales slowly, as if speaking from experience, “you will have to let her in, even when everything in you tells you to keep her at a distance.”

Something tightens in Namjoon’s chest. The Don sees it. He lets the silence settle; lets it sit heavy between them before speaking again.

“There will be nights when you are tired. When the weight of this life is too much. When you will want to bear it alone.” His voice dips, a warning, a plea. “Do not shut her out.”

Namjoon clenches his fist, his pulse steady, but his mind restless.

His father’s gaze sharpens. “A man who rules his home with fear is not a man. Power is not about control —it is about how much you are willing to give away, and still be unshaken.”

Namjoon swallows. He has never been afraid of power. Never doubted his ability to wield it. But this is something else entirely.

Then, his father speaks the words that shake him to his core.

“Do you love her?” Namjoon stills. His breath catches, just slightly, just enough for the Don to notice. For the first time in his life, Namjoon has no answer.

The Don exhales through his nose, as if he expected it. Then he nods, slow and measured.

“Then listen to me.” His voice is quieter now, heavier.

“Love is not something you wait to feel. It is something you build —brick by brick, day by day. Love is deciding, every morning, that you will not walk away, that you will not be the kind of man who leaves his wife wondering where she stands.”

The words cut deeper than Namjoon expects.

His father has never spoken to him like this —not as a Don, not as a leader, but as a husband who has fought this war himself. For the first time, Namjoon wonders what kind of man his father was on his own wedding day. If he was just as unsure, just as shaken.

The Don rises from his chair, walking around the desk until he is standing before Namjoon. Then, slowly, he reaches for the tie draped around his son’s collar.

With steady hands, he begins to knot it.

“You are my heir,” he murmurs, tightening the fabric, making it crisp and perfect. “You are my blood. But today, you take on a new title.”

He lifts his gaze, meeting Namjoon’s eyes—the same dark, piercing gaze that mirrors his own.

“Husband.”

Namjoon’s throat feels tight.

The Don fastens the last knot, then pins the Bangtan brooch to his lapel, securing it with a firm press of his fingers.

Then, the final touch—the boutonnière. A delicate bloom, carefully chosen, carefully placed. A symbol of unity.

The Don steps back, surveying his work.

“Be a good one,” he says. “Because when the world tests you and it will, when the weight of this life bears down on you, she will be the one standing beside you.”

He turns then, letting his gaze sweep over the rest of the room. Over the six men standing in silence —watching, listening, learning.

“And this lesson,” he says, voice firm, carrying across the space, “is for all of you.”

The Don turns to look at all the Elites standing around.

“All of you have made me proud,” he says, his voice steady but carrying something deeper than authority. “You have stood beside each other, as brothers, as comrades, as made-men, as my sons. You have built this empire with us. You have proven yourselves again and again.” He takes a breath, “But one day, each of you will stand where he is standing now.” His eyes sharpen.

“And when that day comes, I do not want to repeat this conversation.” He says, “You think you are only here to witness his moment, but you are wrong. This is a lesson each of you will need.”

There’s a faint smirk from Yoongi, the ghost of a smile from Jimin. But none of them dare to break the gravity of the moment.

“As always, you will learn from each other. And I expect you to remember these words when your time comes.” His voice lowers, rough with something that feels almost like affection. “When you stand where Namjoon is standing now, I hope you will not have to ask yourselves the same questions. I hope you will already know the answers.”

He exhales, looking over them one last time.

“When you take a wife, you take on more than a title. You take on a life that is now tied to yours, irrevocably.” His gaze lingers on each of them. “Do not take it lightly.”

His gaze lingers —piercing, searching.

“You will owe her more than your name, more than your protection, Namjoon-ah. You will owe her certainty.” His words settle like a final decree, something absolute, something unshakable.

“Do not take it lightly. Love is not given. It is earned. It is protected. It is built.”

Then, almost like a farewell.

“When I am gone, and you have only each other, remember this.”

