I Need To Read All Of The Things On This List!

Please Linger | Chapter 1

Summary: After terrorizing the villagers with one too many pranks, you’ve been locked away in The Tower to atone for your petty crimes. As far as you know, The Tower is impenetrable. Nobody can get in, and nobody can get out. It seems you’ll never escape—until one night, a man named Yoongi barges in…

Pairing: Musician!Yoongi (pan flute!) x Reader (F) Word Count: ~7.5k Rating: 18+ Warnings: footnotes (lol), random character is blasély killed by a mythical creature (off-screen), mentions of drinking/getting drunk, swearing... Genre: fantasy!au, slow burn, humor, eventual smut, angst... Links: AO3, Masterlist, Ko-Fi, 🎶 Composition of the Century Collab Masterlist 🎶 🖤 Please note: Please Linger does not have a tag list 🖤

NAV: NEXT CHAPTER

(Me to me): I am going to create a story that is so UNHINGED...

A/N: Welcome, besties, to the Shreka-Hole-ian Greek Pornthology Bonanza (and my contribution to the Composition of the Century collab—please look forward to/go check out the other stories!!)! 😃 Kindly accept my apologies for the chaos that is this fic in advance, and also intermittently throughout this long ass message!

First things first: This is dedicated to @ootjepetootje, whomst gifted me this morning with perhaps the best mood board for this project ever: BEHOLD! Jen, I love you. Thank you also to @reliablemitten and @blog-name-idk for allowing me to scream intermittently at y'all about this for far, far too long. Sorry. So sorry! Perchance.

Next: This story contains footnotes. For that, I apologize. It's also kinda important to the plot that you read the footnotes, too. I REPENT, YOUR HONOR.

🚨🚨🚨 To that end: Tumblr doesn't support footnotes, for which I A P O L O G I Z E. I recommend just reading the entire way through normally and then reading the footnotes after (as a special treat), OR heading over to read this on AO3, where you can actually click the footnotes and return back to the text seamlessly. 🚨🚨🚨

Finally, and most importantly: I LOVE you all. I love you so much!!! (Sorry!)

Chapter One: Alack!

It’s not that the local wizard Namjoon wants to lock you in the secluded tower hidden deep in the dark, dark woods just outside of the village. It’s that you, after plastering hair extensions to hang down from the cracks in Taehyung Kim’s ceiling—such that it appeared a succubus had taken up residence in his hut—left him no choice.

“This feels personal,” you say, kicking your many skirts and digging your boots into the forest floor as Namjoon drags you, none-too-politely, toward the tower.

“It is personal,” he snaps. “You’re a menace, YN. Last month, you stole all of the eggs in Hoseok Jung’s chicken coop the night before the EggstravaGala.”

“I had my reasons,” you say shiftily.

“What about last Tuesday, when you replaced the innards of Jungkook Jeon’s punching bag with flatulence pillows?”

“For the last time, their creator calls them whoopee cushions.”

“They emit the most unseemly of noises whenever Jungkookie trains, now.” Namjoon ignores your correction. “Jungkook is one of our finest warriors, YN. Warriors are meant to be respected and feared. You’ve turned him into a laughing stock!”

You roll your eyes. “Tell me you’ve fallen victim to the toxic notion that asserts men must adhere to traditional gender roles that both stigmatize and limit the emotions they’re allowed to express all while glorifying unhealthy habits without telling me you’ve… done all that.”

Namjoon heaves a careworn sigh. By now you’ve arrived at the tower, a fifty-flight triumph of rubbled stone banded by hanging ropes of ivy. You cast a sullen glance toward the top of the structure, your eyes alighting upon its single window—dusty, you note—which will serve as your sole view out to the wider world for the next…

Well. For as long as it takes Namjoon to consult with the villagers you’ve “wronged.” For as long as it takes for them to come to a consensus on how to deal with your meddling ass long-term.

“You won’t keep me in there for years, will you?” you ask, wisps of trepidation coiling in your belly.

“I don’t have an answer for that.”

“But… but…”

“Oh, quit your blubbering,” Namjoon grumbles, avoiding your eye. “This is actually really annoying for me, you know.”

“For you?”

“Sure! Usually, I like to use this tower for personal gain. Such as holding princesses for ransom, and pet-sitting other village’s monsters, and…” Namjoon trails off. If he were the type of wizard to grow a very long beard, you imagine he’d be twirling it sagely betwixt his fingers right about now. “Actually,” he says, “it’s pretty much exclusively used for those two purposes.”

You perk up at his admission. There are two main things to know about princesses, and the first is that the term refers not to any actual regal rank or gender designation, but rather a specific type of beautiful nincompoop. The last princess to be held in the tower, for example, was an almost preternaturally gorgeous man named Seokjin Kim whomst you once personally observed wandering the streets after dark because someone had told him he’d “lost his mind” and he was trying—quite earnestly—to find it.

The second thing to know about princesses is that they’re worth a tidy sum; beats you why, as they tend be a rather whiny sort, and are always trying to converse with rodents—a notoriously low-minded mammal—but alas. It is what it is. Every time Namjoon manages to bag a princess, dashing royal suitors come from high and low to pay—literally pay—for the privilege to risk their lives to rescue said princess from the tower and earn eternal glory. You’re not like the other girlies, [1] and have no burning desire to make any royal suitor’s acquaintance. But the secret third thing to remember about princesses is that after they get rescued from the tower…

Well, then they’re free.

“Ransom me,” you suggest slyly. “Take the money you earn and put it back into the community. Fix people’s homes! Stock the taverns! Everyone will forgive me once their roofs are patched and their bellies are full of free mead.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.” Namjoon snorts. “First of all, a traveling circus has commissioned me to pet-sit some of their creatures for a few months, so I’m not exactly stripped for coin.”

Balls, you think.

“Second, the villagers would sooner turn out their pockets to keep you locked up for good, YN. Everyone’s fed up with you.”

Ripping yourself from Namjoon’s grasp, you fling yourself at the nearest fir, wrapping your arms around its weathered stump.

“But how is that fair?” you moan. “It’s not as though I exited the womb aspiring to wreak minor havoc! It’s my—”

“—Do not say compulsion—”

“Compulsion!” you exclaim—for that is, in fact, the scientific term for the reason you are the way that you are. [2]  In the same way Hoseok had woken up one day with a sudden, burning desire to build himself a chicken coop, you’d woken up one day with an unshakable urge to slather grease on all of Jimin Park’s spoons for a full week in high school. They’d slipped right into his bowl of boiling hot soup, one after the other, such that his tiny fingers—and you do mean tiny—had no hope of retrieving them. In the end, he’d had to befriend one of the village’s premiere hunter-gatherers, Sungwoon Ha, to keep from starving come lunchtime.

“Everyone experiences compulsion during puberty, YN,” Namjoon says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Having… unusual compulsions doesn’t give you an excuse to act like a jackass.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” you counter. Compulsion—the deep, internal, and unexplainable instinct to act in a certain way—is a perfectly natural part of growing up. Abiding by your compulsion imbues you with a sense of utter fulfillment; of inner peace; of purpose. Most people strive to live their lives in alignment with their compulsion, treating it as a guiding light of sorts—a natural, deep-seated tool for self-betterment. “It’s an instinct, Namjoon. Not an impulse.”

“I know, YN,” Namjoon says. “Haven’t I been patient with you all these years? Haven’t I always defended you?”

He has, for the most part. You haven’t the foggiest why.

All the same…

“So defend me one more time, then!”

“You’re not listening!”

“I didn’t ask to be a menace.” You raise your voice. “My compulsion simply compels me to my incredibly hilarious and devious antics. The fact that I’m being punished for an innate, fixed inclination that I didn’t ask for is, to be frank, fucking bogus. The villagers are compulsion-shaming me, and I—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Namjoon interrupts. “No one’s shaming you, YN. Grow up.”

You stick your tongue out, the portrait of maturity.

“I know that instincts can’t be changed,” Namjoon continues, “but they can be ignored. Having shitty compulsions doesn’t make you a bad person, but acting on them—especially when you know they’re going to make other people miserable—does make you selfish.”

“You know it’s not that simple,” you say, quiet.

Namjoon’s eyes soften.

“No,” he agrees, “it’s not. But that doesn’t change anything. I haven’t forgotten about the time you switched all my wizard hats out with bugles corn chips, you know.”

“Tiny hats for a tiny mind,” you mumble. And then, louder: “Please. Give me one more chance.”

“Come,” he says firmly, holding out his hand. “Don’t make me hex you.”

Defeated, you step back from the tree, padding back over to where he waits with a hang-dog expression. Namjoon’s touch is firm as he steers you into the tower.

“Thank you, YN, for taking accountability,” he says. “Now up you trot.”

Trot you do not. Instead, Namjoon leads you, huffing and sulking, up the fifty flights, until you emerge in your new living quarters with aching gluteals and a brand new situational case of depression. You look around at the single bed, the single bookcase, and the circular table that seats two near the single window. The table is set with two jugs, a chalice, and three bowls. Beyond, a woven tapestry hangs, behind which your bathtub and privy chambers reside.

“At midnight, the two jugs on the table have been enchanted to refill completely—one always with water, and the other with either coffee, apricot juice, or wine, depending on your wish upon a star the night prior,” Namjoon explains. “The bowls, too, are ever-replenishing. One shall always be full of rice, one with protein, and one with some sort of stew, soup, or curry.”

“What about dessert?” you demand, outraged. Namjoon’s eyes narrow.

“The local baker doesn’t wish to extend you the kindness of their confectionaries,” he snaps. “Without Hoseok’s eggs, they were unable to prepare the cake they promised for the EggstravaGala—a source of great humiliation for them, I’m sure you can imagine. Your actions affected more than just the direct targets of your petty pranks, YN!”

“Well, I should hope so,” you huff. “I put a lot of effort into them!”

Namjoon shakes his head—if he had a beard, it would sway mightily from the exertion, you imagine. Instead, he merely fixes you with one last disappointed look before disappearing in a puff of indigo smoke.

You spend the next several hours feeling rather like you’re on some sort of surreal vacation—perhaps an ayahuasca retreat, where everyone’s bid to sequester themselves in their rooms before undergoing their vomit-fueled spiritual awakenings.

Indeed, your new chamber has its charms: it’s satisfying to watch your rice bowl continuously refill with every bite you take, and the bookshelf is stocked with all manner of tomes—including a fine selection of steamy romance novels—which is more than you could have hoped for. The candles in the lanterns and sconces never melt, so you’ll never have to worry about illumination, and the soap in the bathroom is self-regenerating, too. Even the mattress is nice—perhaps even more comfortable than the one you have in your own downtrodden hut.

By nightfall, however, you’ve thoroughly investigated your quarters, and come to determine it wanting. It’s serviceable for a night, sure, but certainly not for a lifetime, and so tomorrow, when you’re well rested, you will engineer your great escape.

With that comforting thought to warm you, you drift off to sleep.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY ONE

A letter materializes on your table just after daybreak.

YN—

I have drawn for you a detailed map of the premises. Study it well and conduct yourself accordingly.

Warmly (but not kindly, and certainly not in support of what you’ve done),

Namjoon Kim, Wizard

You unfold the scroll to find a clumsily rendered diagram of the tower. An arrow points to the base, and reads, simply: Dragon.

“I see,” you mutter. That explains all the wretched screeching and peculiar wing-flapping that kept you up all night!

Above the dragon, which resides on the ground floor, there are approximately forty-eight flights that contain, according to another arrow (accompanied by a large bracket), “forty-eight elephants who never forget… to kill!”

“I see,” you mutter again. That explains all the wretched trumpeting and peculiar stampeding that ALSO kept you up all night!

You drag your sights upward to find one last arrow attached to your name, all aloney on your owney, at the top.

Being a visual learner, you open the surprisingly unlocked door of your chambers to confirm Namjoon’s claim with your own eyes. The door opens directly to the flight of stairs you climbed last night. So far, so good. You inch out to find an elephant with infernal red eyes sizing you up from the bottom of this particular staircase, ivory tusks gleaming wickedly despite the lack of both sunlight and torch-flame. Its hide looks very thick. Impenetrable, really.

There is a suspended moment in which you both peer curiously at one another—this must be one of the circus creatures Namjoon spoke about in the forest, you realize—and then the elephant gives chase. Hastily, you slam your door seconds before the elephant collides violently against the wood. There must be an enchantment in place keeping its tusks from piercing through the grain.

Being an orphan with no magic of which to speak—your father was a lowly jester; your mother, a vindictive nymph who went around prodding people with whetted sticks—you cannot hope to swap the elephant’s tusks out for hay, or replace its murderous instincts with high-minded ideals, such as a vested interest in the opera. Plus, its hide looked much too thick to pierce with the two best weapons at your disposal: a weighty tome detailing the entire village’s genealogy, and an illustrated edition of the Kama Sutra.

“Very well,” you sniff, defeated, as you chug down some apricot juice. The reasoning behind the unlocked door becomes clear: stay in captivity, or get brained by Demonic Dumbo. Clearly, you won’t be sauntering your merry way down and out of the tower in this lifetime.

You make yourself comfortable on your new mattress, determined to think of some other ingenious means of escape by sunrise.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY TWO

Five minutes into your brainstorming session the next morning, you deem the lack of available sweets—which ordinarily serve as your think-tank fuel—abruptly unbearable. Stomping your boot-clad foot against the window, you cry out victoriously when the glass shatters. If you can’t walk down to your freedom, you suppose you’ll just have to launch yourself out the window, and trust the Powers That Be to send strong winds to allay your fall. [3]

No sooner has the thought arose in your mind than the glass reforms, a smidge dustier than before. This, once again, feels personal. No matter how many times you shatter the window, it cobbles itself back together, dustier and dustier, before you can so much as wiggle a shoulder free of the tower.

No matter. You’ll just write down a plea for help and fling that out the window instead! Only that plan, too, is thwarted when you discover someone’s casted a protective spell upon the books. Try as you might, you can neither tear a page from any of the tomes, nor scribble upon them with the quill and pot of ink you found on the bookshelf.

The only book that seems to have escaped the spell is the Kama Sutra, which is brimming not only with personal annotations, but a variety of hand-drawn and frankly optimistic illustrations.

Sighing, you retire to the bathtub with a steamy romance novel and a dream—for REVENGE.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY FIVE

You’re gazing forlornly out the window—which you, in fit of boredom, deigned to dust off with your sleeve—when, at long last, the savior you’ve been praying for appears.

A prince!

Now, the thing about princes is that they’re a jaunty and boastful sort, given to prancing and declaiming in loud, sonorous tones—as though addressing a horde of (semi)loyal subjects—even when the occasion calls for silence. Judging by the way the person approaching the castle is

1) ululating, and

2) wearing a flashy tunic that reads I’M WITH PRINCE (with an arrow pointing up to his own face), you’re reasonably certain you’ve got this guy’s number. Who cares if you’ve always found princes to be insufferable bores? The times! They are a’changing!

“You can do it, beloved!” you yell in support. The window, you suspect, is sentient: as long as it knows you’re not trying to auto-defenestrate, it’s perfectly content to swing open and allow you to converse with the outer world. “Rescue my firm, shapely ass!”

Which isn’t even self-flattering, you reason, considering all those damnable flights of stairs Namjoon had made you climb!

To demonstrate the full measure of your gratitude, you cheer and twirl and do-re-mi prettily—as princesses are so wont to do—as the prince enters the base of the tower; you’ll go until your throat is scraped raw and bleeding if you must.

Your plan, though honorable, proves unnecessary.

Approximately one minute after your dashing prince enters the tower, the abominable dragon does an abominable dragon thing, and breathes out fire—a fuckton of it, too. You watch in mute horror as crackling flames erupt from the base of the tower, shooting toward the forest. Seconds later, an unmistakable crunching sound rents the air, sending shivers up your spine.

As if to ensure your understanding, the dragon tosses an intact skull—picked utterly clean—out from the tower seconds later. It glimmers up at you from its place in the singed grass, vacantly smiling.

You slump despondently down at your desk, resigned to another bleak day of imprisonment.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY TEN

Another prince—this one wearing a pith helmet at a jaunty angle—comes flaunting through the hemline of the forest at noon.

She takes one long look at the skull resting near the tower, and skips merrily back into the forest, never to be seen again.

“Coward,” you hiss. All princes are bastards.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY FOURTEEN

The well of willing princes appears to have dried up, and so, too, has your tolerance for solitude. There’s an itch under your skin—a frantic desperation quite unrelated to your compulsion—for revenge. Once released, you will swap all of Namjoon’s non-existent beard oil out with glue; you will cut holes in all of the villagers’ hats; you will place pebbles in their socks and also buy enchanted laundry soap to ensure the socks stay eternally damp, and never dry!

NEVER DRY!

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY NINETEEN

After two long weeks of sober fretting, you succumb to your crushing sense of helplessness, and wish upon the first star you see for wine to fill your jug tomorrow. It’s over. The princes have forsaken you—and probably, had any made it to the top, they would have realized you weren’t a princess, and couldn’t earn them glory, and would have left you for dead anyway. The villagers have won. One day, you will have to come up with a game-plan for how to cope with your new reality.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, you will make some progress in your steamy romance novel.

Not tomorrow, either.

Tomorrow, you will drink.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ 

DAY NIGHT TWENTY

Thou art drunketh. And at which hour thou drinketh, thou tend to pretendeth to beest a Renaissance maiden—which, given the whole locked-in-a-tow’r thing, doth feel appropriate.

Also, being drunk is dope rampallian.

Ahem—dope arse.

“How fares mine own fav’rite elephant?” you calleth out to Demonic Dumbo—D-Dum, to those in the knoweth—hoping to make at least one acquaintance during thy imprisonment.

D-Dum, much to thy chagrin, doest not replyeth. In fact, thou art unconvinc’d that gent even speaketh the common tongue.

To passeth the time, thou playeth a game of make believeth, just as you didst as a young wench. In thy game, you pretendeth thine parents didn’t kicketh the bucket in a t’rrible flood when you were a bébé. [4] Instead, thine parents raise thee prop’rly to adulthood. As such, you grow into a well-respect’d young mistress with a truly hon’rable compulsion. In fact, thy compulsion is so incredible that it makes thee hundreds of companions, rath’r than enemies, and you liveth happily ev’r aft’r in a grand palace, rath’r than a wretched tower.

O, in anoth’r life—a life in which thou art not a scoundrel—thou wouldst have liked to joineth in on all the most wondrous events the village holds each year! Unf’rtunately, in thy current timeline, someone usually ends up banning thine arse from attending, which totally sucks, for thou thinkest that dancing at the Eggstravagala sounds like excit’ment.

Though you’ll nev’r admiteth it to Namjoon, thou wouldst secretly loveth to consume a slice of the local bak’r’s cake, for you’ve heard ’tis delicious—thou didst not actually wanteth to sabotage their baking b’fore the Eggstravagala! Thy compulsion is to blame! Furthermore, the valorous warrior Jungkook is very much buff, and thou thinkest you wouldst enjoy exchanging boxing tips with that gent one day…

Ah, but Jungkook probably hates thy guts. Perchance.

Ov’rcome with a senseth of loneliness and despair, you closeth thine eyes, and commit whole-heartedly to thy daydream—when you concentrateth v’ry hard, ’tis as though the entire w’rld grows quiet. You pretendeth thou art dresseth in a spiffy-arse fit, suitable f’r a gala; you pretendeth some gentle and noble suitor asks thee to danceth.

O, ’tis as though you can actually heareth the music—you sway to and fro as a quiet, haunting tune permeates thy quart’rs, lulling thee into something of a trance. The melody sounds almost liketh a lullaby. As thou art pirouetting across the cubiculo, you imagineth the forest flo’r beneath thy feet, instead of bitter cold stones.

’Tis as thou art whirling and twirling thy way through the tower that three realizations befall you in quick succession. 

First, it occurs to thee that thou can neith’r heareth any of the usual stampeding from the elephants, nor any of the wing-flapping from the dragon guarding the tower.

“What-ho!” you murmur, but resolveth to pay it nay mind.

Next, you tireth of dancing and ope thine eyes. To thy surprise, howev’r, the soft, haunting melody you did imagine as you did dance doest not cease at which hour you stop pretending. Instead, the music plays on—in fact, you realizeth that the sound is coming from just outside the doth’r.

And lasteth, you realize the doth’rknob is turning. 

“Alack!” you shriek, just as the doth’r opens a slith’r. Thou leapeth back, expecting to seeth two honed tusks at any moment. Where’s the damned genealogy book when you needeth it f’r protection? And at which hour didst D-Dum groweth opposable thumbs?

Forsooth, thou art so afeared that you sort of drop the whole Renaissance-thing you had going on in favor of raising your trembling fists. A pox on Namjoon’s house! A pox on all the villagers! You were supposed to be safe—bored out of your mind, but safe—so long as you didn’t try to leave the blasted tower! Yet here you stand, preparing to battle a blood-thirsty elephant with flaming red eyes, all because Namjoon—that clay-brained, hedge-pig of a wizard—couldn’t be bothered to fix a proper lock on your—

Oh. False alarm. The strange music stops at the same moment a seemingly non-murderous man—with normal brown eyes, no less—slips into your room, shutting your door behind him.

Wait.

