#rapmonster fics

“S-sir! W-why am I h-here?” You stutter, arms coming up to cover your chest. 

He raises his eyebrow at the action. “Do you really not remember?”

“I-I remember running from them, but not–” you pause and he watches your expression change into one of fear, and he can practically read your thoughts.

He snorts and walks over to his desk where he calmly sits at the chair, hands clasped in front of him. He stares you down through his lenses. “I found you, and you were getting mugged. I saved your life. I think I deserve more of a ‘thank you,’ than be labeled as a pervert.” 

You gawk, trying to rack your brain of the thought. You couldn’t rememeber the part where he appeared. Did he really save you?

You glance around the room and see that your jacket is neatly laid out on the couch, your stuff still intact and your wallet and phone placed on the nightstand alongside a bottle of water. Namjoon had really saved your life. 

You trail your eyes back to him, watching him warily. When you don’t respond, he says lowly. “You probably can’t remember because you fainted, straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” 

You frown at him. “Are you implying that I got myself targeted to be mugged by two men all because I wanted your attention sir? I hope that I never acted unprofessional enough in front of you to make you believe that it’s a possibility in my doing.” You stare at him as the tips of his mouth curl the slightest bit upwards, breaking the usual cold and detached facade that he always wore. The action practically makes your heart rate go into overdrive. He was quite cocky, your boss, after years of being labeled as one of the most coveted and popular young bachelors and entrepreneurs of South Korea. But he was also the man who held your heart.

“No. It’s because I can practically hear your heart racing from here.” 

You pout as you cover your chest, the blush that colors your cheeks distracting you enough to bubble up protests in your throat and prevent you from realizing the hidden meaning behind his words. 

Because he can hear your heartbeat. He can hear the blood that rushes to your face and to the apex of your thighs, and the steady heartbeat begin to pick up pace, thundering loudly in the room to him. He can see each eyelash that flutters as your hands come up to hide your cheeks from him and he can smell how soft and sweet your hair smells from his distance from you, everytime you move your head. 

But he chooses not to dwell on it further. It was a good thing you were oblivious, a sweet, stupid, ignorant little thing. You never noticed the way Namjoon ever hardly ate, or the way he held his breath when you walked by with your irresistible natural perfume that made his loins tighten and his fangs elongate. You never noticed the way his office was always on the dimmer side, assumed that it was for his concentration. You never minded that he requested that you don’t disrupt his “meetings” with other women unless strictly necessary, never noticing that they were his meals. You considered his aloof and quiet, dark personality to be a way to keep up his professional side of things, and assumed it meant that he could care less of your own well being. 

But he desires you so much. 

He’d never pegged himself to fall for one of his secretaries. Instead, he was the one who’d fired woman after woman who’d gotten too invested and curious and had poked too much into his business for personal desire. But for you, it was different. Your eyes hold curiosity, not because of lust of either the sexual or power-driven kind, but solely because of your interest in him. 

You don’t do anything particular to attract him, and neither do you make obvious your affections. You don’t dress provocatively, don’t use a sickly tone when speaking to him, and never pry into his business. You don’t casually show up at the restaurant he frequents and flaunt your wealth in an attempt to appeal to him, and you stay to yourself, calmly doing your work and carrying out your responsibilities without ever breaking a sweat or batting an eyelash. 

But he knows. He knows of your interest in the littlest things he could never reveal without revealing himself first. The way your heart flutters everytime he walks in precisely at 8am into the office. The way he can hear you always clear your throat and smooth down your blouse outside his thick door before knocking quietly. Or in the way your eyes linger on him a little too longer than deemed necessary during meetings, when the room is dark and you think he can’t see you. Perhaps also when you are too engrossed in your work you unbutton the next button in your blouse, and he can catch a glimpse of the elegant slope of your neck into your collarbones from across the room.

It’s also moments like these, when he finally gets to see who you are outside of the workplace and catches actual human glimpses of how obvious your affections are for him. Your hair mussed up and your face bare of makeup, clothed in a simple t-shirt and sweats, what you most likely wore to bed before you’d decided to come out to the nearest convenience store to pick up something.

What an idiot, he muses, as he silently watches you slowly stand up and excuse yourself to the restroom, and he can hear your cursing yourself as you pad over and berate yourself for being so stupid. When you emerge, he’d prepared some breakfast for you, and he watches your eyes light up in surprise and conviction, and he smiles to himself because although you were subtle for a human, you were still quite human in the way you reacted to him. 