The weight of those words lingers.

The Don looks to Namjoon one last time, adjusting the lapel of his suit with deliberate care, as if imprinting this moment into the fabric itself.

The silence is deafening and then, softer but no less powerful:

“Do not be the kind of men who make their wives wonder where they stand.” Then, with finality, the Don gives Namjoon’s shoulder one last squeeze. “Now go,” he murmurs. “Your bride is waiting.”

Namjoon nods, and for the first time all night, he does not hesitate.

You stand beside your father in front of the towering double doors leading into the grand wedding hall, your fingers clutching the bouquet tightly in one hand while the other rests in the steady grip of his arm. A quiet tension hums in the air, your heart pounding against your ribs as the weight of the moment settles over you. Inside, Saera, Jangmi, and the rest of your loved ones are already seated, waiting. But beyond them, beyond the lavish floral arrangements and the golden glow of chandeliers, waits the most important figure of all —Namjoon. The next Don. The man who will soon be your husband.

The moment the doors swing open, a rush of music swells from the live orchestra, and for a fleeting second, anxiety grips you so tightly you nearly forget to breathe. The sea of faces, the hushed murmurs of admiration —it all feels too overwhelming. But then, your father’s reassuring hand squeezes yours, grounding you, and you inhale deeply before stepping forward.

You opted not to wear a veil, allowing everyone to see the quiet determination in your eyes, the soft curve of your lips as you take your first steps down the aisle. And then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, your gaze locks onto Namjoon.

He stands at the edge of the stairs leading to the altar, framed by the soft glow of lights, a vision of strength and elegance. His bespoke navy tuxedo fits him like a second skin, accentuating his broad shoulders, his presence both commanding and impossibly magnetic. His dark hair is styled to perfection, but it’s his expression that steals the breath from your lungs.

He isn’t just watching you —he’s drinking you in. His lips curve into a small, knowing smile, one that holds a thousand unspoken promises. And he never looks away. Not once. Not as you glide down the aisle, not as your father gently places your hand into Namjoon’s extended palm, and certainly not as he grips it with a tenderness that makes your pulse stutter.

“Take care of my daughter, Namjoon.” Your dad places your hand on Namjoon's extended ones, smiling and pats his arm affectionately.

“I will, Abeo-ji.” Namjoon replies, making you father nod, turn to you and place a kiss on your head. Namjoon’s gaze flickers to him only for a moment before returning to you, his thumb brushing over your skin in a silent vow. “With everything I have,” he murmurs, voice low, rich, and meant only for you.

“I love you, sweetie.” He says, eyes slightly teary.

“I love you too, Appa.” You say, your own voice is shaky at the range of emotions you were feeling. Namjoon lets you two have your moment before your father, gives him a smile and leaves the two of you at the end of the altar.

“Shall we?” Namjoon whispers and you give him a nod, looking up to him. He leads you up the stairs to where the officiant stood, waiting for you.

Once you had taken your place beside Namjoon, the two of you exchanged shy smiles. The weight of the ceremony, the hundred eyes watching, should have made you uneasy —but standing next to him, watching his dimpled grin peek through his usual calm exterior, you felt something unexpected —comfort. A quiet part of you was genuinely happy to be here, to be marrying him.

The officiant took a knowing glance at your expressions before subtly signalling for the music to stop. The room hushed as he began to speak.

“Marriage is not merely the joining of two names, nor is it a bond woven by convenience. It is a sacred vow —one that will be tested by time, by fate, and by the trials that only life can bring. Today, in the presence of those who stand as witnesses, Kim Namjoon and Baek Nari vow to stand together —not just in the brightness of prosperity, but in the shadows of uncertainty, in the storms that may try to tear them apart.