You lower your fists at once.

A man!

“Fie me! Hey-ho! Huzzah!” you shout, all of a flutter—for you’ve not made direct contact with another human in almost three weeks. A bolt of hope shoots through you. Perhaps this man mistook you for a princess, and is here to help you escape! “Art thou a prince, my lord?”

The man’s eyes, catlike and pretty, widen as they take you in: your wine-stained teeth, which you flash at him with a crooked smile; your tattered dress, which has turned an unbecoming shade of yellow from overuse; the unkempt state of your hair.

“Um.” His voice is a dark growl. “The fuck?”

“I can’t believeth mine own marvelous f’rtune,” you exclaim, hiking up your skirts and stepping eagerly toward the stranger. Clearly, he battled his way to the top of the tower in search of glory—and you are more than willing to play the part of damsel-in-distress, so long as it spurs him to help you go free. “Thou art h’re to rescueth me, c’rrect? Prithee, what be thy tide?”

You allow your gaze to sweep over the man in his entirety. To your surprise, he’s wearing none of the chainmail or fire-resistant armor you’d expect a dragon slaying prince such as himself to don—instead, he’s dressed rather simply in an oversized dark grey sweater and black sweat pants.

The man looks ready to lounge and lounge hard.

“My tide is Yoongi Min,” he says after a beat, dragging a bony, pale hand through his long, black hair. In doing so, you notice that his other hand holds something that looks very much like a pan flute. “How did you get up here?”

Your smile wavers as he peers expectantly at you, a most un-princely furrow settling between his brows. [5] Why is he acting like he didn’t expect you to be here?

“I crave your forgiveness, my lord,” you hedge, “but wherefore didst thee cometh here if not to saveth me?”

Yoongi blinks. “I’m not a lord.”

“Alack!” you exclaim again, sinking into a curtsy. That feels like something a princess would say. “Pray pardon, good sir, but I am drunketh! Tis unbecoming behavi’r f’r a princess such as myself, I know, but rest assureth I am still w’rth rescuing…”

Yoongi’s eyes narrow.

“You’re a princess.” He doesn’t say it like a question, but you sense the challenge in his tone, regardless. You freeze.

“Aye. Verily.” You nod. And then, for good measure: “Do-re-mi.”

Yoongi makes a noncommittal sound deep in his throat as he eyes the near-empty jug of wine on your table; the mound of rice in one of your bowls. 

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “But then why did I overhear Namjoon talking about how he didn’t expect to ransom any new princesses for at least a few months last night at the tavern?”

Your fists clench reflexively.

“Months?” you shriek, horrified. Namjoon planned on keeping you locked up in here for months?

“Months,” Yoongi confirms.

“That clotpole hast no more brain than stone,” you hiss—and then, forgetting the ruse: “When I get my hands on that slimy little—”

“Hold on,” Yoongi interrupts you. “I thought he meant he was making enough coin pet-sitting that he didn’t to need to ransom anyone, but…”

He takes in your bedraggled appearance once more, understanding slotting into place.

“Are you a criminal?”

You cross your arms, affronted. “Thou can’t just asketh people if they’re criminals, dummy.”

“Holy shit,” Yoongi says, releasing a low huff of laughter. You can see his gums when he smiles, amused. “You are. What did you do?”

“None of thy beeswax,” you snap. It’s no use. Dropping all princess-y pretenses, you fix him with a glare: “I’m guessing you’re not a prince, then?”

“Nope,” Yoongi says, striding over to your little table now like he owns the place. He sinks into a chair and takes a swig from your mostly-depleted jug of wine, not even bothering to use the chalice. A drop of wine dribbles down his chin; you track its journey with ill-disguised contempt. 

“Figures,” you mutter, smoothing down your skirts. “But since you’re here… make yourself useful, would you?”

He’s eyeing the steamy romance novel you just realized you’ve left on the table with a smirk.

“Useful how?” he says suggestively.

You’ve been alone too long—that’s why you can feel that cocky smile all the way down in your toes.

“Rescue me.”

“Sorry,” Yoongi says, sounding anything but. “It’s not gonna happen.”

You stomp your foot, petulant. “Why not?”

“Namjoon’s my friend.” Yoongi reaches for the rice. “He wouldn’t put you in here if you didn’t deserve it.”

“Would, too,” you parry.

Yoongi’s unmoved. “If someone figures out I helped you escape, I could get locked up myself.”

“Better make sure no one finds out, then.”

“I don’t even know what you did,” he says, mouth full. “What if you’re a murderer?”

“I’m not a murderer,” you object, offended.

He arches an eyebrow, as if to say: Out with it, wench!

You sniff, and keep your lips clamped.

“Fine,” he says after a beat. “At least tell me your tide, then.”

You hesitate.

“I told you mine,” he reminds you.

You eye him warily. Loath though you are to admit it, you’re sort of enjoying having someone to talk to—even someone as staunch in his refusal to help you do a runner as Yoongi. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all, and he’s the first person you’ve seen in nearly a month.

You know better than to trust his good humor will extend beyond the novelty of the encounter, however. Sure, he knows you’re a “criminal”—which he clearly finds somewhat amusing; he wouldn’t stick around if he thought you were actually dangerous— but what he doesn’t know is your name.

You’re a YLN. And your family’s reputation precedes you.

Then again, he did say he was friends with Namjoon. And the Kims have always treated both you and your parents with respect…

With a sigh, you introduce yourself, and though you’re expecting the sharp intake of breath Yoongi takes at your name, it still stings.

It fucking stings.

“Heard of me?” you say wryly, bracing yourself for his inevitable departure. To your surprise, however, Yoongi’s gone deathly still. He looks shocked, to be sure, but his face betrays no sign of ill-contempt or judgement as he stares at you. Instead, he tilts his head, an inscrutable expression painting his features. You can almost hear the wheels in his brain turning.

“Huh,” he says after a moment, tilting his head the other way.

You ignore the flutter in your chest as you indulge him, keeping still and allowing yourself to be studied—it’s not often anyone holds your gaze for longer than a handful of seconds, so this is something of a novelty. It doesn’t take long before the unwavering heat of his stare has you fidgeting, though—has you wondering what’s on his mind, and what he makes of what he sees.

You fold first, the back of your neck prickling when you turn from him to prop your elbows on the windowsill. Your vantage point is such that it’s impossible to miss when a flare of light—dragon fire, you recognize—gets expelled from the bottom floor of the tower seconds later, shooting off into the ink-dark forest.

You whip around, eyebrows pinched together. “Uh, Yoongi?”

He is, for some unknowable reason, still staring at you like you’re a riddle that needs solving. It takes a moment for you to find your voice.

“The dragon?” you prompt.

He’s impassive. “What about it?”

“It’s… still alive?”

The end of your sentence is punctuated by something that sounds suspiciously like D-Dum stomping around outside your door. You blink confusedly.

“How… how did you get all the way up here without slaying the dragon or the elephants?”

There’s a flash of something in Yoongi’s eyes that you can’t parse. He looks down at the pan flute you spotted earlier, then back to you, his gaze ping-ponging for long enough to make you consider picking up your smutty read to pass the time. At last, he appears to reach some private resolution, and sets the flute on the table with an almost defiant grunt.

It makes no damn sense.

Compels you, though.

“What’s the deal?” you say. It’s a handsome instrument, you’ll give him that—the reeds are smooth and shiny, bound together and arranged in two neat rows. You’ve seen large pan flutes before, but Yoongi’s seems nice and portable—maybe eighteen centimeters across at best.

“It’s enchanted,” he says at your dumbfounded look—for a pretty instrument does not a dragon-conquerer make. “My great-great-uncle made it himself. Whoever hears its music falls asleep.”

You’re skeptical.

“I’m still awake,” you remind him. “And I heard you playing before you came in.”

Another look you can’t decipher passes over Yoongi’s face as he picks the flute back up, rubbing his thumb over the thin rope binding the reeds together.

“Works faster if you’re in the same room,” he says eventually, frowning.

You regard the instrument with new eyes, and then train your sights back on Yoongi. He’s not huge, by any means: broad, yes, but lean. What’s more, his grip on the pan flute is loose at best.

You square your shoulders, resolute. You could take him. Thawp him upside the head with a chalice and snatch the pan flute from his feeble grasp. What’s more, you’ve got a good set of lungs on you, and the stamina to match. You bet you could play your way down forty-nine flights of stairs, no problem…

Yoongi, correctly reading the hunger on your face, lets out a rueful laugh.

“Gonna fight me for it?” he says.

You have the grace to feel ashamed.

“I thought about it,” you tell him, honest. 

Outside, the clouds shift as Yoongi stares at you again, etched now in a wispy beam of moonlight. You can practically feel the intensity of his thoughts, like static in the air, tingling across your skin. Never in your life have you wished you could read someone’s mind as much as you do right now.

“Go ahead and give it a go,” he says at last, placing the flute on the table and pushing it toward you.

Your mouth drops open.

“Really?” you say, but you’re already lunging.

The instrument is warm to the touch; smooth and familiar-feeling in your grasp, even though you’ve never held so much as a kazoo before. You raise it to your lips, pausing after your inhale. At Yoongi’s nod, you blow—and are met with resounding silence.

“It’s broken,” you moan, deflated.

“It’s not,” he drawls, but he looks… confused. Pensive.

“Then why…?”

“Only people in my family can play it,” he says after a beat. “It’s a genetic thing.”

You should have known. Magic, being hereditary, does tend to work like that—you doubt even a wizard like Namjoon could play it if it requires Min-DNA to operate. You place it back on the table, and then place your head in your hands.

“So if you didn’t come up to save me, then why are you here?” you say. “Climbing to the top of a fifty-flight tower is no joke.”

“I didn’t take the stairs,” Yoongi says. “You know there’s an elevator on the ground floor. Brings you all the way up to flight forty-seven.”

Right.

“Of course there is,” you manage through gritted teeth. When you get out of here, you and your newly developed calf muscles are going to donkey kick Namjoon Kim—that rampallian-hole—to the fucking stratosphere.

“But to answer your question, I come here when I want to be alone,” he says. “Nobody thinks to look for me here, especially on the night of a festival, or a party, or a holiday like today.”

“It’s a holiday?” you ask, taken aback. You’ve been tallying up how many days you’ve been cooped up on the Kama Sutra’s dedication page—the only book you’re able to deface—but haven’t bothered to keep track of the actual date. For some reason, the reminder that life outside of the tower is moving on without you—that holidays and festivals are passing you by as you remain stranded here, all on your lonesome; that nobody misses you or cares that you’re gone—cuts deeper than you expected tonight.

“New Year’s,” Yoongi confirms.

You try to school your face into one of careful indifference.

It appears you don’t succeed.

“Overrated holiday,” Yoongi says, his deep voice a bit softer than before.

Suddenly, there’s no sight more fascinating than the bookshelf over Yoongi’s shoulder. You don’t know why he’s still here; don’t know what’s keeping him sat across from you in a fucking tower so far from the village on New Year’s Eve.

What you do know is that he’s staring at you again, and at once, you’re hyperaware of your hands—of how stupid they look, resting like overgrown slugs on the table. You meet his dark eyes as you place them back in your lap, and a burst of electricity crackles through you. 

Clearing your throat—and training your eyes steadfastly back on the bookshelf behind him—you ask: “Don’t you want to see the fireworks, Yoongi?”

His eyebrows crease as he kills the wine.

“Don’t want to see the people,” he says at last. “I’m not one for parties.”

You nod, determined not to be maudlin. Perhaps there’s still a way to twist this whole thing to your benefit.

“I have an idea,” you begin, placing your elbows on the table and leaning toward him. You don’t even remember sitting down. The wine must be catching up to you—must be to blame for the way your heart stutters a bit when you catch the faintest trace of Yoongi’s scent as you inhale: cedar and amber. “You want to live out your misanthropic dreams in the tower,” you say, “and I want to be… where the people are.”

“If you start singing, we’re done here.”

Reluctantly, you shelve your spirited karaoke renditions for when you’re free.

“Just hear me out,” you plead. “Whenever there’s a festival, or a party, or a social function you want to miss, come here at sundown. Let me out of the tower for the night, and we’ll swap back at sunrise.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” you try, gesturing like you’re a game-show host. “Don’t you want this nice, isolated prison cell all for yourself?”

He looks away. “I’m sorry,” he says, and sounds like he means it. But there’s something final in his tone—something that feels an awful lot like a precursor to a good-bye.

You panic.

“Please, Yoongi.” Pride has no place here, now. The time to beg has come. “I’m so sad here, cooped up on my own.”

He winces. “I know.”

“I don’t belong here, Yoongi.”

“Maybe not.”

“I just want to breathe some fresh air and stretch out my legs,” you say, clasping your hands together. “That’s all.”

Silence. Maybe he likes it more when you use his name.

“Don’t let me waste away here all alone, Yoongi.”

He’s glaring at the table now, conflicted.

“You’ll help me, won’t you?”

He runs a hand through his hair.

“Yoongi, please.”

“It’s not that I don’t… want to,” he rasps, voice low.

The lure has been cast. All you need to do now is calmly—carefully—reel him in.

“Let’s do what we want, then,” you say.

He cocks a brow at that, his mouth set in a straight line when he finally looks up again. His gaze on you is almost wild in its intensity—you find yourself shrinking back from him, feeling exposed.

“I can’t defy the entire village just to satisfy my own desires,” he states, firm. “I won’t.”

You tamp down the reckless side of you that wants to ask for clarification—that wants to know if he’s referring to the desire to run away from social functions, or the desire to help you.

The solitude and the wine, you decide. They’re getting to me.

“We live in a society,” Yoongi says, at the same moment a muffled popping sound reaches your ears. You glance at the window in time to see glimmers of prismatic light shooting into the sky, just visible beyond the thick canopy of forest. Fireworks. It must be midnight. “And we should abide by its rules.”

“Narc,” you grumble.

“They exist for a reason,” he presses. “To protect people. We shouldn’t rebel against them for personal gain.”

“None of my so-called ‘crimes’ were committed for personal gain,” you say, wounded. The cheers from the village are loud enough to reach you, even all the way up here. You swallow thickly—Happy New Year, you think—tearing your gaze from the window to find Yoongi looking at you intently.

“No?”

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” you say, “but I never wanted…”

You trail off thoughtfully, and Yoongi waits for you like he has all the time in the world.

“My intention was never to make people miserable,” you say some time later. “I never got anything out of what I was doing, either.”

That stymies him. “Then why do it?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

Yoongi makes a show of stretching his arms and settling into his chair.

“Try,” he encourages.

It’s not that you want to evade his question; you’ve just never been able to find the right words before. Or maybe you’ve just never been given the chance.

“Your compulsion?” he prompts gently.

You think back to the last conversation you had with Namjoon.

“I guess sometimes my compulsion puts certain… ideas in my head,” you begin—and then flinch, feeling foolish. Yoongi’s not a child. He knows how compulsion works. “And I can’t control when that happens.”

“You’re the one who decides to follow through on those ideas, though,” he says, the hint of a frown forming.

“That’s true,” you agree. There’s really no contesting that. “But…”

God, how do you explain yourself? You’ve tried before, but it always leaves you feeling so unsettled. Broken. Compulsion is supposed to be this pure, positive force—an almost spiritual sort of wisdom people are born with, akin to a blessing.

What’s more, there’s a visceral, positive reaction associated with honoring your compulsion, too. Each time you follow through on your compulsion—even when it asks you to do things like grease up Jimin Park’s spoons—a warm, happy tingle spreads through your chest. You feel selfless; worthy; like you’re giving a gift to the people you’re apparently hurting.

It’s very confusing.

“Look,” you snap—self-reflection often leaves you feeling unduly defensive. “I don’t know what to tell you. Your relatives crafted magical flutes that granted their progeny the ability to subdue dragons, and mine passed down a penchant for… pissing people off. So. Congratulations on winning the genetic lottery.”

Yoongi makes a strangled sort of noise in his throat, and you don’t think it’s one of pity.

“I’m just like my mom,” you say, on a tangent now. “Nobody liked her. But I don’t…” You take a deep breath, watching the distant fireworks reflected in Yoongi’s eyes—sparkles of rich purples, pinks, and blues. “I want people to like me. Okay?”

Yoongi opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I know you come here to escape,” you say, gesturing around the tower, “but being cooped up here isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. If you let me out, I promise I will do my best to make up for what I’ve done.” Your voice is a bit thin, but it holds. “I don’t want to harm anyone, okay? I’ll dedicate those free hours to trying to right my wrongs.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond. He looks rather stricken.

“Don’t believe me?” you say lightly.

“I do,” he replies, the first words he’s formed in a while. He sounds sincere. “Though I’m surprised that’s how you’d choose to spend your time.”

To be honest, you sort of are, too—initially, you’d just wanted to con Yoongi into letting you go free so you could go sew all the leg-holes of Namjoon Kim’s underdrawers shut. But now that the words have been spoken aloud, you realize they’re true—you don’t want the villagers to dread your return. You want them to look at you the way Yoongi did before he knew your name: with a smile. You want to prove you’re worthy of a second chance.

You want to watch the New Year’s fireworks with someone who’d miss you if you were gone.

“Don’t worry,” you say, sensing Yoongi’s hesitation. “No one has to know you helped me. I won’t drag your good name down with me if I get caught, or anything.”

“Ah.” Yoongi’s thumb is stroking over the reeds of his flute like they’re rosary beads; like he’s asking them for guidance.

Abruptly, he stands.

“I’m sorry, YN,” he says, and your stomach drops. Something’s hardened in his face; something that looks sickeningly like resolve. “I—”

He doesn’t stick around for long enough to finish his sentence. It’s as though something snaps; as though a switch has been flipped, and he can’t retreat quickly enough. Without so much as a, “Fare thee well, my sweet-seasoned goddess!” or an, “Egads! I must away!” he sweeps out the door.

The memory of his pan flute's haunting tune is the only evidence you have that Yoongi Min came at all. That, and the visual of his retreating back—the silver hoops he wore in his ears glinting mockingly up at you from where they shimmer under the moonbeams—as you watch him disappear into the forest.

Sighing, you wash up and sink miserably into your bed.

Al—and you cannot stress this enough—ack.

Footnotes:

[1]. You are, in fact, exactly like the other girlies.

[2]. Compulsion [noun]: An innate, typically fixed pattern of desires that arise in individuals during puberty. Compulsions cannot be controlled, are person-specific, and are marked by various physiological and psychological symptoms.

[3]. This has happened before, after all. You’re freakishly talented at hopping from high places—such as from the rooftop of Hoseok Jung’s coop, when you’d stolen all his eggs—and not getting hurt.

[4]. Okay, you were sixteen years fusty—er, old—but who’s counting?

[5]. For princes remain, as a rule, opposed to making any facial expressions that might cause wrinkles.

A/N: OHOHO. Questions? Theories? Concerns? I would love to hear what you think—please consider leaving feedback (via reblog! via comment! via my ask-box, either anonymously or not!) and see you next time 💜

Oh, also: the elephant who never forgets..... to kill! is a Futurama reference ;)

NEXT CHAPTER

Need to be mindful of this message…

Give yourself kindness when things are a mess! Whether it's physically in your space, or more abstractly in your life, we all need time to sort things out and get the right processes in place.

Chibird store | Positive pin club | Instagram

This latest installment has it all! Angst, fluff, more angst, more fluff, and the sweetest smut scenes! 😁

@mortallydeepestobservation keeps leveling up in terms of story and writing! Will not disappoint and will leave you begging for more!

#KimNamjoon #RM #BTS #RM/Yn #Friends2lovers #morehashtagsicantremember 😅

The holiday pretense -4-

Summary: Namjoon has never been a fan of the holidays. In fact, he could list more things that sucked about ‘The most wonderful time of the year’, than things that brought him joy. Yet, beneath his cynicism, a flicker of hope appeared this year, as the faint scent of homesickness hung in the air. Unfortunately, there’s one tiny little thing that keeps him from calling home- his lack of a girlfriend. But fear not; this holiday season, Namjoon’s smart mouth gets him in a situation where he has no choice but to approach you- his longtime friend and roommate- with an unexpected request. Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: fake-dating, friends to lovers/roommates to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff. Rating: Explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: characters are very clumsy. Blood, mentions of blood and bandages. slight angst. Smut warnings: (finally), kissing, hickeys, marking, non penetrative sex act, pet names. Namjoon is a big boy Word count: Chapter 4- 23k Author's note: guys! it's done! they (almost) did it! This chapter is essentially the reason this story exists. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never read a pretend-dating or fake-relationship story where the reader feels guilty about lying, or where she  to the parents. This was fun. I’m really happy with how it came out tbh. And just for the record, y'all need to thank @callmenoona25 , because I was very willing to blue ball you, but she convinced me otherwise. So yeah. We are just one chapter out from seeing this story to completion!! I almost can’t believe it. happy v-day y'all✨💕 Tag list: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne  @oneshallsmile @ktownshizzle @jimineepaboya

Namjoon had his flaws; he was the first to admit it. Although he wouldn’t necessarily say that the meticulous way he liked to organized his closet was one of them.

That wasn’t a flaw—it was a quirk.

And you had your quirks too! Like your collection of pink pots that needed their own cabinet, and your insistence on a very specific way of stacking Tupperware—both perfectly reasonable in your eyes.