You thanked him quietly when he offered you a ride to your house so you could get ready and he said he’d give you some time off if needed, since you were late to your shift anyway. You deny it as you get into his car, and he silently starts the engine, glancing sideways to make sure your seatbelt is on. He’d protect you if it’s the last thing he does though, so it doesn’t really matter whether the flimsy fiber belt is pulled across your lap and chest, but he reminds himself to think of human things. 

He can’t bring himself to make small talk, because talking would require him to breathe, and if he breathes, it would require him to deal with the scent of you filling the tiny space of the car that no one had sat in besides himself, and would require him to restrain himself and hold himself to human decency for the next ten minutes. 

So he just drives silently and you just stare out the window, watching the buildings whizz past as he takes you from the lavish building he resides in, into the less sparkly, suburb apartments of your own. You clench your jaw, watching as his car speeds by graffiti and buildings that look like they were built a century ago, embarrassed that your boss and your crush had to witness this, today of all days. 

But he doesn’t say anything and neither do you. 

When he finally pulls up to your driveway, he stops you when you make the move to get out as quickly as possible. Instead, he gets out first, long legs striding over to your side and propping open the door and getting your belongings from the back seat and handing them to you. Stunned, you don’t respond and take the bags dumbly and thank him without even meeting his eyes. But before you can scurry away, his low voice cuts in through the crisp morning air. 

“I’m,” he pauses, turning the words over in his mouth, “relieved to know that you are alright, Y/N.” 

You turn stupidly, staring at him in your bare face and bed head, at your boss who is impeccably dressed in an Armani suit and his signature black frames, tall and manly next to his even more impressing car. But in contrast to his intimidating exterior, you can see the hesitation in his eyes, as he looks everywhere but you, seeming to regret the fact that he’d spoken and broken the silence in the first place. 

You find your voice, nodding. “T-thank you, Mr. Kim. I-I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t saved me.” 

He shuts the passenger door quietly, the hand coming to rest in his pants pocket. “Namjoon, please. Call me Namjoon.” 

You don’t know what to say so you dumbly whisper, “O-oh.” 

He watches you as you clamber into your apartment, giving him one last glance before you disappear into the rickety building. He gets in his car and drives off in the direction of the office headquarters, finally being able to breath in his car. But even then, the scent of your shampoo and the hidden tones of your skin linger in the leather seats and pierce through his nose straight to his groin. He can feel his mouth water and his fangs come out as he things of how soft you looked when he’d stupidly, dumbly suggested you call him by his first name. What lunatic burst of idiocy those words came from he does not know. And he chooses to ignore it. 

Maybe it was because he hadn’t fed properly in weeks. Or had sex either. Yes, he determines, it’s because he was sex-and-blood-starved. He was a vampire, one who could control himself in front of a measly human girl. 

It wasn’t anything else. 

He realizes how wrong he is when you appear into the office exactly thirty minutes later, hair still the slightest bit damp from your shower and smelling like sin in fresh clothing and the pristine image of a perfect secretary. 

You click over in your heels, do the same routine of clearing your throat and smoothing down your blouse before knocking quietly on his door and opening when he responds in a low, “enter.” 

Immediately the room is filled with your scent, and he notices today you skipped your perfume, most likely in your haste to get to work as soon as you could. As you walk over, he doesn’t have to look up as his nose curls the slightest bit at a more bitter, darker tone in the smells that fill his room. 

You place the coffee cup perfectly in the corner of his desk. Black. 

He pauses and looks up to see you standing there with a demure smile on your face, hands clasped in front of you. When he meets your gaze, you blush and gesture to the cup. 

“Thank you, Namjoon.” 

When he doesn’t respond, you excuse yourself, slowly and quietly exiting the room in your tiny little heels and your grey skirt, closing the door so gingerly the lock barely registers a click. His eyes trail to the perfect little cup. 

He can see from his seat that you had tasted the cup yourself, most likely with a soft sip at the edge of the cup. It’s practically invisible, the soft glow of your lip balm on the porcelain of the cup. But he can see it. 

He curses when his dick fills out and his pupils dilate. 

Fuck you Kim Namjoon, he thinks, groaning to himself, a vampire who gets horny at the sight of a chapstick stain on a cup of damn coffee. How fucking perfect.