A husband and wife are not bound by love alone, but by loyalty, by trust, by the quiet strength of knowing that through all things, they will choose each other. This is not a promise of perfection, nor a pledge that all will be easy. It is the assurance that when the weight of the world grows heavy, these two hands will share the burden. That when darkness falls, this light will not be extinguished. That through betrayal and war, through grief and joy, through power and ruin —this bond will endure.”

The officiant turned his gaze to Namjoon.

“Kim Namjoon, do you take Baek Nari to be your wife —To honour her as your equal, to shield her from harm, to walk beside her through the trials of fate, vowing to be her fortress in times of strife, her solace in moments of doubt, her greatest ally and fiercest protector and to hold no other above her, to cherish her with all that you are, for as long as breath remains in your body?”

Namjoon's fingers tightened slightly around yours, his voice low and steady.

“I do.”

The officiant turned to you.

“Baek Nari, do you take Kim Namjoon to be your husband —To trust in his strength, to stand unwavering by his side, to be the fire that fuels him when the world demands more than he can give, vowing to guard his secrets as your own, to be his refuge when the world turns cold, to love him not just in days of peace, but in the storms that will surely come and to stand as his partner, his equal, his home —until time itself is no more?”

Your chest ached with the weight of the words, but there was no hesitation as you met Namjoon’s gaze and answered, “I do.”

The officiant nodded, solemn and knowing.

“Then, as a sign of this unbreakable vow, you will now exchange rings. These rings are not mere ornaments, but symbols of the promise you have made today. Metal, as strong as the bond you have forged. A circle, without end, as eternal as the commitment you have sworn.”

“Namjoon, please place the ring on the bride’s left hand and repeat after me,” The officiant says, waiting to read the next words.

Namjoon bends down to the ring-bearer Hwan, adorably giddy in his red suit and pulls at the ribbon keeping the ring in place. He takes the ring, pats the young boy on his chubby cheek and murmurs, “Thanks, buddy.”

He stands up, straightening himself and he extends his palm out. You give him your hand, expecting another luxurious multi-diamond ring that will catch everyone's attention. You are almost lazy in the way you try to keep your expression neutral but your eyes widen, at the ring Namjoon is delicately sliding onto your finger.

You gape at your wedding band —a breathtaking eternity-style ring featuring a continuous row of vivid, deep-red rubies, each gemstone meticulously set to catch the light with every movement, delicate layers of brilliant, pave-set diamonds frame the sides, adding a touch of ethereal sparkle that enhances the fiery glow of the rubies. The combination of rich crimson and shimmering white creates a striking contrast, making the ring an exquisite symbol of passion and elegance; a ring worthy of the next Madam of Bangtan.

Your eyes widen and you look up to Namjoon, who only smiles back softly, dimples showing as your cheeks warm. Despite the doom you were facing, your heart soared, bursting with sudden adoration and affection.

Diamonds were the gemstones for Bangtan —no one really bothers to change or take into consideration what the bride wants but the fact that you had mentioned you preferred rubies in a possibly forgettable scenario and Namjoon chose to have your wedding band —something you'll wear for life, made to your liking meant a lot to you.

“With this ring, I bind my soul to yours. It is a promise of devotion, a mark of my love, a claim that no force in this world can sever. From this day forth, you are mine, as I am yours.” Namjoon repeats, placing the ring on your finger. Bringing your ring-clad hand to his lips and pressing a loving kiss on it. Your heart bursts with affection, as you meet his eyes and he smiles.

He was smiling so much today and it wasn't helping your sanity.

“And now, the Bride, please place the ring on the groom’s left hand and repeat after me,” You bend down to Hwan, untying the ribbon to take the ring from the little pillow he was holding, grinning at you.

“You did great, boo-boo.” You whisper, pressing a little kiss to his cheek as the little boy loudly giggled, making the audience laugh at his cuteness. You can't help but let out a giggle of your own, before he runs away to Saera sitting next to the Kims. The Don lifted him up to place him on his lap and the Madam ruffled his hair and kissed his head.