And for the most part, these quirks rarely clashed—he didn’t care about cooking or what colour skillet his food was made in, and you rarely had any reason to go through his closet (except to steal his clothes). But every so often, they would.  And when they did, they drove you both up the wall. Namjoon had a particularly bad habit of forgetting to check pockets before throwing clothes in the wash. More than a few pair of AirPods had met their untimely demise due to his own forgetfulness. Worse, though, were the tissues. Those tiny paper pieces would disintegrate in the wash, and would compromise the entire load. That was the one that really got to you.

And it wasn’t like he’d do that intentionally; it was simply Namjoon being Namjoon. He’d always start off doing the laundry with the best intentions—carefully separating colours from whites, ensuring delicates got the right temperature. But somewhere in the process, his mind would wander (as it often did) to a work issue or book he’d been reading. By the time he remembered to check the pockets, it was usually too late.

But you weren’t without your own faults. Like your refusal to put the sponge back in its designated holder—a choice that made absolutely no sense to him, because it was right there! And yet, every time, you left it sitting in the sink, soaking wet, slowly dissolving into a slimy mess. Namjoon hated a soggy sponge more than almost anything, and yet you kept deliberately inviting one into your home.

And then there was your compulsive need to clean the kitchen immediately after cooking. To Namjoon, this was the ultimate buzzkill, mostly because he was hungry and he’d always wait for you to finish, so you could eat together.

It wasn’t like you were trying to be difficult—just as Namjoon didn’t intend to obliterate every tissue he left in his pocket. You simply had your own rhythm, your own way of doing things.

The sponge thing, though? That was a hill he couldn’t understand why you choose to die on.

Still, quirks and frustrations aside, you both understood the bigger picture. And though he may never admit it, after years of living together, he almost found it endearing— how these quibbles have become woven into the fabric of your relationship. If a disintegrated tissue or a soggy sponge was the worst thing between you, he’d gladly take it.

He’d still keep you as his roommate, pink cookware fetish and all.

“Joonie, think you can hand me that cup?”

You appeared beside him, barefoot, wearing one of his oversized sweaters that practically swallowed you whole, your eyes glued to your phone as you read something.

Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he grabbed the cup from the drying rack. “You know, for someone so obsessed with doing the dishes right away, you sure leave a lot lying around.”

“That’s your part of the agreement.” You replied smoothly, not even glancing up at first. But then your eyes flickered to meet his, a playful spark in them. “If I wash the dishes, you put away the dishes. Fair’s fair”

He handed you the cup, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Convenient how you always remember that part of the agreement when it benefits you. I’m the one who always ends up doing both—washing and putting away.”

You leaned against him as you filled the cup with water, your body brushing his in that effortless, unconscious way that never failed to send his mind spiralling. “That’s called teamwork, Namjoonie.” You teased, giggling softly as you fluttered those pretty eyes at him.

Namjoon exhaled softly, trying to steady his racing thoughts. It was always like this—the smallest of gestures from you could unravel him completely. You, in his sweater, standing so close that he could smell the faint scent of your shampoo, acting like it was nothing, but to him, it was everything.

His gaze lingered on you, drawn to the way the sweater slipped slightly off your shoulder, the easy confidence in your movements, and the way you made standing this close feel so natural. And in that moment, Namjoon felt the weight of everything he’d been holding back, everything he’d tried to convince himself was enough.

But it wasn’t. It could never be.

He couldn’t keep pretending this was just casual, that it didn’t mean something more. He couldn’t keep pretending he wasn’t in love with you.

“Teamwork, huh?” he said softly, his smile deepening.

Before you could respond, his hands moved, settling on your waist. His touch was gentle but sure, pulling you closer with a quiet confidence that made your breath hitch.

“Namjoon-”

Your voice was barely a whisper, but you didn’t get the chance to finish. He leaned in, closing the space between you, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was both hesitant and certain—like a question he already knew the answer to.

Warm and unhurried, your lips moved together, his grip on your waist steady, as though he wanted to make sure you didn’t pull away too soon.

The sensation of his lips against yours was electric, sending a wave of heat through him, but it was the overwhelming rush of emotion—the need to hold onto you, to make you feel what he couldn’t put into words—that sent his heart racing.

You were so warm in his grasp, your skin so soft in his hands, he couldn’t help but lose himself in the moment. In you.  His thumbs brushed against your sides, tracing lazy, delicate circles as if to memorize the feel of you pressed against him.

Your fingers dig themselves in his t-shirt, clinging to the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you in the surreal haze of the moment.

Namjoon tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding up from your waist to rest gently on your lower back, pulling you impossibly close. Every movement was intentional, like he wanted to carve this moment into his memory— the warmth of your skin, the taste of your lips, the way you always fit against him like two pieces of the same puzzle.

When the need for air finally forced you both to break apart, he didn’t pull away entirely. Instead, he stayed close, his forehead resting against yours, your breaths mingling in the charged silence, each exhale louder than the last.

But then, as if the spell had broken, reality—or something like it—came crashing down.

“Fuck.” The word escaped you like a gasp, and you pushed hard against his chest, tearing yourself out of his grasp “God, Namjoon! Why would you do that?”

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face, followed by hurt. He let his hands fall to his sides, taking a half-step back. “Wait-what? I...I thought—Do you not…like me?”

“Like you?” you interrupted, your voice sharp, though it trembled slightly. “My god, Namjoon, no! We’re roommates. Just friends! That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been!” 

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Namjoon felt the ground slip out from under him. The warmth of your skin was gone, the illusion shattered, and all that was left was a painful, confusing silence. He stepped back as though your words had physically struck him, his face pale and stricken. “I- I didn’t mean to-”

“You didn’t mean to what?” you interrupted, your voice trembling with fury and something he couldn’t name. “God, I knew moving in with a guy would be a mistake. I should’ve seen this coming. Typical man—constantly horny. God forbid you get drunk or you’ll just grab the nearest woman you see.”

“Drunk and horny—” He stopped short, his jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. “You really think that’s the kind of man I am?”

“I thought you were different!” Tears began slipping from your eyes as you instinctively stepped farther away from him, as though trying to put as much distance as possible between the two of you.

You looked at him like he’d violated something sacred, something irreplaceable. “I thought you were my friend,” you said, your voice trembling, angry tears spilling freely across your cheeks. “How could you do this?”

“I…” He hesitated, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the sharp exhale that followed. The words lodged in his throat, tangled in the knot of regret tightening in his chest. Why did he let this happen? The weight of his own stupidity pressed down on him, each passing second making it harder to breathe. Why couldn’t he have just kept his distance? Stay in his lane?

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You swallowed, hating the sting behind your eyes, hating that you even cared enough to be this angry. “Yeah, well. You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I can’t do this anymore.” The words tumble out before you can stop them, your voice raw, cracking at the edges. “I can’t keep pretending like everything’s fine. Like I’m fine. I hate this—I hate feeling like I’m walking on glass around you.”

Namjoon stiffens, his face carefully neutral, but you see it— that flicker of something. Something vulnerable. Something guilty. “I know I messed up,” he says, voice low. “I know I-”

“You don’t know anything,” you cut him off, your breath uneven. “If you did, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place. You wouldn’t have asked me to lie to your mother.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. What was there to say?

“I hate lying to her! You know I’m terrible at lying, Namjoon! And I think lying is immoral! I should’ve known something like this would happen the second you asked me to lie for you!” Your voice wavered, an overwhelming mixture of anger, hurt, and frustration bubbling over. You threw your hands up, as if the motion could somehow shake off the suffocating weight of it all.

“I never should’ve agreed to spend Christmas with you!” you continued, tears slipping unchecked down your cheeks, your voice cracking completely. “I should’ve known this was just... just a convenient excuse for you to try to get in my pants!”

“Wait, what? No! That’s not-” He took a step forward, reaching out, but you recoiled, cutting him off before he could finish.

 “I should’ve known better.”

Namjoon’s chest tightened, his breathing shallow as he tried to process the words spilling from your lips. Every syllable was a punch to the gut, each one driving home just how badly he’d miscalculated.

The silence hung heavy between you, broken only by the uneven rise and fall of your breaths.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, needed to say something, but nothing came out. His gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening.

“I-I can’t stay with you like this.” Your arms wrapped around yourself as if that could shield yourself from the overwhelming emotion threatening to swallow you whole.

“What?” his voice cracked, the single word escaping before he could stop it.

“I can’t live with you knowing you have these feelings for me. It’s too much,” you said, taking another step, as though putting space between you would make it easier to breathe. “I don’t know what to do with it. With you,”

The edges of the room seemed to blur, to darken as he could only focus on your words, on the space between you that seemed to grow with each passing second.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The reality of what you were saying hit him like a cold slap.

He had thought that maybe—just maybe—you felt the same. That there was something there, beneath the surface. But now it was clear that he had misunderstood. That his feelings had come out at the wrong time.

 And the last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable. To make you feel like this was something you needed to run away from.

“I... I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.” His voice faltered as he stepped toward you, but you pulled away. That hurt more than he expected, but he couldn’t blame you. “I was selfish. I got carried away,” he said quietly, shame creeping into his tone. “I never meant to hurt you.”

 “Well, you did,” you shot back, your voice breaking. “You ruined everything. Damn it!” You bit out the words before you could stop them, frustration and hurt thick in your voice.

The sharpness made both of you flinch, but you couldn’t help it.

The rawness of everything—the kiss, the confusion, the way things had been turned upside down—was too much for you to process.

Namjoon stood frozen, his limbs heavy and unresponsive, as if the weight of your pain had rooted him in place. A sinking feeling spread through his chest, the urge to fix this burning beneath his skin. He wanted to make things right. To erase the hurt he’d caused. The weight he forced you to carry by putting you in this position—to lie to his family, to be stuck in a confined space with him, to—

But it was too late.

The damage had been done.

 “I never wanted to make you feel this way. I just-” He stopped, unable to explain himself. “I’m sorry.”

 The words felt useless. Hollow.

“You don’t get it, do you?” You laughed bitterly, shaking your head as frustration threatened to boil over. “You think you can just act on whatever you feel, without any consideration for me?” Your voice cracked, your face still streaked with the emotions you couldn’t hold back “I’m not some—some game for you to play, Namjoon. You can’t just kiss me and expect things to go back to normal.”

He had no defense.

 No way to explain how he’d gotten so caught up in the moment that he’d forgotten everything that had made your relationship comfortable. Safe. Easy.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the words sounding weak even to his own ears…

His sharp gasp tore through the silence of the night, and Namjoon’s eyes snapped open. His chest heaved as he sat up, drenched in a cold sweat, remnants of the dream still lingering like a throbbing pain in his mind. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he tried to make sense of where he was, his hands trembling as he ran them through his dishevelled hair.

The room was dark, quiet, save for the soft rustle of the sheets beneath him and your soft breathing at the other end of the bed. His body still felt the residual tension from the nightmare, the sting of your words echoing in his mind.

Namjoon glanced toward your sleeping form, curled up at the edge of the bed. The soft rise and fall of your shoulders should’ve been calming, but instead, it magnified the tightness in his chest. You were so close, yet the weight of everything that’s happened made you feel impossibly far away.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to shake off the feeling, the dread that came with the idea of having ruined everything. The dream had felt so real—your voice, the hurt in your eyes, the way you pulled away, making it clear that the line between friendship and something more was something he’d crossed without meaning to.

“God...” he muttered to himself, running a hand down his face, still trying to calm his racing thoughts. Why did he kiss you on the balcony?

He shifted his weight to the side of the bed, sitting on the edge with his elbows on his knees. He felt a rush of frustration—anger at himself for letting it happen, for letting his feelings get in the way of your friendship.

He could blame the alcohol, sure. That fleeting moment of warmth and lowered inhibitions, the way it made everything feel a little easier, a little less complicated. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the real reason.

The truth was, he’d been hanging on by a thread, barely clinging onto his composure around you. As if his mind was a battlefield, constantly tormenting him with thoughts of you—your eyes, your laugh, the way you moved. You weren’t just in his thoughts; you’d taken over his dreams too, pulling him into vivid, all-consuming fantasies. Like that dream from last morning—

That unbearable summer heatstroke, the salacious sight of you reading on the couch, wearing just your white tank top and those impossibly skimpy pyjama shorts. The way your legs were casually crossed, the soft glow of the light catching on your skin, making every detail seem more intimate than it should have been. Like the fact that you’ve forgone wearing a bra, a faint sheen of perspiration across your skin from the heat of the day. A few beads of sweat have gathered, one of which trickled down the valley between your breasts just as he walked into the living room.

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, the most adorable of pouts tugging on your bottom lip as you purred, “Namjoonie, I’m so hot.” Before abandoning your book and reaching for the hem of the tank top, slowly peeling it off your body…

He couldn’t shake the image, couldn’t forget the way his body reacted to it—how could he when he woke up with his dick slotted between your ass cheeks?— his mind spiralling into a frenzy of things he’d do to you (starting with licking every single inch of your skin).

He was walking on the knife’s edge. His heart going insane each time you looked at him, with each one of your actions he couldn’t distinguish. Why were you so adamant to drive him insane this week?

Was it punishment for putting you through this? For asking you to lie to his family?

Namjoon dragged his hands through his hair again, gripping it tightly as if the pressure might somehow reset his brain.

The memory of your lips on his neck—the soft teasing warmth, that had set every nerve alight as you marked him—had been haunting him ever since. He hadn’t been able to focus, to think straight, and every glance you spared him seemed to pull him further into the abyss.

He wasn’t supposed to want this, to want you. You were his closest friend, the one person who understood him in ways no one else did. The thought of losing that—of losing you—was enough to make his stomach churn. He’d have to move out. Hell, he’d have to leave the city entirely, because there wasn’t a single corner of Seoul that didn’t remind him of you.

But the kiss. Good god, the kiss.

He exhaled sharply, his head dropping into his hands. He felt ridiculous, pathetic even. He was supposed to be your safe place. Not the guy who couldn’t look at you without his thoughts turning traitorous, who kissed you on impulse and ruined everything.

When he’d whispered, “I really want to kiss you right now,” it wasn’t some calculated confession. It had spilled out like a dam breaking, a thought he’d been suppressing for far too long, finally escaping in the fragile quiet of the moment. It wasn’t bravery. It was recklessness, plain and simple.

And yet, even as he said it, he knew it was wrong. Knew it was selfish. Knew it would change everything. But the weight of holding back for so long had crushed his better judgment. Maybe that’s why his brain latched onto the “drunk and horny” accusation…

He had almost stopped. Almost pulled away when your eyes widened, when your expression shifted between surprise and something he couldn’t quite understand. That tiny moment should’ve been enough to stop him, to make him pull back and apologize. But no—like the fool he was, he’d pressed forward anyway, brushing his lips to yours in a soft, hesitant kiss, trembling with unspoken words. It had quickly unravelled, turning into something deeper, something he’d wanted for far longer than he cared to admit.

Your lips had been warm, soft, and devastatingly familiar. For a fleeting second, he thought he felt you lean into it, but the way you stiffened almost immediately afterward made his heart sink.

He replayed the moment he hesitated in his mind, that split second where he could have done the right thing and pulled away. But he didn’t. He’d kissed you, his hands on your waist, his body leaning into yours as if it were the right thing to do.

When he felt you stiffen, panic had taken over. His brain did what it always did when faced with something unbearable: it tried to smooth things over. He apologized. The words blurted out before you could speak, before you could call him a pervert or recoil in disgust. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he’d said, his voice trembling with the weight of his shame.

And then you said the words that crushed him even more than silence could have. “Neither did I.”

But now? The distance between you felt like an unscalable chasm, an impossible void filled with every unsaid word and unspoken emotion.

Afterward, your interactions had been painfully formal, reduced to stiff, clipped sentences that lacked all the warmth they’d once held. He could still hear the careful neutrality in your tone when you’d said, “I’ll call an Uber.” The words had felt like a cold, deliberate wall being built between you, each syllable like a brick, laid on mortar.

That tone, that indifference—it cut deeper than any outburst ever could. He would have preferred you screaming at him, lashing out, even telling him to get out of your life. At least then, he could convince himself you cared enough to be angry. But this? The curt detachment? It told him everything he needed to know.

He’d ruined it. Whatever it had been…

He had wanted to say something, to apologize, to explain himself—but he was afraid of making things worse. So, he just nodded, his throat tight as he avoided your gaze, and let the moment slip away.

The ride back had been a haze. The uneasy silence between you so loud it felt suffocating. He’d glanced at you once or twice, hoping to catch a glimpse of emotion on your face, but you’d given him nothing. Your eyes remained fixed on the blur of passing streetlights and houses.

The walk through the house had been no better. The only sound rising between you was the soft shuffle of footsteps as you both went through the motions.

When you finally climbed into bed, it took everything in him not to break the silence. He lay stiffly on his side, staring at the ceiling, his mind looping through every single mistake he’d made. It wasn’t just the kiss—it was everything. Asking you to lie to his family when he knew how much you hated dishonesty. Putting you in this impossible situation, where you had no escape and no easy way to confront him. And God, his embarrassing morning wood—he cringed just thinking about it. He couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable that must have made you.

And then, like the selfish idiot he was, he let his feelings spill over without a single thought to how you’d feel about it. He’d convinced himself there was something there, something mutual. The teasing, the hickeys, the way you’d snuggled against him at Hoseok’s—he’d let his stupid heart twist those moments into meaning more than they did. He wanted to believe that you felt the same, that the line between friends and something more had begun to blur.

But now? Lying there in the condemning silence, every moment he’d misread felt like a glaring, neon sign of his own foolishness.

The bed, once a place where your easy companionship felt natural and comforting, now felt like an insurmountable void between you.

He wanted to roll over, to face you and apologize—really apologize this time. Not with a fumbling, half-baked excuse, but with the raw truth of how much he hated himself for putting you in this position. But he couldn’t. He was paralyzed by the weight of his mistakes, by the fear that even looking at you might push you further away.

So instead, he stared at the ceiling, biting back every word he wanted to say. And in the silence, the ache in his chest grew heavier.

“Goodnight,” he’d finally managed to say, his voice tight and unfamiliar to his own ears. He didn’t mean for it to come out so formal, so detached, but his voice betrayed him.

The faint rustle of the duvet broke the stillness, a soft sound that felt far louder in the oppressive silence of the bedroom. He heard you shift, felt the subtle pull on the blanket as you turned away from him. The tension hung in the air, thick and crushing, like a force pressing down on him.

You curled up at the very edge of the bed, your back resolutely to him, as if the distance already between you wasn’t enough. You made yourself small, retreating further and further until the invisible wall between you felt truly impenetrable.

Namjoon exhaled, running a hand down his face before reaching for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, too bright in the darkness, making him blink against the glare. It was early—too early to be awake, too late to fix anything.  

The small sliver of light from his phone cast a fleeting shadow across the room, and his gaze flickered towards your unmoving form. Curled up on your side, the covers pulled high over your shoulders. You hadn’t moved in hours.

His thumb hovered over the screen of his phone, caught between the urge to scroll mindlessly to distract himself and the unbearable need to confront the mess he’d made. But neither option felt like relief, and the light dimmed as the screen timed out, plunging the room back into darkness, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t sure where he stood with you at all…

Namjoon leaned forward, pressing the hills of his palms against his face. He was at a loss, unable to find the right direction, the correct course of action to bridge the gap he created. But he knew one thing—he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t let his mind run rampant while lying next to you.

So, with one last desperate grasp at sanity, he got up, moving slowly, deliberately, careful not to disturb you. He reached for a hoody draped over the chair, slipped it on, and padded toward the door. The cold morning air outside might do him some good— clear his head and offer him the clarity he couldn’t seem to find in the stagnant darkness of the house.

And the driveway could use some shovelling, he decided absently, even though it was barely past 6 a.m. The absurdity of it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the escape, however temporary.

Namjoon took a deep breath, feeling the crisp air sting his skin as he stepped into the driveway, his boots crunching against the snow. He ran the shovel through the fresh layer, the rhythmic scrape against the pavement doing little to soothe the turmoil in his chest. But at least it gave him something to focus on, a mindless task that allowed him to shut out thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind.

And the music blaring in his earphones added to that sense of a mindless routine, the heavy beats and steady rhythm filling his head as he shovelled, drowning out the restlessness coiling in his heart.

He fully lost himself in the work. But just as he was reaching the end of the driveway, a snowball hit him squarely in the back of the head. He froze, blinking in surprise before turning around to face the source of the sudden assault.

The sun had risen, its soft, pale glow spilling over the horizon and reflecting off the untouched blanket of white snow that covered the garden.

There, standing in the doorway, was his mother. She was wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, her messy hair sticking out in all directions. Specks of snow clung to her fingers, and she gave him an incredulous look.

Namjoon blinked at her, still stunned by the unexpected hit. The snowball had left a cold, wet spot on the back of his neck, sending a shiver through him as he just stood there, unsure whether to laugh or get frustrated.  But seeing his mother’s dishevelled appearance—bedhead in full force, and her robe draped over her shoulders—somehow broke the tension.

“Are you serious?” she asked, hands on her hips. Her voice was a mix of amused and concern, as though she was both scolding him and silently asking why he was outside in the freezing cold.

Namjoon let out a strained laugh, wiping the snow from his neck, before flicking it back in her direction.  “I couldn’t sleep.” He tried his best to give her a genuine sheepish grin, but his mom was undeterred.

“So, you decided to shovel snow?” she replied, her eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged, still clutching the shovel in his hands as though it could provide some sort of explanation. “I think I might go for a run too.”

Both her eyebrows shot up at that, giving him that unmistakable mom-look that had a way of making him rethink all his life choices. Namjoon shifted under her gaze, feeling the weight as she studied him with a kind of pointed confusion that made him feel like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew.

“You’re something else, you know that?” she finally said, crossing her arms against the chill but making no move to retreat back inside. A faint smile tugged at her lips, as if she couldn’t help but be entertained by the sight of her grown-ass son standing in the driveway at the crack of dawn, bundled up and clutching a snow shovel like it was a life raft.

He chuckled softly, a little embarrassed but grateful for the way she managed to disarm the weight of his thoughts without even trying. “Yeah, well...it seemed productive.”

She shook her head, the smile lingering as she turned to go back inside. “Don’t catch a cold,” she called over her shoulder. “And don’t wake up the neighbours with whatever midlife crisis you’ve got going on.”

Namjoon let out a huff of laughter, watching as the door closed behind her. He stood there for a moment longer, the quiet of the early morning settling around him again. The sting of the snowball was long gone, but the brief interaction had lightened something in him, if only slightly.

With a sigh, he pulled his gloves tighter and gave the driveway one last glance before deciding it was good enough. Without another thought, he took off running.

His muscles protested the sudden movement, but he pushed through, settling into a steady rhythm. His breath curled into the crisp morning air, vanishing as quickly as it came. The streets were quiet, untouched by the rush of the day, the only sounds accompanying him the soft crunch of his footsteps and the distant chirp of birds waking with the sun. He welcomed the familiar burn in his legs, the sharp bite of cold air in his lungs—anything to drown out the thoughts he couldn’t shake.

By the time he slowed to a stop, the morning had fully settled in. The sun stretched higher in the sky, casting a golden glow over the snow-dusted streets, turning the quiet neighbourhood into something almost peaceful.

His breath visible in the icy air as his chest rose and fell from the exertion. His muscles ached in the most satisfying way, a reminder of how long it had been since he’d pushed himself this hard— let alone in the biting cold. He glanced down at his soaked shoes and the streaks of snow clinging to his sweatpants, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the fatigue.

He could feel the steady pulse in his legs, the burn in his lungs from the crisp air. Bending over, hands on his knees, he worked on steadying his breathing as the faint sting of the cold nipped at his flushed cheeks. The sharp contrast between the warmth radiating from his body and the chill of the winter morning was invigorating, leaving him feeling alive in a way that only moments like this could.

The steady rhythm of his feet pounding against the snow-covered paths had given his mind some semblance of peace. Not clarity, exactly, but at least it dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts. For a little while, he could focus on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, on the rhythm of his body moving, the comforting burn in his muscles.

Namjoon straightened, stretching his arms overhead and twisting slightly to work out the stiffness in his back. His jacket was damp from the effort, and he could feel the chill starting to seep in now that he’d stopped moving. It was time to head back inside.

As he turned towards the house, his steps slowed, the weight of everything creeping back in. The brief distraction was over, and the reality of everything he’d left unresolved loomed once again. Still, he didn’t regret the time spent out here—at least he felt a little more grounded now.

By the time he reached the door, his stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped breakfast. Maybe food would be the next distraction. After a hot shower, though.

He shed his winter coat by the door, shaking off the lingering chill, and made his way through the still quiet house. Namjoon pushed the bedroom door open quietly, his steps light as he walked in.

He tugged at the hem of his shirt and hoodie, peeling them off over his head with a relieved sigh. The fabric clung to his skin from the exertion of his run, damp with sweat. He balled them up and tossed them into the laundry basket, running a hand through his messy hair as he exhaled, still catching his breath.

He was halfway to the dresser when the faint rustle of sheets behind him made him pause. His steps slowed, and he glanced over his shoulder, watching just as you stirred.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, as if searching for the source of the noise. But when they settled on him, they lingered, and the room seemed to pause in that moment.

The sunlight pouring through the window caught his face, and Namjoon squinted, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the brightness.

His back and shoulders were framed by the warm morning light, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, almost rhythmic. The sheen of sweat that clung to his skin caught in the soft rays, and you found yourself grateful for his momentary blindness, because you couldn’t stop gawking at him.

In that fleeing moment, he thought he caught the faintest sounds—a soft, barely-there gasp—that seemed to come from you.

Namjoon faltered, still hovering near the dresser as he noticed your gaze fixed on him. His heart stuttered in his chest; the weight of your nondescript stare sending a jolt of nervous energy through him. His pulse raced as he struggled to find his composure. “Oh,” he muttered, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He cleared his throat, trying to mask the tension in his voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your lips parting slightly as though you were at a loss for words. But then you blinked, snapping out of whatever daze had momentarily claimed you, quickly turning away from him.

“It’s fine,” you grumbled.

Namjoon grabbed a clean shirt from the dresser, his movements slower now, his fingers lingering on the fabric as he watched your subtle shift under the blankets. Your response was quiet, but the way you quickly turned away sent a ripple of unease coursing through him. It was subtle, but he couldn’t ignore the way your actions made the weight in his chest feel that much heavier.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked tentatively, his voice soft.

You didn’t reply immediately, your back still to him as you adjusted the duvet slightly. “Yeah,” you said after a beat, though your tone was flat, leaving him unsure if it was the truth or just an automatic answer.

Namjoon nodded to himself, even though you couldn’t see it, and rubbed the back of his neck. The earlier clarity he’d found outside was already beginning to slip away.

“I’m going to shower,” he murmured, more for something to say than anything else, before stepping toward the bathroom door.

As he left the room, he cast one last glance at your still form, the lump in his throat tightening. ~~~

Stationed at the kitchen counter, your hands moved almost mechanically, the steady rhythm of the knife slicing through fresh vegetables, meats, and herbs filling the space. Mrs. Kim’s calm instructions flowed around you like a gentle stream, her voice clear and measured. Yet, with every absentminded nod you gave, her words seemed to fade further into the background, muffled beneath the weight of your own thoughts.

Namjoon was avoiding you.

 That much was clear. The way he had slipped out before you even woke up, his movements quick and his words barely a whisper when you caught him sneaking like some kind of thief in his own room, lingered in your mind like an unfinished sentence. The weird silence that followed all throughout breakfast...

Before you could sink deeper into those thoughts, Mrs. Kim’s voice cut through the haze again. “Add these to the broth, and then stir,” she said, handing you a bowl of neatly diced vegetables.

Her calm authority kept the kitchen in motion, leaving no room for hesitation or reflection. The bustling activity—the clatter of pots, the simmering sounds from the stove, the soft hum of her instructions—forced you to push the turmoil swirling inside you to the sidelines.

She had recruited you first thing in the morning knowing exactly how to keep you busy without you even having to ask for it.

 When you stepped into the kitchen, you were almost startled to see your usual cup of coffee waiting on the counter. It was a small, familiar gesture, one that might have warmed your heart on any other day, but now, it felt almost mechanical—like a habit performed without thought—Namjoon’s routine, his efforts to provide comfort, almost like a performance to fill a gap that no longer made sense.

You wondered if it was for your benefit, or his.

 But you never got a chance to dwell on it.

The Christmas dinner at the Kim’s house, you learned, was no small feat. Instead, everyone was involved in preparations, making sure every little aspect was perfect. Namjoon and his dad could be heard debating the placement of the dining table in the living room, their voices rising and falling in an easy, familiar rhythm.

Minhi, ever the perfectionist, hovered nearby, offering her unsolicited but animated advice on everything—the placement of napkins, the fold of the tablecloth, the angle of the silverware. Her critique earning a few exasperated groans from Namjoon, which were inevitably followed by indulgent chuckles from their father. The sound carried easily into the kitchen, where you worked alongside Jackson and Mrs. Kim, dutifully preparing dinner.

The air was fragrant with the aroma of roasted vegetables, savoury meats, and the citrusy tang of freshly chopped herbs. Mrs. Kim moved with the grace of a seasoned host, effortlessly orchestrating each task as though it were second nature. Jackson, eager to prove himself useful, chopped scallions with meticulous concentration under her watchful eye—though his attention would often wander to Minhi through the doorway, occasionally even catcalling her which in turn earned a delighted laugh from her and Mrs. Kim.

“Jackson, be a dear and go to the basement with Namjoon to fetch the wine,” Mrs. Kim instructed, her voice steady but decisive. She didn’t look up from the simmering pot, her hands moving expertly between stirring the broth and adding in seasoning.

Jackson nodded, a playful grin already tugging at his lips. He made his way to the living room, announcing their new task but paused by Minhi’s side long enough to deliver a quick pinch to her side, just as she was about to launch into another critique of Namjoon’s napkin-folding technique.

That unexpected pinch caused an exaggerated shriek to escape from Minhi. Her laughter bubbling up and spilling into the room, bright and unrestrained. The kind that invited everyone nearby to join in.

But it didn’t reach you. You were still caught up in your own little world.  You remained rooted at the counter, wearing that same look of muted control that was starting to wear you out by now.

A movement in the doorway caught your attention. Namjoon was walking past with Jackson, his broad back disappearing down the hall. His laughter rang out, light and carefree, as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. He was responding to something his dad said, dimples flashing in that familiar way that used to make your heart race.

But you noticed what no one else seemed to see. The stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tension in his jaw. His laughter, though warm, didn’t quite touch his eyes. It was so subtle, so carefully masked, but you knew him too well to miss it.

And that was the real problem, wasn’t it? Knowing him too well. Caring too much. Having feelings for Namjoon was already difficult—but this? This was unbearable.

You quickly turned away.

The knife in your hand trembled slightly as you refocused on the task in front of you, trying to steady your thoughts as much as your movements. The crisp scent of parsley filled the air as you began mincing, each chop echoing against the cutting board.

You told yourself to concentrate. To stay present. But no matter how hard you tried, your mind kept slipping back to him—to that moment.

You could still feel the warmth of his lips against yours. The way it made something bloom in your chest, a sensation so overwhelming it left you lightheaded. You’d clutched at his sweater, your fingers moving on their own, desperate to hold onto something real, something that felt like it belonged to the both of you.

For a fleeting second, it was perfect. Your heart soared, a dizzying rush of hope filling you, so sharp and intoxicating it almost hurt. It was reciprocated. It was mutual.

But then it all came crashing down. Hard.

The memory of his reaction was a jagged edge, replaying on loop in your mind, cutting through the warmth of that moment and leaving nothing but raw ache behind. His hesitation, the way he’d pulled back so quickly, mumbling an apology before you could even process what had happened. It was as though he couldn’t distance himself fast enough, couldn’t stand the weight of what he’d done—or what it might have meant.

Had it been a mistake for him? A fleeting moment of weakness he regretted the second it happened? Because that’s what it felt like. And yet, in the seconds before he’d pulled away, it had felt like something else entirely….

He was tentative, almost shy, as though he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this. Then he kissed you like he meant it, like he’d been holding back for so long that he couldn’t stop himself.

But, of course, reality had a cruel way of snapping back. And when it did, it came in the form of his stumbling regret…

“I really want to kiss you right now”

The jerk. Asshole. Playboy!

If only any of those words actually described him…

You pressed the blade harder against the parsley, your movements growing more erratic. You hated that you cared so much. Hated that you were dissecting every microsecond of that kiss when he was probably fine. He was just being considerate and offering you the space you needed.

 Namjoon was laughing with his family, fetching wine, stealing cookies when his mother wasn’t looking, acting like nothing had happened—like you hadn’t happened.

But then again, there was that stiffness in his shoulders, the slight tension in his voice that you couldn’t ignore. It was as if he was trying to act normal, trying to match the energy of the room, but there was something holding him back.

Or maybe you were just imagining it… Maybe you were projecting your own confusion onto him, searching for cracks that didn’t exist because you wanted—needed—to believe that he felt it too. That the kiss wasn’t just a fleeting mistake.

The tightness in your chest refused to ease, no matter how much you told yourself to let it go. Namjoon was Namjoon—kind, selfless, and maddeningly perfect. And you? You were just someone he kissed and immediately regretted.

A sharp sting snapped you out of your thoughts. You gasped, jerking your hand back as a thick line of red bloomed on your fingertip. The knife clattered against the counter, drawing Mrs. Kim’s attention.

“Oh, sweetheart! Are you alright?” She asked, her voice laced with concern as she moved toward you.

“Yeah, nicked myself.” you said quickly, wrapping your other hand around the cut to stop the bleeding. The sudden rush of embarrassment at your clumsiness burned hotter than the sting of the cut itself.

“Let me see,” she insisted, reaching for your hand, but before she could, Namjoon’s voice came from the doorway, startling you.

You hadn’t even noticed him return to the kitchen, but there he was, bottles of wine in his hand, his gaze snapping to you the moment he stepped inside.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing!” The words came too fast, too sharp—too defensive. You pulled your hand back just as he stepped closer.

He barely hesitated, already setting the bottles down on the cutting board, reaching for you without a second thought.

But the thought of his touch made your chest constrict, panic rising like a tide, swallowing all the air between you. “I’ve got it!”

The space between you felt charged, too fragile, too dangerous. You couldn’t let him touch you. Not now. Not when your emotions were so precariously balanced on the edge of reason.

“Let me see,” he insisted, softer this time, but unyielding

You shook your head, stepping back from him, only to bump against the counter, keeping your hands close to your chest.

The panic bubbling under your skin left no room for restraint, no space for softness. It all came out, raw and unfiltered, as you practically cried—

“I said I’ve got it, Namjoon!”

His hands dropped to his side, his brows knitting together in silent concern. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t argue—and somehow, that made it all worse.

The silence that followed wrapped around you like a vice, all of it pressing down until your chest felt like it might actually collapse, your breath impossibly shallow.

Then it hit you—you’d raised your voice at him. The weight of it settled in you, heavy and foreboding, like thundercloud ready to break over you.

Namjoon’s gaze lingered, steady and searching, as though he was waiting for something—an explanation, a sign that you were okay, anything to bridge the distance suddenly between you. But you couldn’t give him either. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

You sighed, stealing a glance at Mrs. Kim’s concerned expression before forcing your emotions down. You had to fix this—fast. Before things spiraled even further. Before your cover completely fell apart.

“Just-” you began, forcing yourself to look at Namjoon, “Let’s go upstairs so I can wash this properly.”

Namjoon hesitated for half a second before nodding. Without a word, he gathered the bottles from the counter and set them aside, his movements slower now—more deliberate, like he was afraid of setting you off again.

Mrs. Kim’s concerned gaze flickered between the two of you, her lips pressing together as if debating whether to intervene. But then she sighed, offering a small, hesitant smile. “Alright, sweetheart, just let Namjoon take care of you, okay? And be careful with that hand.”

You forced a nod, ignoring the way your throat felt too tight, the way your stomach twisted in protest as you turned toward the stairs.

Namjoon followed without a word.

When you reached your room, you stepped inside first, making a beeline for the small bathroom attached to it. You could hear Namjoon close the door behind him.

God damn it all.

The air stung the exposed wound, sharp and unforgiving, once you unwrapped your hand from around it, staining the sink with red.

 It was deeper than you’d thought—maybe not enough for stitches, but definitely not a scrape you could just ignore.

Blood still trickled steadily from the it, pulsing in rhythm with your racing heartbeat, like a painful reminder of your very severed composure

You bit your lip as you fumbled with the faucet, your uninjured hand trembling slightly, until it slipped. The sting of it accidentally hitting the open wound drew a sharp hiss from your lips, tears springing to your eyes—not just from the pain, but from the frustration of everything piling on top of you all at once. Damn him.

“Fuck. Ouch”

Namjoon was there in an instant, turning the faucet on for you.

“Are you okay?” His voice was softer now, careful, but the concern was still there, threading through the syllables like a quiet insistence.

You exhaled sharply, forcing your shoulders to stay squared even as your hands shook. “Yeah,” you muttered, pushing your hand under the jet of water. “Fine.”

“You’re not.”

His certainty grated against your raw nerves. You clenched your jaw, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you finally turned to face him. He was close. Closer than you’d realized. His gaze flickered down to your hand, the steady trickle of blood dark against your skin, and something in his expression shifted—tightened.

He brushed past you in that quiet, unassuming way that always threw you off balance. He reached up, opening the cabinet above the sink, pulling out the small white box with the familiar red cross on top.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, reaching for it, but before your fingers could graze the plastic, Namjoon pulled it back, holding it just out of your reach.

“Namjoon,” you warned.

His lips twitched, but there was no real amusement in it—just something unbearably patient, unbearably Namjoon.

“Let me,” he said simply.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to grab the kit from his hands and insist you could do it yourself, that you didn’t need him to fuss over you. But your hand was still bleeding, still trembling slightly, and the weight of everything pressing down on you made it feel like just one more battle you didn’t have the energy to fight.

Namjoon didn’t move, didn’t push. He simply waited, holding the med kit like an unspoken offer. His patience was maddening, his presence steady in a way that made your resistance feel flimsy.

With a sigh, you finally relented, dropping your gaze. “Fine.”

His lips pressed together like he was holding back a smile—not of victory, but of relief. He gestured for you to sit on the closed toilet lid as he crouched in front of you, setting the kit down between you.

“This might sting,” he murmured, taking your hand in his.

You braced yourself, but the first touch still made you flinch, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips. His grip on your wrist tightened just slightly—not enough to restrain, just enough to steady.

Blood still welled at the edges of the cut, glistening under the harsh bathroom light. You forced yourself to look away, focusing instead on the way Namjoon moved—careful, deliberate, as if he understood that this was more than just about the physical injury in front of him.

“Sorry,” he said softly when he dabbed antiseptic onto the cut, his voice softer than you expected, filled with regret.

His fingers brushed against your palm as he worked, his warmth seeping into your skin, and for a second, it felt like he was holding more of you than just your hand. The realization unsettled you.

But it wasn’t just about the cut. It was about everything you’ve been trying to ignore.

The sting made you flinch, but you didn’t pull away this time. His gaze flickered to yours for a moment, and you saw the quiet storm in his eyes—the concern, the worry, the frustration. You couldn’t look away, though you wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice barely audible as he reached into the kit. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” His fingers brushed against yours again as he retrieved the bandages, before moving to the underside, his thumb gently rubbing your knuckles.

You swallowed hard, “You don’t have to apologize,” you said, the words shivering under the weight of emotions you didn’t know how to voice—like just how much that kiss has shattered that fragile balance you’d worked so hard to maintain. How his reaction afterwards hurt you in ways you weren’t sure you could fully understand, not yet at least.

 How his apology now only made it that much harder to keep your guard up now.

The words felt like they were tearing out of you, raw and jagged, and you couldn’t quite grasp them fully as they left your lips. But as they floated between you, a terse silence settled, still thick with the unsaid.

You could feel his gaze on you, his presence so near that his breath brushed against your skin—a subtle, charged whisper of warmth. It filled every corner of the room, like a quiet storm.

“I still feel like I do,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if the tension between you was a chasm or a bridge. You didn’t know what to say. How could you, when his confession stirred up a hundred conflicting emotions? The relief mixed with the dread, the hope tainted by the doubt. You wanted to reach for him, to make it all clearer, but the uncertainty in his gaze reminded you how fragile everything between you was right now.

“I...” You started, but the words caught, the vulnerability of the moment threatening to consume you whole.

He squeezed your hand gently, as if sensing the battle inside you, and then he lowered his voice. “I’m not asking for anything from you right now, I just-” He stopped himself, his thumb brushing over your skin as if to steady both of you, as if saying more than words could right now.

You stayed silent, biting at the inside of your cheek as you fought to keep your tears from spilling over.

But his voice, soft yet tinged with doubt, pulled you back to him.

“I want to make sure we’re okay. I care a lot about you. And I can’t stand the idea of you hating me because of a mistake.”

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, pressing against everything you were trying so hard to hold together.

Hating him?

If only it were that simple. If only you could have been angry enough to make this easier.

But it wasn’t anger twisting your insides—it was something softer and far more complicated, more fragile. The kind of thing that didn’t fit neatly into words, that made your heart ache in ways you weren’t sure how to soothe. Because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t forget the way he looked at you before he kissed you. And you couldn’t ignore the way he looked at you now, like he was waiting for something he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask for.

You exhaled slowly, dropping your gaze to where his fingers still held yours. You could feel the tension—gentle, but firm, like he was afraid of pushing too hard, but even more afraid of letting go.

So he did think it was just a mistake…

You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I don’t hate you, Namjoon.”

His grip tightened, just for a second, like those words alone had loosened something in him. But the relief in his expression was brief, quickly replaced by uncertainty.

“I just…” You swallowed; the words felt like cotton in your throat. “It’s not you. It’s just—everything. A bunch of things piling up all at once, and I-”

Your voice faltered, frustration prickling at the edges of your control. You didn’t know how to explain it, how to make him understand the chaos in your head when you barely understood it yourself.

 “I’m sorry I raised my voice at you.”

“It’s okay. I’m a big boy.”