You cast a glance at his matching ring, taking in it’s much simpler details —a striking yet understated piece, crafted from rich, gleaming metal. Its smooth, polished surface catches the light, the deep crimson rubies set within it glowing like embers. Bold yet refined, the ring is a perfect balance of tradition and individuality, a perfect balance of bangtan and you, and a symbol of unwavering commitment towards you two.

You take Namjoon's hands in yours, steady despite the whirlwind of emotions rushing through you. Carefully, you slide the wedding band onto his finger. As your fingers linger over his, you lift your gaze, meeting the steady warmth of your husband's eyes. With a quiet breath, you speak, your voice soft but certain.

“With this ring, I give you my heart, my trust, my vow. It is a symbol of all that I am, and all that I will ever be. From this day forth, you are mine, as I am yours.”

Namjoon extends a hand toward you, and without hesitation, you take it, fingers slipping naturally into his. Then, he offers the other, and you accept it just as easily, your gaze locking onto his. There’s curiosity in your eyes —perhaps even more admiration than one should have in a Bangtan marriage. You give him a soft smile as his thumbs brush gently over your fingers, his expression distant, as if lost in thought.

The officiant’s voice rings through the quiet moment, steady and heartfelt.

“To make your relationship work will take love, love that grows stronger with time, nurtured by the little moments you share. It will take trust, the kind that reassures you that, in your hearts, you always want what is best for each other. It will take dedication, to stay open, to learn, to grow together. It will take loyalty, to walk forward hand in hand, even without knowing what the future holds. And most of all, it will take commitment, to honour the promise you both make today.”

You glance at Namjoon, his deep, thoughtful eyes mirroring yours. With a small but resolute smile, you silently promise to the both of you that you will do just that. You will try your very best to make this marriage a happy one.

“Then, by the power vested in me, it is my honour and privilege to declare you husband and wife. You have entered this union with open hearts, and you will walk from here bound as one. May your love be fierce, your loyalty unshaken, and your journey together unbreakable. You may now seal this union with a kiss.”

The officiant steps aside, allowing the photographers to capture the moment in its perfect intimacy. As if drawn by instinct, you tilt your head slightly, shifting closer. Namjoon follows suit, his large, calloused hands gently cradling your cheeks, his touch both firm and tender.

“Thank you for marrying me,” He murmurs, his voice so soft you almost miss it before he presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is warm, featherlight, yet undeniably real. Your hands find their place on his shoulder and chest, grounding yourself in the moment. His lips feel like heaven against yours, but the moment ends far too quickly, and you hate to admit, even to yourself, that you’re just a little disappointed when he pulls away.

The officiant’s voice carries through the air once more.

“I am so pleased to present the newlyweds —Kim Namjoon and Baek Nari!”

Hand in hand, fingers intertwined, the two of you turned toward Bangtan and the gathered crowd. The piano tune played, and you felt yourself relax and smiled at the audience, watching your loved ones smile back at you.

The weight of the moment settled between you, unspoken but understood. Whatever came next, you would face it together.

Park Youra was a pianist of the otherworld, and with a face like hers, you wondered why she even stuck to performing at shady events.

You had often wondered how she had gotten tangled up with Bangtan. The Madam’s soft spot for her was no secret, but there had to be more. Hoseok had once offhandedly mentioned that she was repaying a loan, though that explanation had never sat right with you. Bangtan didn’t deal in simple debts.

And it seemed almost absurd —was this really their version of repayment? Performing at weddings and elite clubs, her delicate fingers dancing across the keys while dangerous men watched?

You didn’t have time to dwell on it. The speeches began.

The Elites spoke first, their words polished and deliberate —honour, loyalty, prosperity. They spoke of the traditions that bound Bangtan, of the unshakable foundations that had allowed them to thrive. And then they welcomed you, weaving you into their world with carefully chosen words and polite applause.

Then, the Don took the floor. His presence alone commanded attention, his voice smooth but lined with steel.