A short, breathy laugh escaped you before you could stop it—small, barely there, but real. And Namjoon caught it, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t dare.

The awkwardness between you didn’t break, not fully, but it shifted, softened just enough to let you breathe like yourself around him.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “I don’t know why I’m like this right now.”

Namjoon tilted his head, watching you carefully. “Like what?”

You made a vague, frustrated gesture with your injured hand, immediately regretting it when the sharp sting of the cut shot through your palm.

Namjoon moved before you could react, reaching for you instinctively, just enough to steady you.

“Like this,” you murmured, finally answering. “Like everything is just… too much.”

“Maybe because it is.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that—not something so simple, so understanding.

And damn him, because that was somehow worse.

You cleared your throat, forcing a smirk you didn’t quite feel. “You always this wise?”

Namjoon huffed, shaking his head. “No. I just know you.”

That undid you more than anything else.

Because you knew he meant it.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to come along with me this week. I know how uncomfortable this whole thing must have been for you.” His gaze locked with yours, and there was something raw and sincere in his eyes that made your heart skip. You found yourself wondering exactly what discomfort he meant—the list of things that had made you uneasy was long. But after a moment of hesitation, you went with the one you knew was safest to say out loud.

“I hate lying to your mom.”

“I know.” Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, but there was something strained beneath it, something that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s going to be heartbroken when I tell her we broke up.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “She adores you.”

“She adores you,” he corrected, his gaze steady on yours.

Your stomach twisted, your heart doing something complicated in your chest. This was the problem—this was always the problem. The way Namjoon said things, the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel like you weren’t just someone he was pretending with. Like you were something more.

But you weren’t.

You inhaled sharply, trying to shake the feeling off. “She’s going to be devastated,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice. “You’ll be the villain in her eyes.”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “I’ll take the fall.”

It was so easy, this back and forth. So easy to pretend none of this mattered, that your heart wasn’t lodged in your throat, that his hand still holding yours wasn’t making it harder to think straight. The moment stretched, as he focused on the injury again, carefully bandaging it. The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as overwhelming now either. It was a delicate balance, the same one you’d been maintaining all week, the same one you always found yourselves teetering on the edge of.

Namjoon was still watching you, still waiting, but for what, you weren’t sure.

 For you to crack a joke? For you to take this moment and push it into something lighter, something easy?

That was what you always did.

So, you did it again.

“You better break the news gently,” you said, arching a brow. “She might actually disown you.”

Namjoon exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Oh, really?”

“She sends me links to apartments near her house, like, once a month. I think she was trying to slowly break me down to the idea of an arranged marriage.”

You grinned despite yourself. “That’s impressive.”

“She’s relentless.”

 You chuckled, imagining Namjoon’s mom with that kind of mission, plotting with all the subtlety of a military strategist.

“I’ll help you chose the engagement rings.”

Namjoon snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “I think that might be the last thing I need right now.” He sighed dramatically, though you could tell it was more out of affection than frustration. “At this point, I’m just waiting for her to start dropping hints about grandkids.” He cut himself off, realizing the direction the conversation was heading, and awkwardly cleared his throat.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the sink. “Grandkids, huh? So, you’ve thought about it.”

Namjoon froze, his hands still hovering near your wound like he wasn’t sure whether to keep bandaging or retreat. His gaze flickered back to yours, and for a second, there was a flicker of something—maybe vulnerability? —something you didn’t expect to see.

 “Of course, I thought about it.”

You tilted your head slightly, his words just hanging there in the small space between you.

“Yeah? What does ‘thinking about it’ look like for you?”

“Two kids. Maybe three if my wife’s up for it.”

You felt a strange tightness in your chest at his words, a soft ache that you quickly pushed aside. “Two kids? That sounds pretty... traditional,” you said, trying to keep your voice light.

Namjoon’s smile was faint, like he was walking a line between sharing and holding back. “Yeah, I guess so. I always figured, you know, the usual—boy and a girl, maybe a dog.” He chuckled quietly, but there was something a little distant in his tone now, like the vision he was describing didn’t quite line up with where he was standing at that moment.

You studied him for a moment, watching the way his gaze flickered away from yours, focusing on anything but you as he started rummaging through the first aid kit. It was like he had just shared a piece of his future with you, but it didn’t fit with the here and now. And that left a strange knot in your stomach.

“Sounds nice,” you murmured, not sure how to follow that up. Your heart was doing its complicated thing again—twisting, pulling. But you couldn’t let it show. Not now. Not when it just started to feel like maybe there is still a chance to fix this mess between you.

Namjoon cleared his throat and finished securing the bandage, his touch almost absent now, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Yeah, maybe. But… you know, it’s hard to imagine all that when things are, uh, a little uncertain right now.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure exactly what he meant by it. The uncertainty could apply to a lot of things—his life, his future, your relationship. But for some reason, it stung a little when it felt like he was referencing you as part of that uncertainty.

“I think I’d like a cat.”

Namjoon’s brow lifted, clearly amused by the abrupt shift “A cat?”

“Yeah, two kids and a cat.” You hesitated, then added, “And the husband, of course.”

Namjoon’s lips curved upward into a full, genuine smile, a flicker of light breaking through the tension. “Two kids, a cat, and a husband?” His voice was teasing, but there was something light there too.

You shrugged, trying to match his tone, even though the ache in your chest remained. “It’s a solid plan,” you said, attempting to sound casual. “Maybe a dog too. If the kids beg enough.”

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and you felt a bit of that old comfort returning. Strange, though—the way your heart still fluttered when he smiled, despite everything.

“I think I could get on board with that.”

His hands dropped on either side of you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let the conversation end.

The warmth of his words lingered, but so did that quiet, nagging unease. He was playing along, keeping things light.

“We might need a bigger apartment tho…”

His words hung in the air between you, lighthearted just on the surface. You knew Namjoon well enough to recognize when he was joking and when he was saying something without really saying it.

And this?

This felt like a little bit of both.

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “Oh? So now we need a bigger apartment?”

Namjoon blinked, as if realizing what he’d just said. A flicker of something—panic? amusement? —crossed his face, but he recovered quickly, offering you an easy grin. “Well, yeah. Two kids, a cat, and a dog? You’re gonna need space.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m gonna need space?”

He smirked, tilting his head in that way he always did when he was trying to play something off. “I mean… unless you think the husband would want to live there too.”

Your heart did that stupid twisting thing again, a tangled mess of what ifs and almosts. Because the way he said it, so effortlessly, like it was something that could just… be—it made you wonder.

For a split second, you let yourself picture it. A bigger apartment. A cat curled up on the couch. Laughter filling the rooms. Maybe even Namjoon, barefoot in the kitchen, making coffee before the kids woke up…

And just as quickly, you pushed the thought away. You weren’t sure your relationship will ever be the same after this week, let alone if you could afford to imagine a future that might never exist.

So, you did what you always did. You deflected.

You forced a smirk, arching a brow at him. “You make it sound like I’m actually considering you as an option.”

Namjoon placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Wow. Brutal.”

You shrugged. “I just think whoever my future husband is… he’s gonna need to be okay with the cat being the favourite.”

Namjoon chuckled, shaking his head. “Noted. Cat comes first. Husband, second.”

You grinned. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

The conversation should have ended there. Easy. Playful. Like always.

 But Namjoon hesitated, his hands lingering on either side of you for just a second too long before he pulled away.

And then, softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it at all—

“Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.”

Your breath caught. But before you could say anything, before you could even begin to process what he meant—he was already standing, already moving away, leaving you alone with the ache in your chest and the same unanswered question hanging between you.

“I’m gonna try and explain to my mom what that little scene in the kitchen meant before she gets any wild ideas,” he said, running a hand through his hair. His tone was light, but you caught the hesitation in his steps, the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

You forced a laugh, hoping it sounded normal. “Good luck with that.”

Namjoon turned back to look at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Yeah… I think I’ll need it.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the quiet bathroom, the weight of his words still pressing down on you.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.

Your fingers brushed absently over the fresh bandage on your hand, but all you could feel was the ghost of his touch, the warmth he’d left behind.

What the hell were you supposed to do with that?

~~~

As the evening wore on, the air between you and Namjoon slowly settled into something quiet, something less fragile. That burden that had pressed so heavily against your ribs all morning didn’t fully disappear, but it did loosen its grip just enough to let you breathe and get back into your role.

The tension that had once felt suffocating now ebbed at the edges, softened by the warmth of the flickering Christmas lights and the steady hum of familiar voices carrying over across the table.

The room glowed with the soft shimmer of Christmas lights, their golden hues reflecting off polished countertops and the delicate ornaments hanging from the tree. The scent of cinnamon and citrus curled through the air, mixing with the faint, nostalgic melody of holiday music drifting from the speakers.

There was something undeniably nostalgic about it all—the rhythmic motions of setting the table, the occasional bursts of laughter from across the room, the way the season wrapped itself around you like a well-worn comfortable blanket.

The ache in your chest remained, lingering just beneath the surface, but it no longer felt so all-consuming.

By the time dinner was served, the table was a stunning display of Minhi’s careful arrangements— a vibrant spread of tender, savoury meats, perfectly seasoned vegetables, and bowls of rich, colourful side dishes. The warm aroma filled the room, creating an inviting atmosphere, drawing everyone closer together.

Despite everything, you felt yourself settling into the moment, lulled by the quiet clink of silverware and the soft murmur of conversation. There was a warmth here, a sense of belonging woven into the shared meal, and you let yourself lean into it.

Every so often, your gaze drifted to Namjoon, seated beside you. The space between you still felt… uncertain. But it wasn’t as heavy now. He didn’t speak to you much, yet there was something different in the way he simply existed next to you—steady, present, like a tide softly pulling you in.

What surprised you most were the quiet gestures he offered without hesitation. The way he refilled your wine glass before you even noticed it was low. How he made sure your plate never emptied. The absentminded way he adjusted your chair when you shifted, as if it were second nature.

Set against the warmth of his family, these small, unspoken acts were unexpectedly grounding. A quiet reminder that, despite everything, he still wanted you to be comfortable. He still wanted you here. Maybe by the time you got home, things could even return to some version of normal.

You weren’t sure yet, but the idea no longer felt so impossible. It felt like something within reach.

Christmas, with all its quiet reassurances and unspoken meanings, had given you both a moment to breathe. To let it go, even if just for tonight.

After dessert, the night began to wind down. The table was cleared, dishes stacked neatly by the sink, but no one seemed eager to leave the cosy warmth that settled over the house. The tree glowed with soft fairy lights, the fireplace murmured quietly in the background, and the air was still rich with the sugary scent of baked goods.

Jackson, ever the romantic, had presented Minhi an utterly atrocious but hilariously heartfelt gift— A pair of bobbleheads styled to look like them, complete with exaggerated features and tiny versions of their favourite outfits.

Hers had her signature hairstyle and an exaggerated wink, while his sported his usual grin and an outfit that looked suspiciously like the one he was wearing.

“Now we can nod in agreement even when we’re bickering!” he declared, earning a genuine laughter from Mr. and Mrs. Kim.

Minhi gasped dramatically, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my god, Jackson,” she groaned, though the laughter shaking her shoulders betrayed her amusement. “Where do you even find these things?”

“I have my sources,” Jackson replied smugly, arms crossed as he stood proudly by his choice. “Only the best for you, babe,” he added, with a mock bow.

“Every year, it’s something new,” Namjoon muttered under his breath, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

Reaching for his mug, his fingers brushed yours. It wasn’t intentional—just a small, almost unnoticed touch—but it sent a gentle ripple through you regardless.

Your eyes lifted to his, and he caught your gaze. Leaning in just slightly, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Last year, he got her personalised socks with his face on them.”

Your laugh came soft and unexpected, spilling out before you could stop it. “Because he likes being stepped on?” you whispered back, your eyes sparkling with humour.

Namjoon smirked, his expression playful, “How’d you know?”

 The shared moment felt light and easy, a pocket of warmth that made you laugh genuinely for the first time all evening. It wasn’t forced or hesitant but natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm.

Namjoon’s eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, his smile softening into something quieter, almost fond.

“I got you something too.” He said, his voice low enough not to carry over the lively chatter around the room.

“You did?”

He nodded, glancing toward the small pile of gifts near the Christmas tree. “It’s nothing huge. Just something I thought you’d like. I can give it to you now if-”

“Wait,” you interrupted quickly, “You already know I got you the book, but let me grab it for you—I’ll be right back” A soft smile tugged at your lips as you hurried off to your room.

Stepping into the quiet space, you let out a small breath, your heart fluttering in a way that felt a little too telling. You rummaged through your suitcase, retrieving the carefully wrapped gift and adjusting the red bow atop the green paper until it was just right.

Taking a moment to steady yourself, you ran a hand through your hair before heading back to the living room. The second you returned, clutching the gift close to your chest, Namjoon’s gaze immediately found yours. His expression was calm, but there was a quiet anticipation in his eyes.

“Got it,” you said softly, holding it out toward him.

His lips quirked into a small smile as he reached for it. In return, he handed you his own gift, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a pink silken ribbon.

“Now it’s a proper exchange,” he said, his tone light but carrying something more than just casual words.

Glancing down at the gift in your hands, you chuckled when you noticed the little marker doodle next to your name—a quick, playful sketch of a Christmas tree, leaning awkwardly to the side under the weight of a star that looked too big for it.

“Did you do this?” you asked, looking up at him, a playful smile forming on your lips.

Namjoon shrugged, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “Maybe.”

 His casual teasing made you laugh softly as you carefully untied the ribbon, your fingers grazing the silky fabric as you peeled back the wrapping paper.

And then—you stopped.

The same book you’d gotten him was staring right back at you.

You blinked; your eyes locked on the familiar cover. The exact same book—the one you’d chosen with such care and anticipation—was now in your hands, wrapped just as carefully as you’d wrapped his.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to Namjoon, your mouth slightly agape.

“When we stopped at the bookstore and you told me you got it for me, I almost lost it.” He admitted with a chuckle, easily peeling back the paper from his own copy. “I’ve been trying to hide this in the apartment since it came out.”

He smiled, but as his eyes dropped to cover of the book, something shifted “But the thing is, I got yours signed-”

He paused when he lifted the cover and saw the delicate signature on the first page, resting neatly next to his name.  His fingers hovered over the autograph, a mix of surprise and disbelief flickering across his face. He looked up at you, his expression softening as the realization settled in.

“Wait, this is ridiculous.” He whispered, half laughing, half stunned.

You nodded slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite the strange twist in your chest. “I thought it’d be a nice touch— God, I spent hours just waiting to get it signed.”

“Same here,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess we both have good taste.”

“You’re telling me,” You huffed, still amused. “We could’ve at least gone together, saved ourselves some trouble.”

“Did you two just get each other the exact same thing?” Minhi’s voice cracked with disbelief—clearly astonished—reminding you both that, yes, there were people around watching.

You and Namjoon exchanged a glance, both still holding identical copies of book in your hands. The absurdity of it all made it impossible not to laugh.

“God you’re disgusting.” Jackson chimed in—like he wasn’t the one who’d bought his girlfriend bobbleheads.

Namjoon chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly, clearly relishing in the banter. “Yeah. We did.”

From across the room, Mrs. Kim, who had been quietly observing, leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, it looks like you two are perfectly matched,” she teased. “Maybe next time you’ll coordinate your outfits as well.”

Mr. Kim, sitting beside her, chuckled and sent a playful wink your way. “Or maybe matching pyjamas?” he suggested, prompting a round of laughter from the group.

Namjoon tilted his head, considering it. “Now that I think about it... matching pajamas could be a vibe,” he mused, throwing you a teasing glance. “We could totally pull it off.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, biting back a laugh. “You’re pushing it.”

Mrs. Kim grinned, clearly enjoying the lighthearted moment. “This is what makes these dinners so special,” she said warmly, leaning into her husband. “Seeing all of you so comfortable with each other.”

Mr. Kim nodded, his lips curving into a fond smile. “It’s these little moments that really count.” His gaze softened as he looked at his wife.

Your eyes met Namjoon’s for a brief moment, like there was an unspoken understanding between you.

Despite everything that had unfolded this week, something inside you resolved. Maybe things didn’t need to be perfect right now. And with time, perhaps you’d find you way back to something resembling normal—whatever that was. For now, this was enough.

“Matching pyjamas it is, then,” you said, breaking the silence.

Namjoon chuckled; his smile genuine.

“Deal.”

As the evening continued, the conversations flowed effortlessly. The soft hum of festive music filled the room, mingling with the quiet laughter of those around you. The glow of candles on the mantle cast dancing shadows across the walls, wrapping the space in a homey warmth.

And for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things between you weren’t as uncertain as they seemed.

~~~

“Mrs. Kim, do you have any dishwashing gloves?” you asked, your hands reaching into a drawer. You didn’t want to risk getting your bandages wet right after Namjoon changed them.

With most of the family retreating to their rooms, you lingered behind, offering to help Mrs. Kim tidy the kitchen. It was a quiet, unspoken way of showing your gratitude for her warmth and hospitality, a small gesture to give back after everything she’d done. Besides, it gave you a chance to clear your mind in the soothing rhythm of cleaning plates and wiping counters.

A form of therapy—you told yourself—just you, the soft hum of the kitchen, and the slow settling of your thoughts.

There was a quiet sense of contentment washing over you, as if the whirlwind of the past few days was finally starting to wane. The trip was nearing its end, and despite the chaos, the awkwardness, and the emotional ups and downs, you’d managed to weather it all. Somehow, with some-god’s grace, you made it through, and that was enough to leave a faint, unexpected warmth in your chest.

“Oh dear, don’t bother with the dishes.” Mrs. Kim said softly, glancing at you over the fridge door where she carefully stacked the leftovers. Her tone gentle, almost pleading, as if she wanted to spare you the trouble. “We’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

You smiled, shaking your head lightly. “I can’t, sorry. It’ll bother me if I don’t.” A light chuckle slipped from your lips as you rummaged through the drawer, triumphantly pulling out a pair of green latex gloves. You pulled them on with a snap, feeling a little silly.

Mrs. Kim smiled at your insistence, moved by the gesture. “You’re so thoughtful,” she said sweetly. “But really, you don’t have to.”

With a soft smile, you picked up a dish from the counter and ran it under the warm water. “Honestly, I don’t mind,” you said, glancing at her. “It’s nice to have something simple to do right now.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

The sound of running water filled the space between you, while Mrs. Kim moved around the kitchen, cleaning and organizing the days messes.

 The evening had settled into a comforting cadence—the soft clink of dishes, the low hum of the refrigerator, and the occasional crackle of the fire still glowing faintly in the next room. Everything felt simple, peaceful.

For a while, the two of you worked in silence, the comfortable kind that spoke volumes without the need for filler words.

After a while, Mrs. Kim paused, setting the dish towel down as she looked at you, her expression thoughtful. “You know,” she said with a soft smile, “I’ve been meaning to sit down and chat with you all week, but Namjoon seemed determined to keep you all to himself.”

You froze mid-rinse, caught off-guard by the shift in her tone. lancing up, you caught the warmth in her eyes, and just like that, the familiar knot in your stomach came back full force. Your grip on the plate reflexively tightened, the ceramic cool against your gloved palm, as you forced yourself to smile politely

“I’m really glad you were able to spend the holidays with us,” she continued, unaware of the shift in your composure. “You make my son so very happy.”

The words hit you like an arrow to the chest, guilt rising right where it struck.

The worst thing was that Namjoon wasn’t there to protect you from yourself. It was just his mother. Her gentle warmth, and the mounting weight of your guilt. The truth of your relationship, —or the lack of—loomed large in your mind, suffocating in its quiet dishonesty.

“You know, I knew from the moment I met you that you two would make a good pair.”

Your body stiffened, her words hanging in the air like an unspoken threat. Despite the warmth in her gaze, kind and sincere, it only deepened the tension coiling in your chest. The sounds of the kitchen, the faint hum of music still coming from the living room—everything else faded, drowned out by the relentless echo of her words in your mind.

A lump formed in your throat, and your grip on the plate tightened as your hands began to shake. The walls seemed to shrink around you, the space too small to hold the enormity of the lie hanging between you.

Her voice, so earnest and trusting, repeated in your mind, each syllable weighted with an affection you didn’t feel worthy of. For a moment, you parted your lips, desperate to respond— to explain, to confess—but the words wouldn’t come. What could you possibly say? That everything she believed about you and her son was a carefully constructed illusion? That this trip had pushed your flimsy connection to its breaking point? That you and Namjoon hadn’t even kissed before this—and when you finally had, it only tangled things further, making you ache for something real, something freely given? But that he didn’t feel the same?

The truth felt like a tsunami too massive and chaotic to contain, too devastating to release. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between holding back the wave and allowing it to crash down, obliterating everything in its path.

And all you could do was hold on to the plate in your hands, as if it could somehow keep you afloat through it all.

“I think it’s in the way you two-”

But the strain of the day—the strain of everything—became too much to withstand. The fragile hold you’d kept on your emotions shattered, splintering off like glass under pressure. The raw ache you’d buried deep inside surged to the surface, breaking through the thin veneer of composure you’d clung to so desperately as you tried to listen to her.

You blinked quickly, a futile effort to stop as tears began to pool in your eyes. But once a single drop escaped, sliding hot and unchecked down your cheek, another followed, and another, until the flood was unstoppable.

Your trembling lips pressed tightly together to stifle the sobs threatening to spill out, but your shoulders shook, and the quiet tremors of your body betrayed you. The stillness of the kitchen amplified the sound of your shallow, uneven breaths, the weight of everything pressing down all at once.

Mrs. Kim turned sharply at the sound, her expression shifting to concern in an instant, her hands stilling as she looked at you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” She murmured, stepping closer, her voice filled with a motherly warmth that broke you even further. “What’s wrong?” Her cold hands rested gently on your arms, rubbing them affectionately.

And in that moment, you realized there was no turning back.

Mrs. Kim’s voice was tender, laced with genuine worry that only made your heart hurt more. Her hands on your arms felt steadying, but they were also a stark reminder of the fact that you were breaking down.  You tried to speak, to form any explanation, but all that escaped was a shaky breath. The silence between you stretched, and you knew you couldn’t hide behind it much longer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. You weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for yet—everything, perhaps, or maybe just for breaking down in front of her. “I didn’t mean to... ruin this moment.”

Mrs. Kim frowned, her brow creasing with concern, but her voice was as gentle as ever. “Ruin it? Sweetheart, no. What’s this all about?” She gave your arms a reassuring squeeze. “You can talk to me.”

Her kindness was unbearable, and for a moment, you debated whether you could hold back the truth just a little longer. But you knew deep down that this wasn’t something you could keep running from. Not here, not with her looking at you like that, so full of empathy.

“I...” You hesitated, your voice cracking. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Mrs. Kim stepped back slightly, her hands still hovering near yours as if to reassure you she was listening. “Go on,” she urged gently.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and tight. “Namjoon and I... we-” The words were so heavy; it felt like they might crush you if you said them out loud. “We’re not... what you think.”

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a brief flicker of confusion in her eyes. She waited, patient but curious, as you tried to gather your courage.

“What do you mean?” she urged softly once you faltered.

“We’re not... a couple,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The truth was out, raw and exposed, and you braced yourself for her reaction. “This whole thing—it was never real. We just... pretended.”

For the first time, Mrs. Kim’s expression shifted—her eyes widened slightly, but her hands tighten around your arms. She stared at you for a moment, processing your confession, before she took a small step back.

“You pretended?” She repeated, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning on your guilt-ridden mind. “Why would you do that?”

You looked down, unable to hold her gaze any longer. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” you said, your voice breaking. “It started as... as a way to avoid questions. To keep things simple. But then everything spiralled, and now-” You stopped, feeling the tears threaten to spill again. “Now, I don’t know how to fix it.”

Mrs. Kim was silent for a long moment, her gaze thoughtful but unreadable. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft, though there was an edge of disappointment there that made your chest ache. “So, this... this whole time, it was all just for show?”

You nodded.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together before stepping forward again. “I wish you’d told me sooner,” she said, her voice quieter now, but still kind. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but... I can see how much this is weighing on you.”

You looked up at her, surprised by her understanding. “You’re not... mad?”

“Oh, my sweetheart, you are way worse at lying than you think you are.” She squeezed your arms again, this time rubbing her thumbs across your skin as if to bring some feeling back into them.

She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I’ve had a few suspicions,” Mrs. Kim admitted. “A mother knows, even when her son thinks he’s being clever. But I didn’t push because I thought... well, I thought maybe you two just needed time to figure it out.”

Her words landed softly, but they still carried weight, making your breath hitch. You felt an odd mix of relief and embarrassment—relief that she wasn’t completely blindsided, and embarrassment that you haven’t been as convincing as you’d thought.

“You knew?” you asked, your voice still weak from crying.

Her chuckle was lightly, a sound that was warm but reluctant. “I had my concerns. But I could also see the effort you were making, and I thought maybe it wasn’t my place to pry.”

Her hold lingered on your arms, steady and reassuring. “What I didn’t know,” she continued, her tone softening even further, “was how much it was eating you up inside. Sweetheart, this isn’t healthy—for either of you.”

You bit your lip, her understanding cutting through the storm of emotions inside you. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, blinking a few tears away. “I didn’t want to deceive anyone. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Mrs. Kim reached up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a fondness that made you want to break down again. “I know that,” she said firmly. “And I believe you. But this is not just about me.”

You look up at her, a flicker of confusion crossing your face as you tried to process her words

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your cheeks for a moment, her touch offering a soothing presence. “It’s not just about me,” she repeated, her voice calm but filled with an unexpected tenderness. “It’s about you. And Namjoon.”

Her words hanging between you like a burden, and your heart tighten once more. “Me and Namjoon?” you echoed, unsure if she truly meant what you thought she meant.

Mrs. Kim nodded, her eyes locking onto yours with quiet understanding. “Yes, you and my oblivious son.”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing as the implication in her words finally settled into place. Maybe, it was the relief of saying everything out loud that washed over you, breaking through the layers of doubt you’ve been carrying.

 It was that relief, perhaps, that loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your emotions for so long.

“But I don’t know if he feels the same,” you admitted, your voice trembling, defences faltering as the words came out. It didn’t even matter that, in saying them, you were all but confessing your own feelings for him. “What if he doesn’t feel that way about me? What if I ruin everything we have?” You glanced away, ashamed of the vulnerability that laced every word, but unable to stop the thoughts from spilling over.

Mrs. Kim’s expression softened further. Her eyes brimming with compassion “Trust me, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and doubt.

She smiled gently, her hand still resting on your cheeks. “You’re not imagining it. Trust me. I’ve seen this before—this shyness, this obliviousness to feelings. It’s from his father. That man was just as clueless when it came to my feelings for him.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her sudden pivot. “Really?” you asked, a faint laugh slipping through despite the swirl of emotions inside you.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, rolling of her eyes playfully. “I had to practically spell it out for him before he realized how I felt. But once he did...” Her smile softened, nostalgia flickering in her gaze. “Once he did, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind—or mine.”

You bit your lip, the warmth of her story sparking a flicker of hope inside you, but the lingering concerns still clouded your thoughts. “But what if Namjoon’s not like that?” you murmured, your gaze falling to the floor. “I’m scared to say anything and risk ruining the friendship we have.”

Mrs. Kim tilted her head slightly, her expression growing more thoughtful. “Y/N,” she said gently, “Do you know what I noticed about you the first time we met?”

You hesitated, unsure of what she was about to say. “What?” you asked quietly

“I saw the way you looked at him,” she said simply. “It wasn’t just friendship. It was something deeper. Something you probably didn’t even realized yourself yet. And that whole time, he was looking at you the same way. He’s not just your friend. He’s your person.”

Her words hit like a wave, striking a chord in you that you haven’t been ready to confront. Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “You really think so?” you whispered, your voice trembling with equal parts hope and fear.

Mrs. Kim nodded with certainty, her eyes kind and unwavering. “I do. And I’m not the only one who sees it.” She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “I remember Namjoon’s ex—she was a lovely girl, but things always felt… easy to look past. But with you? The way he watches you, listens to you—like he’s waiting for something only you can give him. That’s different. That’s something real.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but this time they weren’t just from uncertainty. A flicker of hope mingled with the raw emotion coursing through you.

“What if I’m wrong?” Your words were soft, almost drowned by the silence around you.

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your arm, a quiet reassurance. “You won’t know unless you talk to him,” she said, her tone gentle but resolute.  “I won’t tell you it’s easy—putting your heart on the line never is. But if you let fear make the choice for you, you might walk away from something really special. And I don’t think he wants that. I don’t think you do either.” She paused, her eyes searching yours, her voice soft but certain— “He loves you.”

Her words settled over you like a warm embrace. It was still terrifying, the thought of baring your soul to Namjoon, but Mrs. Kim’s unwavering confidence— in you, in him—felt like a light guiding you through the uncertainty.

“Go talk to him,” she urged softly, reaching up to cup your cheeks in a gentle squeeze. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’ll be glad you did.”

“I-I will. When-”

“No! Go now!” she insisted with a gentle but determined push, her eyes sparkling.

With resolve that felt both fragile and real, you nodded, inhaling deeply as if to steady the maelstrom inside you. As you peeled off your gloves, a sniffle escaped before you could stop it. You wiped at your eyes, letting out a shaky laugh—half exasperation, half-relief.

Mrs. Kim’s hand gave your arm one final, reassuring squeeze, her warmth lingering even as you turned away.

And then, before doubt could creep back in, you hurried upstairs to the bedroom.

 The door slammed behind you and the echo resounded in the quiet stillness of the room. Namjoon’s head snapped up from the book in his hands, his wide eyes startled by your sudden arrival.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the warm golden light from the lamp next to him casting soft shadows across his face. He had that look of fuzzy contentment he always wore when he was reading—a serene expression you wanted to lock away and hold tight to protect forever. But right now, your own emotions were too unruly to appreciate it fully.

“Do you love me?”

The words burst out of you before you had the chance to reel them back in, your voice shaky and raw as adrenaline still coursed through you. You were a whirlwind—your heart thundered in your chest as you stood there, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes, the weight of the conversation you’d just had pressing heavily on your shoulders. You didn’t even try to give him context first. You didn’t prepare either of you for the leap you were about to take. Instead, you jumped.

Namjoon blinked at you, his lips parting, eyes flitting across your face as he tried to process the question. For a long moment, he looked utterly confused, but then, as if the air between you shifted, something soft and vulnerable lit up in his face. His book tumbled from his hands, forgotten entirely, as he straightened up.

“What…?” he began, tentative and breathless, but you didn’t give him a chance to run, to overthink, to temper his feelings behind those gentle walls he so often built. You had to know. There could be no half-truths now.

“Do you love me?” you repeated, your voice louder this time, more forceful, as every fibre of your being felt like it was burning alive, unravelling at the seams with desperation for an answer. For clarity. For him.

His lips quivered, caught somewhere between anxiety and trust, his gaze searching yours before his answer came in a breathless whisper that shattered you on the spot.

“Yes. Of course, I love you.” The intensity you saw there—the vulnerability, the unmistakable fear —it completely broke the barrier.

Before he could say another word, you surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, unrestrained, a collision of all the emotions you’d kept bottled up for too long. You slotted your lips against his, connecting in a way that felt as necessary as breathing. The world tilted. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you from unravelling.

Namjoon froze for half a second; you could practically feel the surprise radiate from him. But then, like a lightning strike, his arms were around you, pulling you closer. Close enough that no space for doubt could exist between you. He kissed you back with a fervour that sent a tidal wave of warmth from your head to your toes. His lips moved against yours as though he’d unlocked a secret of his own emotions, pouring them all out into this single moment.

 This confession without words.

Finally, when your lungs screamed for air, you pulled back just slightly, your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. You could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“What’s gotten into you?” he whispered, his voice so quiet, as if to speak too loudly might shatter the fragile bubble wrapping itself around you both. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone in the gentlest of touches, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape.

You drew in a trembling breath, your lips grazing his as you whispered, “I… I told your mother everything.”

He froze solid, just like that, and the warmth in his expression flickered with confusion. “What?” he asked, his voice just as soft but now edged with trepidation.

“I told her,” You repeated, your voice steadier this time, though your heart was racing. You pressed another kiss to his lips, unable to fully pull away. “I told her we were pretending. That we’re not really together. How you—how you asked me to lie to her and everyone else.” Your fingers remained clutched in his shirt; your mouth lingering on his, unwilling to part for more than a few seconds at a time.

Namjoon stilled for a fraction of a second, processing your words between the kisses you couldn’t seem to stop. Then his grip on you tightened, as if afraid this was a dream he would wake up from any minute. The hesitation in his posture melted, replaced by something stronger, fiercer—something that matched the irregular rhythm of your own heart.

“Hold on,” he whispered against your mouth, his voice breathless and uneven, “I can’t think straight when you kiss me.”

The vulnerability in that small confession sent a thrill through you, and you couldn’t help the big, silly grin that broke across your face.

“Why’d you tell her?” he asked, his voice softer now, his forehead resting against yours.

You let out a shaky laugh, your eyes dropping to his swollen lips, already wanting to kiss him again. “I didn’t mean to,” you admitted, the words spilling out quickly. “She was so nice to me, and with everything that’s happened—I just couldn’t hold it in. I started crying, and it all came out.”

Namjoon exhaled deeply and, with obvious difficulty, pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, the concern there unmistakable. “What did she say? Is that why you’re crying?”

A watery sniffle escaped you as you tried to explain. “She said you’re oblivious,” Each syllable ghosted over his lips, the space between you nearly nonexistent. You wanted to kiss him again. “And that you get it from your dad.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but you didn’t stop. “She said she already knew,” you murmured, your voice quieter now, your chest tightening as your fingers traced the warm skin of his neck. “And…” You hesitated, your eyes searching his. “She said you love me.”

You were so close, his breath mingled with yours, the space between you barely more than a whisper.

Namjoon stilled, his breath catching. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but then something like awe swept over his face, softening every feature. His eyes searched yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation—anything that might suggest you didn’t mean it. But when he found nothing but truth staring back at him, he let out a shaky exhale, his lips parting as though he was about to speak.

He didn’t. Instead, his hands cupped your face, and his lips met yours again, but this time the kiss was slower, deeper, and achingly tender. Gone was the urgency, replaced by something raw and honest. This kiss wasn’t about desperation or pretending—it was about him showing you, with everything he had, exactly how he felt.

This was Namjoon, completely unguarded. And as his lips moved against yours, as his hands cradled you like you were the most precious thing in the world, you felt like it.  

His breath fanned across your skin as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still holding your face like he wasn’t ready to let go. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, slow and reverent, as if memorizing every inch of you.

Neither of you spoke right away. The silence between you wasn’t empty— it was filled with the weight of the past few days, the tangled emotions, the hesitation and longing, all melted into the space between your breaths.

Namjoon swallowed hard.

“I thought I ruined everything when I kissed you.” His voice was raw, unsteady, his hands moving with quiet desperation—grazing your jaw, your neck, brushing your hair away from your face like he needed to see all of you.

You exhaled sharply a mix of exasperation and relief. “I was so sure you regretted it,” you admitted, your fingers restless as they traced along his skin, unable to stop moving, needing to feel him. “God, Namjoon, how could you just shut down like that?”

He swallowed, his gaze flickering with something vulnerable, something hesitant. “I thought you hated me.” The words came quiet but heavy. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I convinced myself that I pushed you away—that I ruined any chance I had of being with you for real.”

 Your breath hitched at the vulnerability that poured out of him. His dark eyes shimmered in the soft golden light of the room; the weight of his emotions etched across his perfect, devastating face.

“Namjoon…” His name quivered on your tongue as the tears came back to your eyes. But it wasn’t sadness that overwhelmed you—it was relief. Relief that the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long had finally found a voice. Relief that you weren’t alone in this freefall of emotions.

Namjoon’s hands still cradled your face, his thumbs brushing circles along your cheekbones like he could soothe all the hurt away. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in an act so tender that it sent another wave of tears spilling down your cheeks.

“I regret…” He hesitated, his hands angled your face carefully, “I regret not telling you sooner. Not being brave enough to—God, Y/N, I’ve loved you since forever, but I was always so scared. Scared that you’d pull away, that-”

But you never heard the end of it, because your lips were on his again, stopping him mid-sentence, sealing all those remaining words between you. Namjoon’s hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough of you, as if he was trying to make up for all the lost time. The intensity of it all sent a spark through your chest, and when your breath caught, he deepened the kiss, his tongue moving against yours, the world outside completely fading away.

Each movement, each touch was a promise—of feelings so long buried, that suddenly burst to the surface. Everything melted away in that kiss. It was everything and nothing at once, a moment that felt like it could stretch on forever.

Each touch, every breath shared between kisses, sent shivers racing up and down your spine. His lips trailed away from yours for only a moment, long enough to press kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, always returning to your mouth again like you were magnetic. You lost yourself in him completely, in the way his thumb was curling just beneath the collar of your shirt, in the way he tilted his head for a deeper angle and the soft sound he made in the back of his throat when you pulled his lip between your teeth.

His touch, his scent, the way his hands moved with purpose yet a tenderness that was overwhelming—every sensation was overwhelming in the best way possible.

The kiss deepened once more, as if the air itself couldn’t fill the space between you, and all the words you’d both kept locked away for so long were exchanged in every press of your lips.

Namjoon’s hands moved to over your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, and before you could realize, he turned you two around—your back pressing against the soft mattress of the bed. The sudden movement took you by surprise, but you didn’t protest. If anything, the new proximity only made your pulse quicken, the heat between you both intensifying as he leaned over you, his body hovering just above yours. His breath came in soft, uneven gasps, each one warm against your skin, as if the space between you both was no longer enough. His hands, once resting at your shoulders, now explored lower, tracing the curve of your waist before settling at the small of your back, drawing you closer with a gentle yet undeniable urgency, his hips slotting against yours.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the sensation of his hands on you, the warmth of his touch setting your skin ablaze. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, slipping beneath your sweater and gradually pushing it higher, sending a shiver down your spine. Instinctively, you arched into him—craving more, needing more.

Namjoon’s lips brushed against your forehead, his voice barely a whisper as he said your name.

“Hmm?” you murmured.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Say it back.”

His voice was low, a mix of vulnerability and quiet demand, a plea you just couldn’t ignore.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and your heart swelled with certainty. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your voice steady as you said,

“I love you, Namjoon. I love you too.”

Namjoon’s gaze never left yours, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of desire and tenderness. His lips parted slightly as though to speak, but instead, he closed the distance between you two, kissing you again. His kiss was the perfect answer.

Your fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him closer, and you returned his kisses with equal fervour. A feverish dance, tongues entwined in a desperate attempt to satiate the hunger that gnawed at your very souls.

You ran your hands up the sides of his body, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, memorizing the contours of him as if you could pull all of him into you. Namjoon groaned softly at the sensation, his hands tightening their hold on you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling yours in a caress that left you breathless.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, pressing over the marks already blooming on your neck, each press searing, sending sparks of need racing through your veins.

He nipped and sucked at your sensitive skin, leaving a few new hickeys as he made his way down to your collarbone. You gasped, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. The heat between you was palpable, a living, breathing thing that threatened to consume you both.

As if sensing your need, Namjoon leaned back down, capturing your mouth back in a heated kiss. His lips moving against yours, coaxing you open, and you wilfully let him in. You always let him. His tongue slid against yours, stroking, tasting, and you whimpered, clutching onto him.

He swallowed the sound, one hand sliding down your thigh, hooking behind your knee. He dragged your leg over his hip, pressing your core right against his straining erection, and you gasped, breaking the kiss.

 “God, I want you,” he groaned, rocking against you, his hands stroking up your sides to cup your breasts. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. “I’ve imagined this a thousand times, but nothing compares to the real thing.”

 “I want you too,” you confessed. “God, so much” Your breath hitched as his lips found the curve of your throat, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with a slow kiss. Heat coiled in your stomach, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, as if you could fuse yourself to him completely. “I need you, Namjoon.”

But just as his hands moved to the button of your jeans, your senses caught up with you. You suddenly became acutely aware of everything—the fact that this was real, no more unrequited feelings, no more hiding. But just as glaring was the truth that his mother was down the hall. The realization hit you like a cold wave, shaking you, and a wave of panic surged through your chest.

“But baby, there is no way I’m fucking you at your parents’ house,” you said, your voice a soft reprimand, edged with your own personal frustration.

Namjoon groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he breathed in your scent. “You’re killing me,” he murmured.

You chuckled, the sound warm and breathless, threading your fingers through his hair as he groaned against your shoulder. “I’m saving you from potential lifelong humiliation,” you teased, nudging his cheek with your nose.

Namjoon exhaled heavily, his lips grazing your collarbone one last time before he pulled back, flopping onto his back beside you with a frustrated sigh. “You’re right,” he admitted begrudgingly, rubbing a hand down his face. “But damn it woman … you make it really hard to think rationally.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as you gazed down at him, taking in the way his chest rose and fell, the way his lips were still kiss-swollen and impossibly tempting, the way his eyes—dark and filled with something deeper than just lust—stayed locked on you.

A slow smile curled at your lips as you leaned down, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I promise, when the time is right…” Your fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on his chest, just beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t make you wait a second longer.”

Namjoon groaned again, rolling over to bury his face in the crook of your neck as you giggled. “You’re really going to make me suffer, aren’t you?” he muttered against your skin, kissing it softly after.

You grinned, letting your fingers comb gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Just let me hold you a little longer.”

Namjoon’s voice was a low, almost pleading whisper as he adjusted, shifting until he was holding you tighter, his arms enveloping you in a warmth that made everything else fade away. That made all the waiting and suffering feel like it was worth it.

 That made you start to question your own rule—because you’ve just told this man there would be no sex tonight and yet there wasn’t a single trace of frustration or regret on his face. Just quiet devotion, steady and sure, like holding you was enough.

 His hand splayed across your back, pressing you firmly against him. You melted into his embrace, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It was a comfort, a steady rhythm that calmed the fervour between you. His fingers lightly traced circles on your back, soothing you with every movement.

A small smile tugged at your lips as your fingers idly traced patterns over his skin. “Are you always this romantic?” you murmured, your voice laced with amusement.