“Today, we do not just celebrate a union —we fortify an alliance. We do not just witness vows —we reaffirm our loyalty. Family is not merely blood; it is built in trust, in sacrifice, in the oaths we take and keep.” His gaze swept over the room, measured, assessing. A silent warning wrapped in a blessing.

Finally, your father stepped forward. The room hushed. His very presence was a force, and when he spoke, the words were edged with something heavier than sentiment.

“Marriage in our world is not just love —it is duty. It is the thread that weaves empires together. And so, to the newlyweds, may your bond be as strong as the family you now stand for. May your loyalty be unwavering, and your love a fortress.”

The room erupted in applause, but you felt the heaviness in the air.

These weren’t just well-wishes.

They felt more like warnings.

The applause was thunderous, but beneath the sound, you felt it. The weight of expectation. The unspoken conditions laced into every syllable. These weren’t just blessings. They were reminders.

And then, the music changed.

Your father turned to you with an expression that was both soft and knowing. “Come,” he said, offering his hand. “Let me have this dance.”

You hesitated for only a second before slipping your hand into his. The moment you stepped onto the floor, the melody shifted into something sweeter, gentler —a song from your childhood. His grip was steady as he led you into the dance, his movements guiding, careful. A father with his daughter. A moment meant to be tender, a farewell to the past before he placed you into your future.

“You remind me of your mother,” he murmured as he turned you. You would have felt insulted, if not for the very rare look of tenderness in his eyes at your mother’s name. “Fierce. Stubborn.” A pause. “Afraid.” Your breath hitched, but you said nothing. He sighed, squeezing your hand. “You don’t have to love him. He doesn’t have to love you —not yet at least. But you do have to trust him and I hope you never have to fear him.” The song reached its final notes, and your father pulled back slightly, his gaze flickering to the man waiting at the edge of the floor. Namjoon.

“He will be a great Don, my darling and he will do right by you,” Your father twirls you around, “and all I ask is for you to stay by his side and be the Madam he requires.” You nod, eyes teary at the overwhelming emotions you feel. He cups your cheeks, presses a kiss to your forehead, and looks at Namjoon who was walking towards you.

Your stomach twisted.

Your father exhaled slowly, almost reluctantly, before taking your hand and placing it into Namjoon’s waiting palm. His warmth spread instantly, engulfing yours. The moment your fingers touched, something shifted. Your father stepped back, nodding once to Namjoon before walking away.

Namjoon didn’t move at first. He just looked at you. The air between you felt thick, charged —something unspoken lingering between your breaths.

Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low. “May I?”

You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly around his before nodding.

He pulled you in, one hand settling at your waist, the other cradling your hand in his. His touch was gentle but firm, his presence commanding without force. The music played on, slow and melodic, as he guided you across the floor.

“You’re nervous,” He observed quietly.

You exhaled softly, forcing yourself to relax into his hold. “Wouldn’t you be?”

A small smirk ghosted across his lips. “I’d be more nervous if you weren’t already shaking.”

You tried to steady your breathing, lifting your chin slightly. “I have been handed to a man who commands half the underworld tonight,” you murmured. “Forgive me for being a little unsettled.”

Namjoon’s grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Something about the way he said it made your pulse stutter. The way he held you, the way he moved, it was controlled, patient. As if he knew exactly how to ease you into his rhythm and that is exactly what you did.  The world around you faded, the murmurs of the crowd becoming nothing more than background noise. It was just the two of you, moving in sync, the air between you thick with something unnamed.

You looked up at him then, into those dark, steady eyes. And for a moment —just a fleeting moment, you almost believed him.

The music ended. The applause came and loud hoots and cheers, washing over you in a wave.

But you barely heard it.

Dinner was nothing short of opulent, a feast fit for kings and conquerors alike. Platter after platter of rich, decadent food was placed before you, each dish more extravagant than the last.