Namjoon chuckled, his chest vibrating against yours “I’ve had years to practice patience with you,” he said, his tone filled with fondness, before he took on that familiar teasing expression. “And when we get home,” he leaned in close to your ear, his breath tickling your skin as he whispered, “I’m fucking you against every single flat surface we find.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your heart racing at the challenge in his tone. His expression was playful yet intense, that familiar mischievous spark lighting up his features, making those dimples seem like anything but innocent.

“You better watch yourself, Mr. Kim,” you said, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “I’ve been known to bite back.”

Namjoon’s grin widened as his hands sliding down your hips, fingers pressing into your skin before giving them a firm squeeze. In one fluid motion, he pulled you up slightly, adjusting your position—just enough for you to feel the hard imprint of his cock against you.

 “I’m counting on it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a brief but heated kiss.

“Namjoon…”

His name left your lips in a breathy whisper, and Namjoon’s grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing into your hips like he was grounding himself—or maybe like he was trying to keep himself from losing all control.

“Yeah?” he prompted, his voice lower now, rougher, his lips hovering just over yours.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up at him, taking in the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his chest moved with each heavy breath, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, like he was trying to steady himself—like he was barely holding on. You had always known Namjoon was dangerous in a hundred different ways, but this? The way he looked at you.

This was something else entirely.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you slid your hands up his chest, resting them over his racing heartbeat. “I think you might be a little obsessed with me,” you teased, arching a brow.

Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he let out a low chuckle. “You’re just now figuring that out?” he mused, his thumb stroking absentminded circles against your skin. Then, his expression shifted, something softer blooming beneath the heat in his gaze. “You have no idea.”

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone, at the weight of his words, and suddenly, the teasing faded from your mind entirely. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw as you murmured, “Tell me,” the words barely audible, even to your own ears. “Tell me what you want.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown so wide that for a moment, they hid the hazel entirely.

“I want to feel every inch of you” he murmured, his voice rough. “I want to taste you, touch you, tease you. I want feel you trembling in my hands.” You shivered, despite the warmth of his embrace, a small gasp escaping your lips at his words.

His smile was immediate—wicked and knowing—as his hand slid under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine with deliberate slowness, sending sparks dancing beneath your skin.

“You want that, don’t you?” His voice was nothing more than a low, sinful whisper that completely ruined your panties.

 “Want me to take you apart, baby girl?”

The words settled deep in your core, a slow burn spreading through your veins, igniting something primal. Your fingers curled against his jaw, your breath hitching as his hand continued its slow, torturous exploration beneath your shirt, carefully tracing the outline of your bra.

“Say it,” he teased, his lips brushing against yours, teasing but never quite closing the distance. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Namjoon…” you breathed, but he was quick to assure you.

“I’ll behave. Don’t you worry.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, heat pooling low in your stomach as you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want it.”

His responding groan was deep, guttural, vibrating through your entire body as his grip on you tightened. In one smooth motion, he rolled, pinning you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his thigh sliding between yours.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trailed down your jaw, past the sensitive spot below your ear, down the column of your throat. “Now let me make you feel good.”

“Namjoon!” you tried, but you heard him hush you before his tongue flicked over your pulse point, his teeth scraping lightly before he sucked, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. His hand slid higher, pushing your shirt up, exposing more of your skin to the cool air as his lips followed the path his fingers had blazed.

“Namjoon-” His name was half a gasp, half a plea, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it was the only thing anchoring you.

“Hold that thought,” he murmured, suddenly pulling back. The warmth of his body vanished as he sat up, pushing himself off the bed.

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. For a second, you thought he was walking away, and your protest was already forming—until you saw him stride toward the door.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

Then you heard it. The soft click of the door’s lock sliding into place.

“Really?”

He smirked, sliding a knee back onto the mattress, his hands gripping your ankles and slowly dragging you toward him. “I’m not taking any chances,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement and something deeper.

The heat in his gaze was enough to make your breath hitch, but you couldn’t resist pushing him just a little more. “And here I thought you had some self-control”

Namjoon’s hands slid up your legs, his fingers kneading into your thighs as he leaned in close, his breath hot against your lips. “Baby,” he rasped, tilting his head slightly. “I locked that door because I have self-control. Otherwise, you’d already be a mess underneath me.”

“Joonie,” you groan, the bright red blush burning your face as you cover your face with your arms.

Namjoon chuckled softly at the sight of you hiding behind your arms, his hands gently pulling them away to reveal the rosy flush spreading across your cheeks. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as his breath stirred the hairs on your neck.

“Tell me, how set are you on that rule of yours?” His voice was low, a teasing growl that sent a hot shiver down your spine.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the rapid beat of your heart. His proximity was intoxicating, and despite the rules you’d set, the temptation to surrender to him was almost overwhelming.

You met his gaze, eyes filled with a mix of defiance and desire. “I… I meant it,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky despite your attempt at sounding firm. “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

Namjoon’s lips quirked into a smile, though it was anything but innocent. “I know that.” His fingers danced along your skin, barely touching, just enough to make you ache for more. “But I can touch you right?” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear again.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you were unsure of what to say, before:

“We have to be quiet.”

Namjoon’s smile grew, but there was a sharpness to it now, a hint of challenge. He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours, “Easy.”

His hand moved lower, fingertips skimming over your waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake, his touch light yet electrifying. The contrast between his playful demeanour and the raw desire in his eyes made your pulse race.

You bit your lip, trying to hold onto your resolve, but the temptation of his touch, his proximity, was slowly unravelling you. “You’re making this harder,” you managed, though it was more of a breathless confession than a statement of resistance.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked up to yours, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to send heat pooling in your belly. “I haven’t even started yet,” he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. “But I’ll make sure you’re quiet.”

You shivered at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. His proximity, the heat of his breath on your skin, and the way his hands were moving lower, this time unbuttoning your jeans, had you teetering on the edge.

“Namjoon...” you whispered, voice shaky, but his fingers moved to the zipper, steady and sure, making it impossible to think clearly.

“Shh…” he hushed you softly. “I’ve got you.”

The simple reassurance sent a rush of heat through your chest, your heart pounding in your ears.

With practiced ease, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your abdomen. You let out a gasp, your eyes fluttering closed as you savored the sensation. Namjoon’s hands moved lower, cupping your ass through the fabric of your pants. He squeezed gently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You have such a nice ass,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

A quick giggle escapes your lips, your eyes meeting his. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you replied, your voice just as low and breathless. He grinned, his fingers moving to the hem of your pants. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to slide them down your legs, revealing the thin fabric of your lacy underwear underneath.

 You felt a rush of embarrassment at the sight of your arousal seeping through the fabric, but Namjoon didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying it. His fingers deliberately pushing your thighs apart once your jeans were discarded off somewhere behind him, taking his time to admire you.

“Did I ever tell you you’re beautiful?” You tried to respond, but it came out as a gasp as his fingers slid higher, teasing the lacy edge of your panties. He didn’t push them down, just tracing the material, letting you feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric. Your fingers curled into the sheets, trying to anchor yourself in the sensation, but your body was reacting on its own, pushing further against him

His fingers moved, testing, teasing, until you’re squirming under him. “Namjoon,” you whine, your hands fisting in the sheets.

But he just smirks, “So impatient,” he teases, his hands sliding further up, brushing over your wet core through the fabric, his fingers catching over your clit and making you gasp breathlessly.

“I’ve barely started and you’re already desperate for me.” His words send a pulse of heat through you and you bite your lip hard, fighting back a moan. He chuckles, his fingers pushing against your entrance as if he wasn’t testing your patience already/

 “Shh, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire, mock-hushing you before pushing your panties aside, his fingers sliding through the slick heat gathering there. “Fuck. You’re so wet for me already,” the hot exhale of his breath making you clench around nothing.

 He dragged his fingertips through your wetness, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch that had you writhing beneath him again.

“Please...” Your fingers scrabbled uselessly at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and dragging him closer. “Namjoon, my love...”

He silenced your plea with a searing kiss, tongue delving past your lips as he finally breached you with one long finger. Your moan swallowed by his mouth, hips lifting to take him deeper. The stretch was exquisite, pleasure spiking through you at the curl of his finger, quickly finding that spot inside that made you see stars.

Namjoon swallowed each and every needy sound spilling from your lips, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. He pushed another finger in, fucking you slowly, maddeningly, the wet squelch of your arousal obscene and too loud in the quiet room, mixing perfectly with your muffled moans.

You were lost to sensation, a writhing mess beneath his ministrations. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, his hair, any resolve you could find. He held you down with his weight, drinking down every whimper and gasp his fingers drew from you. His rhythm perfect, each push making you feel lightheaded, the pads of his fingers brushing against that spongey spot, making your keen in pleasure.

Your nails raked down his back at the same moment his thumb found your clit, and you sob into his mouth, orgasm cresting hard and fast, the most delightful buzz settling at the base of your spine. Namjoon smothered your cries, taking everything, you gave him, fingers never ceasing their relentless rhythm. His thumb was a steady pressure on your clit, drawing out your climax until you were boneless and shiver beneath him, your whole body convulsing.

Only then did he pull back, lips red and slick with saliva, a knowing smirk playing over them as he took in your dazed, sated expression. “I knew you’d be a good girl for me,” he purred, fingers still toying with your over-sensitive flesh, drawing out a weak whimper from you

“Nam- A-Ahm...” you groan, thighs snapping shut around his hand, trapping it in place. His amused chuckle vibrated against your skin.

As your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “Think you can let go of my hand now?”

You were a flushed, trembling mess, your eyes still hazy as you gave a small, stubborn shake of your head. “Mmm… no.”

Namjoon huffed a quiet laugh, his free hand brushing your hair back from your face. “And why not?”

“You’ll tease me again.”

His grin was all mischief. “Smart girl.”

Namjoon’s grin didn’t waver as he shifted slightly, his trapped hand flexing against your thigh. “And yet,” he mused, voice low and knowing, “you’re still holding me there. Almost like… you want me to keep teasing you.”

You pouted, pressing your legs together even tighter, as if that would stop him, just a second before you forced yourself to let go. “Give me 5 minutes.”

“Isn’t that the guy’s line?”

You groaned, turning your face into the pillow to hide your growing smile. “Shut up,” you mumbled, your voice muffled but still laced with lingering pleasure.

Namjoon chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and you could feel the warmth of his gaze lingering on you. He shifted effortlessly, hover over you, his free hand smoothing over your thigh in slow, absentminded strokes, a quiet reminder he wasn’t done with you. Or maybe, just maybe, he was as desperate as you were. Despite the tension building between you both, he still focused entirely on you—your needs—even though you hadn’t given him any release yet. It was as if his sole concern was your pleasure.

Still, he wore a look that told you he would willingly let you ruin him, and then thank you afterwards.

You peek your head up, meeting his heated gaze through hooded eyes, a mischievous glint in your expression. A teasing smile tugs at your kiss-bruised lips. “Take your shirt off,” you purr, voice low and sultry.

Namjoon’s smirk deepens at the unexpectedly bold request, and the look in his eyes suggests he’s more than willing to comply. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, “Bossy.” His voice was thick with amusement, but there was no hesitation in his movements.

He sat back, lifting his arms to pull the fabric over his head with smooth, practiced ease. The moment his shirt hit the floor, you couldn’t help but take in the way the muscles in his chest and arms shifted as he moved. The sight of him, bare and exposed in front of you, sent a wave of heat coursing through your body, pooling between your thighs.

You swallowed, your breath catching at the intensity of his gaze as he leaned back over you, his hands now skimming over your body, tracing the outline of your form. “Better?” he asked, his voice low, each word thick with a mix of flirtatious edge and raw, aching need.

You bit your lip, feeling the pulse of your desire as you nod slowly. “Much better.” Your hands tentatively explore the newly exposed skin of his chest, mapping the hard planes and dips of muscle. A surge of gratitude washes over you as you realize the band-aid Namjoon had chosen for your cut now allows you to glide your fingertips over his heated skin without restraint.

Namjoon watches you through half-lidded eyes, his lips parting on a soft exhale as your fingertips brush over a sensitive spot. He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, voice rough with want.

“I haven’t even started yet.” You tease, trailing your fingers down his chest to his stomach, following the defined V of his muscles down to the waistband of his sweatpants, where your fingers hook in the elastic. Namjoon’s sharp inhale was more than enough encouragement. You trace the waistband of his pajama pants, feeling him shift under your touch, before dipping your hand beneath the fabric to wrap your fingers around his length. Suddenly feeling even more grateful that it wasn’t your dominant hand that had been injured today.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Fuck is right. Damn it. You were totally on track—he was massive.

He was hot, silk over flame, and so very big in your hand. You stroked him base to tip, more to size him up, but instead marveling at the way he stirred against your palm.

Namjoon groaned, head falling back against the pillow, hips canting forward. “Oh baby”

You shivered at the guttural sound, circling your hand around him, almost getting your fingers to meet.

His cock twitched in your hold, a drop of precum welling at the head. You thumb the slit, smearing his precum down his length, before pulling your hand up to spit on it.

“God, you’ll kill me.”

You met his gaze through your lashes, quickly returning to your task, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes. Your free hand came up to cup his heavy balls, rolling them in your palm.

He cursed under his breath, hips rocking into your grip.

Namjoon’s hands fisted in the sheets on either side of you, breathy groans spilling from his lips as he softly guided your ministrations, showing you how he liked to be touched. Namjoon’s eyes stay locked on yours, even as they glaze over with pleasure. One of his hands finds your hip, gripping tightly as he guides your movements. “Don’t stop,” he pleads, voice strangled. “I’m close.”

You doubled your efforts, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, giving his length a squeeze, before running your thumb over his head, teasing the slit.  

Namjoon is practically panting now, his face etched with strain as he chases his release.

“Come on,” you whisper, your other hand joining the first, one hand around the base, the other cupping his heavy balls. “Let go. I want to feel you.” He barely has a chance to register your words before he’s coming with a low groan, his head burying in your neck and biting hard against your shoulder to try and keep quiet, which in turn makes you gasp. Still, you stroke him through it, milking every last drop until he’s a boneless, sated mess, his full weight crushing you.  “Fuck, babe,” he praises breathlessly, shooting you a lazy, satisfied smile. “You’re amazing.” He tugs you up, capturing your lips in a languid kiss. You melt into him, your hand still wrapped around his spent cock, enjoying the little aftershocks that continue to make him twitch.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur against his lips, feeling your heart swell.

Because despite the pleasure, the heat, this—this moment right here, of feeling utterly connected—that’s what you craved.

Namjoon pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes soft. “I love you,” he admits quietly, like it’s just a simple fact. Like you both haven’t been fighting it for year.

You know your eyes are shining, but you don’t care. “I love you too.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you let him sweep you up in the feeling, in the moment. because right now, right here, tangled in his arms and the sheets of his childhood bedroom is exactly where you’re meant to be.

After a few lazy minutes, Namjoon shifts, prompting you to release him. You bring your fingers to your mouth, languidly licking them clean as a low moan escapes you, savouring the salty essence of him that explodes across your tongue.

“Fuck. Love, don’t do that. You’ll get me hard again.” He chuckles breathlessly, dropping light kisses across your face. “As much as I want to go for round two, I think we both could use a shower first”

Namjoon slides out of bed, extending his hand toward you with a playful grin. “Come with me? I’ll even wash your back.”

You raise an eyebrow, looking at him sceptically. “That shower is tiny, and in case you didn’t know, you’re huge.”

Namjoon laughs, clearly unfazed by your complaints. “I’ll make it work,” he says with a wink, his grin widening. He gave your hand a gentle tug, urging you to follow. “Besides, I’m pretty good at fitting into tight spaces.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “You’re impossible.”

He smirks, pulling you up gently by the hand. “Come on, let me prove you wrong. Besides, I think we both could use a little water to cool down.” His voice softens, a hint of seriousness underlying the playful tone.

You give in, following him with a small sigh, knowing very well that that you willingly played right into his plan.

So excited for more of this story!

Chasing Clouds - series m.list

𝑨𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕

→ Summary: Namjoon made the decision early on in his training that he would abstain from dating or entering any form of relationship while in active duty. He’s determined not to burden anyone with the likelihood of being to be notified of his death or causing pain to someone he loves by his long absence. Ironically, he found himself drawn to you, a doctor who challenges his beliefs and contradicts everything he upholds.

↠ knj x f.reader | 18+ | status: on-going ↠ total words: to be updated once complete ↠ genre: military au, doctor au, s2l, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff, romance

→ Warnings: Read at your own risk! war, ptsd, violence, injury, death, murder, bombs, guns, knives, use of other weapons, (smut + additional warnings will be noted in each chapter)

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔

Captain Yoo Shijin - Big Boss, Alpha Team

Seo Daeyoung - Wolf, Alpha Team

Kim Namjoon - Wildcat, Puppy Pack Trainee

Jung Hoseok - Bambi, Puppy Pack Trainee

Lee Jihoon - White Knight, Puppy Pack Trainee

Dr. Moyeon Kang - Big Boss’s wife

Dr. Y/N Song - 1st year intern

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔

☁ Prologue

☁ Chapter 1 - coming soon

☁ Chapter 2 - coming soon

☁ Chapter 3 - coming soon

☁ Chapter 4 - coming soon

☁ Chapter 5 - coming soon

main m.list - wips - updates - ao3 - kofi

©shadowkoo 2023. All rights reserved.

The Story Of The City of Valoria

Warning : This story contains mentions and description of violence, blood, gore, torture, smut, snake hybrid smut, betrayal, angst and negetive emotions and slight religious aspects.

Authors note : Hello guys, it's my first time writing here and I hope I am doing everything right- the pictures used are not my own and have been taken from Pinterest. Credits to the owner. Plagiarism is a crime, don't do it

And overall I hope you would like this series. (P.S - This is and x OC story, there will be both Namjoon x OC and Yoongi x another OC here.)

Masterlist

Next

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Prologue

She, was missing.

Her best friend was missing.

Luna felt like screaming her lungs out. There was no news of her being reported missing, nobody seems to know her, or more specifically, REMEMBER her.

She felt like she was spiraling down the dark into a void filled with despair. Her best friend was missing and nobody seemed to care or notice.

Her only source of happiness was missing.

Luna had called every single one of her mutual friends to ask about her whereabouts but there was no answer. The only thing she heard from them was "who are you talking about?"

Granted, she and her best friend had not met before and had bonded through texts and calls. But it was a bond like never before. Both of them were ready to give up everything just to help each other out, hell, they even planned to run away from thishell hole of a household to live together in peace in a shared apartment.

Where did everything go wrong?

Yes, everything went wrong exactly a month ago.

Luna remembers it clearly. That single text, that single phrase. Was enough to move her to tears.

Luna had vented out about how the situation in her house had turned worse, how both she and her brother was affected by it. But her brother was just 6 year old, and was never on the recieving end of the harsh reality.

Wait for me, my moon.

After that, she just disappeared.

Several texts, several calls, none went through. None of them. She stared and stared at her phone, waiting for that one text from that one person she was waiting for.

As she laid on her couch, drained, she remembered all those fun and deep conversations she had with her best friend everyday. It was the highlight of her day, a break from the harsh reality.

Suddenly, a noise resonated through the apartment.

It was from her phone.

She scrambled towards it, hoping for some news and what she saw made all the pent up emotions just flourish in her body. Her blood thrummed in her veins as her hearing felt distance and eyes focused.

Come to the rooftop for me?

Luna wanted to scream. To cry. To hit her, to curse her, for making her go through all those terrible emotions.

She ran towards her room, not caring if her brother was asleep inside or not. She hastily grabbed a jacket and ran out of her apartment. She was thankful that her parents weren't home that night.

She couldn't wait for the elevator to arrive, so she ran up the stairs.

Finally she saw the metal door leading to the rooftop and banged it open and stepped out. The wind was blowing gently against her warm and sweaty skin as she huffed, her heart beat accelerated.

There, sat on the edge of the roof was a familiar figure, dressed in complete white.

Their eyes met each other and Luna could feel a new wave of tears resurface.

The figure hopped down from her own seat and walked over to her with the same loopside grin.

"I take it that I was very dearly missed?" Her cheeky voice spoke up.

At this Luna stepped hard on her best friends foot making her yell out in pain.

"Fucking OUCH HoNey-" she cursed as she hopped around on one foot holding her other injured foot.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU FUCKING PSYCHOPATH. DO YOU KNOW HOW FUCKING WORRIED I WAS? I COULDNT SLEEP FOR DAYS! DAYS YOU IDIOT. I CALLED UP ALL OF UR SO CALLED FRIENDS AND THEY ALL JUST- PRETENDED NOT TO KNOW YOU? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!" Luna burst out in anger and frustration.

At this, the latter stopped and her face turned peacefully grim. She took a step forward towards the girl and embraced her.

"I'm sorry" Luna heard her.

Luna embraced her back as she cried a river into her best friends soft shirt as the latter gently caressed her hair.

"I was so scared" Luna whispered, hiccuping at nearly every syllable.

"Shh honey, I'm here now and nobody can take you away from me. I promised you a good life and I am here to keep it" Her phrase made Luna feel extremely confused.

She moved away from her and asked "What do you mean".

In return, she got a gentle, comforting smile as her best friend started.