Bowls of steaming janchi guksu arrived first, the delicate wheat noodles swimming in a golden broth, garnished with thinly sliced eggs, scallions, and strips of seaweed. A dish meant for celebration, for longevity —fitting for a night like this.

Then came the meats. Galbi, beef short ribs, glistening under the dim light, their surface caramelized from hours of marination in sweet soy and garlic, grilled to perfection. Slabs of samgyeopsal, thick pork belly, sizzled as they were seared at the table, wrapped in crisp lettuce with a dollop of ssamjang, the spicy bean paste adding a kick of heat.

Seafood, still tasting of the sea, rested atop beds of crushed ice —fresh hwe, thin slices of raw fish, paired with vinegared chojang dipping sauce. Steamed abalone, soft and briny, arrived in ceramic plates, while buttery grilled eel was basted in a dark, glossy glaze.

Rice, a staple, was anything but simple tonight. Bori-bap, nutty barley rice, was served alongside small dishes of jangajji —pickled vegetables bursting with sharp, fermented flavours. There was also yubuchobap, seasoned rice wrapped in thin pockets of fried tofu, slightly sweet and tangy.

And of course, no banquet was complete without jeon, crispy golden pancakes, stacked high. There were seafood pajeon, brimming with green onions and squid, and kimchi jeon, their edges perfectly crisp, the tangy fermented heat cutting through the richness of the other dishes.

For dessert, an array of tteok —chewy rice cakes, dusted with powdered soybean flour, filled with sweet red bean or crushed nuts —sat alongside elegant hwajeon, honeyed flower pancakes adorned with delicate petals. Small golden cups of sikhye, a sweet rice punch, were served to cleanse the palate, cooling and subtly spiced with ginger.

The wine poured endlessly, but not just the deep reds of European vineyards —tonight, there was also baekseju, a rice wine infused with medicinal herbs, and makgeolli, the milky, slightly effervescent drink served in rustic brass bowls.

Namjoon sat beside you, his presence an unwavering force, his fingers grazing yours when he reached for his glass. The warmth of the room, the richness of the food, the weight of the evening —it all pressed around you, thick with something unspoken. Neither of you spoke much, but the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just new, maybe even exciting.

The wedding cake was nothing short of a masterpiece —an opulent creation that towered over the banquet table, grand enough to feed all of Bangtan and then some. It stood tall, at least five tiers, each one adorned with handcrafted sugar flowers, intricate lace-like piping, and delicate gold leaf detailing that shimmered under the warm glow of the chandeliers.

Saera had outdone herself. The floral arrangements cascading down the tiers were so realistic they could have been mistaken for fresh blooms —peonies, roses, and magnolias in soft ivory and blush, interwoven with delicate strands of edible pearls. At the very top, a sleek, minimalist topper bore the initials of the newlyweds, cast in fine gold script.

When it was time to cut the cake, the room hushed. The knife, its handle wrapped in a silk ribbon, was placed in your hands first. Namjoon’s hand covered yours a moment later —firm, steady. Together, you sliced through the bottom tier, the blade gliding effortlessly through the velvety layers beneath the pristine fondant. A rich aroma filled the air as the first slice was lifted —a decadent combination of vanilla bean sponge, honey-soaked chestnut filling, and white chocolate ganache.

The first bite was tradition.

Namjoon turned to you, holding a piece between his fingers, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips. “Open,” he murmured, his voice just for you.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second before parting your lips, letting him place the sweet morsel against your tongue. The flavours melted together —soft, airy cake, the warmth of chestnut, the silkiness of ganache. Your turn. You took a piece and held it up to his lips. He didn’t hesitate. His gaze met yours as he bit down, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes before he swallowed.

Polite applause rippled through the room, and then the servers took over, carefully slicing and distributing the cake to the guests. Plates of the masterpiece were carried across the grand hall, each portion accompanied by a drizzle of honey or a scattering of crushed nuts, the perfect final indulgence after the lavish feast.

The wine flowed endlessly, deep red and velvety, tasting like warmth and fire on your tongue. Every sip burned just enough to remind you of the reality settling around you.

That this was your wedding night.

That you belonged to Bangtan now.

That you belonged to him.

Namjoon sat beside you, his presence an unwavering force, a shadow that had merged with yours the moment your father placed your hand in his. He didn't say much, but he didn’t need to. The weight of him beside you, the subtle brush of his fingers against yours when he reached for his glass, the way his gaze flickered toward you every time someone made a toast in your honour —it was enough to keep you aware, too aware.

The night stretched on, thick with laughter, murmured conversations, the low hum of celebration. Around you, the men drank, their voices rich with satisfaction, their hands clinking glasses filled to the brim with aged liquor. Women draped in silk and diamonds moved gracefully between them, offering flirtations and hushed words into waiting ears.

But none of it compared to him.

Namjoon wasn’t like the others. He didn’t revel in the festivities the way some of them did. He sat composed, his expression unreadable, his fingers tapping lazily against the stem of his wine glass. Observing. Calculating. Even now, surrounded by the warmth of victory, he remained untouchable.

And yet —he was yours.

The thought alone sent something shivering through you. Not fear. Something else. Something new.

Even as conversations resumed, the laughter and clinking of glasses filling the space, your mind lingered on that fleeting exchange —the briefest moment of sweetness in a night built on duty. The night stretched on, thick with laughter, murmured conversations, the low hum of celebration. But eventually, it was time.

And Bangtan did not let you leave quietly.

The farewell was grand, dramatic in a way that only Bangtan could make it.

The made-men grouped in two making a pathway for you two to walk, their suits crisp, their expressions joyous, their eyes happy. It was an honour —this parting. A tradition meant to seal the night, to acknowledge the weight of what had been done.

The moment you stepped forward, the sky erupted.

Fireworks exploded above, bursts of gold and crimson shattering the darkness, illuminating the night in violent beauty. The light painted fleeting shadows across the faces of the men who had now become your family, the ones who would kill for you, die for you —if Namjoon willed it.

Then, Namjoon took your hand.

Not forcefully, but deliberately. A silent reassurance. A quiet claim.

His fingers wrapped around yours, firm and unwavering. His grip was warm, steady, grounding. He did not pull, did not drag. He simply held, possessed, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

And you let him.

You walked together, step by step, down the aisle of men who had fought wars in the shadows, who had bled and killed for the empire they now welcomed you into. And then—

The gunfire began.

The deafening crack of bullets shattered the air, a chorus of steel and smoke. Shot after shot rang out, fired not at you, but at the sky, a salute, a tribute, a blessing wrapped in danger. It was tradition —Bangtan’s way of sending you off, their way of ensuring that the world knew this was not just a marriage. This was a union of power.

The vibrations of the gunshots thrummed through your bones, your heart pounding against your ribs as the scent of gunpowder and burning embers filled the night. The sound should have startled you. It should have felt ominous.

Instead, it felt like a beginning.

Somewhere among the noise, someone called out— ‘For good luck.’

Your grip on Namjoon’s hand tightened involuntarily. You didn’t know if it was from uncertainty or something else. Something raw, something electric.

He turned his head slightly, catching the motion. His thumb grazed over the back of your hand in response, a barely-there movement, an offering of comfort. Or perhaps a reminder. That you weren’t walking away from something tonight.

You were walking into it.

The doors of the sleek black car stood open at the end of the procession, waiting. The very last step before you left behind the version of yourself that had existed before.

You hesitated —just for a second.

Namjoon noticed.

He turned toward you, his free hand reaching out to brush the stray strands of hair from your face. It was an oddly tender gesture for a man like him, for a man who carried power like a second skin. But then, his fingers trailed downward, past your jaw, lingering for a second longer than necessary at the pulse of your throat. His touch was light, but deliberate. Testing.

"Ready?" he asked, voice low, just for you.

You weren’t sure if he was asking about the car.

Or about him.

You swallowed, the weight of his hand still ghosting over your skin, the sound of gunfire still ringing in the distance. The air smelled of burnt powder and champagne, of roses crushed beneath hurried footsteps.

Were you ready?

It didn’t matter.

The door closed behind you. The car pulled away. And your new life began.

—next chapter | chapter six

—author's endnote | did you guys like this chapter? as always, like, reblog and comment! let me know your thoughts, do you like namjoon so far? what about nari? feel free to drop an ask, anything you like about this universe and would like to discuss, I am all ears. I hope all of you are doing well, lots of love, aksh 💕

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1) OKAY JINKOOK DESI BOYZ AU IS GONNA HAPPEN... AT SOME POINT

2) Rapline as the 3 idiots pls 🥺🥺🥺. I think Joon is perfect as Rancho... just the right amount of cute and awkward. I think Yoongi seems like more of a Farhan to me though!! I always see him as the introspective one.

3) YESSSS.... I always imagine Tae as Raj from DDLJ (this is partly based on that clip of him playing the violin in a beret lmao) but he fits the nostalgic romance vibes so well. I see Jimin as more of the flirty, fun SRK roles like Dil To Pagal Hai or KKHH!

4) 94s in SOTY would be so interesting! I can definitely see Joon in Sid's role, but I'm unsure about Hobi as Varun. I like to imagine Taekook in those roles haha... all the girls would go crazy over them LMAO

5) OK this is shameless self-promo but I've actually always loved Hobi for Lootera. So much so I even wrote an entire fic, Autumn Leaves with him as the protagonist in Varun's role (it's one of my favorite things I've ever written). I think Yoongi/Jin would also be great choices though.

6) Maybe I'm a diehard hyung line stan, but I want Namjoon as Aditya! I actually think Tae would be more perfect in Geet's role - how fun would it be to see the roles reversed between them!

7) Jungkook is so versatile - he'd be perfect for wake up sid... or even Rockstar (I am a secret devotee of that movie I think it's so underappreciated). I've also imagined Yoongi in the Rockstar role. The one role I think JK totally embodies is Bunny in YJHD though, so you hit the nail on the head with that (it's one of my favorite movies!)

8) JOON FOR KRRISHH!! We've all seen his body. Nuff said.

9) I think maknae line would be so fun for Dhoom 2! Like maybe Vmin as Jai and Ali, and Kook as Hrithik?? I just see them being both comedic but also good eye candy for those high octane-action scenes.

10) I haven't watched Kaabil! I totally agree with JinKook for War though, that would be a great role, especially because they have such a good hyung-dongsaeng relationship, so it'd be interesting to turn that on its head.

11) JIN FOR GUZAARISH THO??? ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE ME CRY (Seokjin angst is my fatal weakness).

12) Jimin would be so good for Fanaa... i'd love to see his transformation from the flirty tour guide to (no spoilers).

13) TAE IN TAARE ZAMEEN PAR YESSSS. I can't watch that movie without crying and now thinking of Tae makes me cry even more he'd be so perfect

Thank you so much for sharing all your thoughts, I appreciated the amount of effort you put into thinking this through and it made me happy to respond. Glad I could keep you occupied for a little bit with some fun <3

—taglist notes | comment on the post if you want to be tagged. If I have missed your name, please let me know. I'm back after quite a long time, so dropping a text to let me know I've missed your name would be ver helpful. If you are on the taglist but haven’t been notified, please check this post out.

—taglist notes | comment on the post if you want to be tagged. feel free to drop an ask, text to be tagged.

—taglist notes | comment on the post if you want to be tagged. If I have missed your name, please let me know. I'm back after quite a long time, so dropping a text to let me know I've missed your name would be ver helpful. If you are on the taglist but haven’t been notified, please check this post out.