"I want to take you to a place where you will get a second chance at life. This life that you were blessed with is way too miserable and filled with misfortune. I want to take you to a place where you will be yourself, do whatever you wish to without a worry in the world. Nothing shall be forced upon you other than peaceful existence. Will you trust me? And come with me?"

Luna's head was reeling. Sh couldn't believe what she heard. A second chance? She wants to escape. She wanted to grasp that second chance. Her mind told her to run. It was all very suspicious. She shouldn't divulge into such things.

But she trusted her bestfriend. Whole heartedly. And she knew her best friend would never let any harm come to her.

Slowly, Luna nodded her head.

At this, her friend smiled so brithly, even the sun would feel shy and hidebehind the clouds.

"Do you need to pack anything? Even though everything will be provided to you there. Any trinkets or such?" Her best friend asked.

"My books? What about my book?" One thing that kept luna grounded and away from the harsh reality, even for a limited time, were her sweet collection of books.

"Don't worry, I'll make sure to have it delivered to your place of stay. Now, be a doll and hold my hand?" The familiar loopside smile made its appearance on her face.

Luna chuckled, shaking her head as she grasped her hand. "Ever the charmer aren't you?".

"Only for pretty people like yourself darling" she winked.

"Now, I want you to trust me on this." Before Luna could utter another word or even comprehend what was going on, she was suddenly dragged forward along with her sprinting best friend who was running towards the edge of the roof.

And, her best friend leaped off into the air, taking Luna with her.

Vermilion - Jeon Jungkook Part 1

The fate of the band rests of the back of the two people who couldn’t hate each other more. What happens when they’re forced to pick between rivalry or fame?

Warning’s - cuss words, Jungkook is an asshole. E2L

Bts , Ateez , NCT , request open!

____________________________________________

You know how in cartoons when people are so angry that steam blows from their ears and their faces are almost too red to make out any features? That all seemed so silly before, but now it's all falling into place. The look on your manager’s face was an absolute picture copy from the cartoons, his brows were furrowed, his breathing was so heavy it echoed off the walls, and truth be told it actually seemed like steam was rising off his body like it was asphalt. You thought his metal desk was about to fall apart at the hinges from the sheer force of his fist. Men don’t normally intimidate you, but right now he has enough anger in him to snap a person's neck within a split second.

“Any of you want to explain to me why these numbers are suddenly so low? Hmm?” The papers were flung down on the table, the thick stack made the metal ring through the room. All eyes were glued to that stack, but they would occasionally shift towards the manger and right back to the crisp white sheets. His eyebrow was cocked as he stared each and everyone of you down. “No one wants to fess up, take responsibility for this? Well okay then, I’ll sum it up for you, y/n and Jungkook, before I proceed. Is there anything you want to share with the class?”

Before you could even let a mere word pass through your lips, you were completely cut off by an agitating little voice. “Well, maybe you should just ask our lead singer, those voice cracks on stage probably are knocking our sales down. No one wants their eardrums to bleed.” Your arms gripped the arms of the chair as you turned to face him. His stupid cocky grin plastered on his face. This bastard thinks he has the right to speak on your voice, what about him? His stupid drum solos probably cause everyone within a hundred mile radius to go deaf. That stupid eyebrow piercing probably blinds everyone in the front row.

“Voice cracks, really? Is that the best you can come up with! What about you being late to practice, hell you’re even late to the performances half the time!” He simply rolled his eyes at your rant as he scratched his upper lip. His body language gave away that the comment struck him. He could say anything, because you were right. The only thing about him was that he is a cocky asshole who has no respect for other people's time. Right now the only thing on his mind was whoever legs he was gonna be between tonight.

“Guys, do you seriously not see the problem! You two bickering like kids is the problem!” Namjoon scoffed as he slammed his body against the back of the chair. His hands are trying to rub soothing circles on his temple. A soft sigh passed through his lips as he tried to form more words to help you two understand this situation, but god he couldn’t come up with anything! He’s tired of sugar coating everything he ever says, but in doing so it’s made this stupid rival go on longer than it should have.

“You guys aren’t that fucking stupid are you?” This time it was Yoongi speaking, his calm demeanor was a drastic difference from the sentence that came through his lips. Yoongi was definitely a keep to himself kind of person, he truly did love you all so much, but god this was becoming infuriating. This group was his life, the good money he’s made has been paying off his college debts and even though he loves you he can’t afford to lose this, he can’t afford to lose you all. “Don’t look at me like I have three heads or some shit, you both know what we’re talking about.”

“I don’t get it, guys, I really haven’t done anything wrong.” Before you could even blink your hand was lifted in the air and soon made contact with a full head of hair. Jungkook’s head went flying forward as he slowly turned his head towards you. From a few inches away you could see his stupid lip curving up every so slightly. “Awe, sweetheart, I didn’t know you liked it rough.”

“Enough! That’s enough! I’m so sick and tired of you two putting this group and my business at jeopardy! Are you two really that selfish?” His question hung in the air heavily as he eyed the two of you. If his eyebrow stayed cocked any longer you were almost certain it was gonna freeze like that. Mr.Young pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly. “I’ve received multiple complaints that this feud you two have is plummeting this groups sales.”

“Wait hold up! Just the other day you said our numbers were higher than ever!” You exclaimed as you leaned forward in your chair. The feeling of the denim smoothing your palms was doing nothing to soon the surge of dread that was filling your body. What did he mean you were the cause of sales going down, he can’t truly mean that.

“I said some of your solo projects were high than ever, but since we’re airing everything out. I was talking about Kim Namjoons, and Min Yoongi’s solo projects.” Mr. Young confessed as he saw both yours and Jungkook's eyes widened drastically. Not missing how the other two band mates also had eyes the size of saucers. “Now you guys are practically my family, but right now I’m having to consider other possible solutions to this problem.”

“What kind of solutions are we talking about?” Namjoon inquired as he scooted his body towards the edge of the chair. All eyes were now on Mr.Young as he stayed silent. You could hear the ticking of the nearby clock. All the blood in your body was starting to run cold, and you could feel all the color draining from your face as the seconds tick on. Namjoon cleared his throat before he spoke again, “What kind of solutions?”

“I’ve had multiple investors come to me about Namjoon and Yoongi, so one of the solutions would be for Vermillion to break up.”

“Hold up, do we even get a say in this! Maybe Namjoon and I don’t even want to go solo!” Yoongi popped up as he leaned forward in his chair. Both hands are now gripping the back of yours and Jungkook. His knuckles turning white from the firm hold he has on the cushion. “We’ve been a band for three damn years, I’m not ready to throw it all away.”

“I said solutions, meaning plural, before I cause you all to jump me, here's the other side. Y/n, Jungkook, you know this band has a tour coming up in three months, correct?” You could see from the corner of your eye Jungkook was the only one quite literally not on the edge of his seat. In fact you could see a small light beside his thigh, at the worst possible moment he picked to be on his fucking cell phone. “I guess I’m speaking to three instead of four, but this tour will take everything we’ve got, are you two prepared to act like more of an adult?”

“Act like more of an adult? What the hell does that supposed mean? I’ve only given constructive criticism and if you want my honest opinion Y/n really don't need to be in the band.” You truly could’ve killed him at that moment. His cockiness started getting to his head the moment the band took off. But before you couod even defend yourself he spoke again. “I mean what does she truly bring to the table? Namjoon plays killer bass, yoongi raps and writes our songs. I choreographed almost all of our dances, and what does she do? Sing in a flat tone?”

“See that’s what I’m talking about, you two are always at each other's throats and it’s tiring, so if you all don’t want this to go away. You two are gonna need to figure out how to at least act like you can stand to be within ten feet of each other!” Mr.Young exclaimed as he circled his desk, before he placed himself upon it. “Three months, and I’ve already scheduled interviews, meet and greets and so much more. If I don’t see improvement then we all will go our separate ways.”

With that Mr.Young grabbed his briefcase and made a brisk exit for the door. He sighed heavily before turning his body back to his group. “You all have an interview tomorrow, please I’m begging you just get it sorted out.” And with that his presence was soon on the other side of the door. Out of sight and seemingly out of mind.

Namjoon cleared his throat to speak, but before he could Jungkook haisley stood up. The wooden legs screeching against the marble of the floor. The sound makes your head wince. His heavy boots slapped against the floor as he made a b-line for the door. “Before you all bust my chops about how we’re all supposed to have a heart to heart right now. I can’t, but you all can just text me the meeting place tomorrow.”

“What an asshole!” Yoongi huffed as he slumped back in his chair. He looks as defeated as Mr.Young did before he finally left the room. The silence in the room was eerie, it was not like you all to be quiet. If anything you’re all normally chatting up a storm so loud the people next door could hear. But now the only thing being heard was the conversions people were having outside the door. “I don’t know what his problem is, but y/n you know you’re not useless to the band.”

“You’ve come up with countless merchandise ideas, you’ve written multiple songs with us, hell without that pretty little head of yours we would’ve never even gotten the connections to form the band.” Namjoon spoke so highly of you, yet none of it seemed real. Jungkook’s voice was echoing in your mind over and over again. Maybe you weren’t meant to be in the band, maybe the sidelines of production is where you were meant to fall. “Plus I don’t know what he’s talking about with flat notes, I’ve seen you mess up once, and that was back when the bad first started.”

“You really are an amazing asset to this team, and I’m not just saying that to bullshit around, y/n. But now I’m not gonna sit here and lie and say that you don’t add fuel to the fire when he acts like that, because sometimes you do.”

“I know I do, but god it’s so hard having to take hit after hit from him everyday! Maybe you two should —“ before the sentence could even leave your mouth both men were shushing you. Their protest sent a warm chill down your spine as you stared at them. Their comforting eyes were almost enough to set you at ease. But before any of them could speak, a simultaneous ding rang in your ears.

“He booked us a hotel, he said the interviews were a few cities away.” Namjoon sighed as he stood up and straightened out his pants. “And it looks like we’ve got roommates.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” You exclaimed as you read the message on your phone. The vein in your forgead felt like it was about to burst. You didn’t want to be kept in a room for days with him of all people. You two could have easily just played it cool in front of the cameras, there was no need to punish you by making this a roommate ordeal. The three of your sighed loudly as you all walked to the door.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad, y/n. Besides if anything gets too out of hand we’re only a few rooms down.” Namjoon smiled as he opened the door to let you two out first.

“You say that and watched I’ll wake up with one of his knifes in my stomach.” You fakily laughed as you seareched your pocket for your car keys.

“He’s stupid I know, but that idiot is not dumb enough to commit murder.” Yoongi tried his best to comfort you, but things like that were never really good for him. He didn’t know how to give comfort or receive it, really.

“Well, let’s hope not.” With that you pressed the elevator button and it started to descend. He wouldn't really hurt you, would he? Questions like that raced in your mind as you stood there staring at the glass walls of the elevator. This feels like it was going to be your worst nightmare come true.

——————————————————————

This was truly something out of a book. The two rivals have to bunk up and room together. This was absolutely ridiculous.

I know the roommate's situations aren’t ideal but you two need to spend some time together and try to at least appear happy. And please for the sake of the band act civil and that means no screaming matches tonight.

You sighed as you read the text messages over and over again. The thought of being in a room alone with him only made you more scared. The goosebumps scattering across your skin right now served to show how tore up this whole situation has gotten you. The door slamming shut brought you out your haze, it at least could’ve been a good thing that walked through the door. But your luck was never that good.

“Don’t speak, I’m gonna shower and then go to sleep.”

You didn’t protest, you only held your hands up in a way of saying, okay. The last thing you wanted to do was speak to him, or even anyone for that matter of fact. He ignored you completely and flung his duffel bag in the bed, shoveling through the contents of the bag. Things were getting through so hastily that the only thing you could do was sit back down in the bed and face the window. You saw his silhouette through the window panes, and then he disappeared into the bathroom. With a quick lock of the door you knew it was safe to turn around.

The mess on his bed was enough to make you gag. His clothes were thrown around and you could only guess those pairs of purple panties were from his new hookups. The thought of him not even knowing her name disgusted you. Jungkook was truly a pig for better words, and you don’t even know how he made it into the band in the first place. But the one thing that caught your eye was the bright red leather that was halfway out of the bag. The leather material had a slight shine to it from the lamp nearby. The badass bad boy, Jeon Jungkook, had a diary? You knew it wasn’t right, and you knew that snooping never ended well.

But your mind raced with possibilities as to what was kept inside of that thing. Maybe in that thing was the missing piece you needed to understand why he hated you so much. And all you needed to do was flip the dianity pages really quickly and just fill yourself in. You raced yourself off the bed and it felt like entirely before you were face to face with his duffel bag. But before your hands could even grasp the material of the bag the bathroom door flung open.

You’ve been caught almost red handed.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He questioned as he bolted towards his bag. Small water droplets placed themselves upon your skin as he shook his head. “Awe, are you upset there, not your panties?”

He doesn’t know you know. He doesn’t know that you saw the small red book peeking through the clothes. Maybe you’ll be in the clear if you play your cards right.

“God you’re so gross, I was trying to pick up the mess you made considering we’re gonna be here a few days.” You scoffed as you held back a gag from picking his underwear. A quick hand snachted it from yours as he threw it back into the bag. A small eye roll from him was enough to put your mood down once more. “Fine, leave your half of the room in a pigsty, but I’m going to bed.”

“Good, I was getting tired of looking at your face in the light anyways.” He gave the fakest smile he could before he turned his body away from you. You know you should but you stared at his toned back that was still shining with fresh droplets, and you hated to admit it, but god he was attractive.

But right now you didn’t even want to dignify that with a response, you simply slipped off your house shoes and climbed into bed. You turned towards the window and turned out your lamp, you breathed a small sigh before saying, “goodnight, Jungkook. And don’t forget we have to be up early in the morning before the interviews tomorrow.”

“Shut the hell up, y/n.” He scoffed slightly as you heard him rustling around in his bed. The creaking of the bed spring was starting to become annoying with every second that passed on. What the hell was he doing?

And with that last sentence spoken, the room went pitch black. But out of curiosity you peeled one eye open for a split second. Through the window you could see a small light appearing in front of Jungkook. Looks like he was writing a new entry in his little diary. And it might be the death of you, but you needed to know what he was writing about. Was he writing about his hookups, the guys, or even you? You could feel it in your gut that the book was going to something that could help the band altogether.

And you were determined to know all the secrets Jeon Jungkook has hidden within those pages

Everybody wanna love you - Pt. 1 (M)

Summary: BTS gets drunk and reads fan fiction together.

Pairing: Platonic OT7

Genre: Ridiculously filthy smut and boys being boys

Word Count: 4914

Warnings: The fan fiction the boys read is quite explicit, but the boys stay (mostly) platonic 

Part One      Part Two      Part Three

A/N: All of the fan fiction the boys read in this is written (badly) by me. Any resemblance to other people’s stories is coincidence. I am not trying to make fun of anyone other than myself as an avid reader and writer of BTS fan fiction.

“I hate you Jungkook!” You shout breathlessly, desperately pounding his rock-hard chest with your small hands as he cages you against the wall of your bedroom. You have hated Jungkook since the first day you met him. You hate the way he struts around school. You hate the way all the girls stare at him and giggle when he gives them a confident wave. You hate the way his hair falls perfectly across his forehead in a way that makes you ache inside. “I hate you!” You cry again, pushing him away from you.

 “I don’t care!” Jungkook grabs you by your shoulders and pins you roughly against the wall. “I know it has only been a week since you transferred to our school, but you make me feel a way no other girl ever has.” He holds you to the wall as you try to squirm away. “Don’t you know I love you Y/N?”  He looks at you with desperation and a bit of madness in his eyes. His lips are just inches away from yours. You are terrified that he might kiss you and terrified that he might not.

A sudden noise from the hallway makes Jungkook flinch so hard he almost drops his phone directly into the toilet. He looks up from his phone, listening to make sure it’s not one of the other members trying to get into the bathroom. Jungkook really shouldn’t be doing this right now. Jungkook should be working on that new cover song that he wants to post before they go back out on tour. He checks the time on his watch. “Just one more minute…” he thinks to himself.

Keep reading

the face card never declines series starring: kim seokjin for kayla 😌 (@cordiallyfuturedwight)

Something I would like to read over and over!

Perfect plan -1-

Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: friends to lovers, friends with benefits? (But the benefit is a baby); crack, a smidge of angst, smut, fluff, happy ending. Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings:  mentions of cheating and ‘being the other woman’ (past relationship), reader works at a hospital, Namjoon is just an absolute sweetheart in this, cursing, multiple sex scenes, dirty talking, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, just a smidge of size kink, unprotected sex, creampie, intensive orgasms, Namjoon tells you to “Relax, woman” before eating you out, lovemaking, and a quick scene of pregananat sex. Word count: somewhere around 15k. Author's note: You know there is this idea travelling around that writers write what they need to hear? Apparently, I need Namjoon to tell me it’s okay if I don’t have it all figured out. Thank you @callmenoona25 for all your help once again. You’re the sweetest! ✨ ps. English not first language. Brain dumb sometimes. If you’re still reading this, leave a comment, drop a like, they’re literally the joy of my existence. part 2: here

Confetti was not just decoration; it was a phenomenon. It had a very special way of never truly being vacuumed up. No matter how many times you tried, the colorful bits- pink, blue and gold- always seem to wiggle away and hide comfortably into the far corners of the room as if they had a mind of their own. They would stay there, nestled in the shadows, only to flutter up again whenever you tried to sweep them away.

After the third failed attempt, you let out a frustrated sigh and abandoned the vacuum cleaner. You’d leave that task for the sober version of you tomorrow.

Instead, you started gathering the scattered napkins from the dining table, folding them mindlessly. Your gaze wandered to the half-burned candles that still sat on the table, the melted wax serving as a quiet witness to your little gathering.

29.

“Happy Birthday!” – those words never felt heavier, laden with unfulfilled dreams and the weight of another year gone by without much to show for it. Even the celebration, once full of light and laugher, had left behind just another mess to clean up. The year was over and you were left with the quiet aftermath.

You had always imagined this age differently, or at least, that’s what you told yourself every year. By now, you thought you’d have things figured out. You thought there’d be someone by your side, someone to share the joy of the life you had built.

Little baby prints all over the house. Raising a child, teaching them how to blow out birthday candles and clean up the mess afterwards.

You had always imagined being a mother by now. Maybe that’s what hurt the most- how the years seemed to slip by without any sign of the family you’ve dreamed of. The house full of laughter, a partner to help you navigate the messes and milestones.

But instead, you found yourself alone. Alone in a big beautiful house, holding a top position as an administrator at a private hospital. But alone.

You threw away the last of the napkins and pushed your way through the clutter on the dining table, your mind still heavy with the weight of the thought that had followed your around since the last of the guests had left. The candles sat atop the garbage pile when you walked towards the kitchen.

The house felt quieter now, almost too quiet, as if it was holding its breath since the celebration had ended.

When you entered the kitchen, the hum of the dishwasher broke the silence. You hadn’t expected to find anyone still here, but here he was- Namjoon, your friend, still loading dishes with the same quiet focus he’d had all evening.

You two met back in your last year at college, when you were both striving to become more than just another student. You butted heads a few times, competing for the opening position of Teacher Assistant, only for the teacher to completely compromise the project by offering the job to his very own son.

Either way, you walked away with a new friend. (The enemy of my enemy?)  You were drawn to his passion, his drive, and his unwavering belief in himself. Turned out the two of you also made a hell of a team when it came to it, because you managed to get the job done, despite the professor’s questionable decisions. You’d stayed late countless nights in the library, hashing out ideas, studying together, even venting your frustration in between textbooks. Namjoon had the uncanny ability to make even the most tedious projects feel worthwhile, and you couldn’t help but admire the way he could turn anything into an opportunity for growth. It was contagious, his unwavering belief that everything- every setback, every challenge, was just another chance to prove yourself.

You’d both laughed about it afterwards, the way the professor’s son had been handed the job without so much as a second though, while you and Namjoon had essentially worked the entire course in the shadows. But it didn’t matter in the end. What you had created, together, was far more valuable than the title ever could’ve given you.

The sound of glassware clinking together was oddly soothing, and for a moment you just watched him.

He was dressed in a casual cream turtleneck that beautifully highlighted his broad chest, paired with olive-green slacks. The golden framed glasses perched on his nose adding a little touch of elegance, perfectly tying the outfit together. He seemed relaxed, at large within the confines of your apartment.

“Still here?”

Namjoon glanced over his shoulder, flashing you a tired but warm smile, “You thought I’d leave you to clean all this on your own?”

You lean slightly against the counter, suddenly feeling restricted by the tight dress you wore, watching him work. It was such a kind gesture, but something about it made you feel even more isolated.

“I could’ve handled it,”

“I know you could,” he said, turning back to the sink, “But I wanted to help.”

There was something about him that made you feel seen, even in moments like these, when you didn’t want to be. Almost like he wasn’t just cleaning up your party mess; he was cleaning your life in some way too. The laughter had faded hours ago, and now it was just the two of you- no more distractions, no more Taehyung and Jungkook cracking jokes, no more celebrating. Just the quiet hum of the dishwasher and the soft clink of plates.  Just still life.

You sigh and pull out a chair to sit down at the small breakfast nook “I just feel like… I’m stuck, you know?”

The sparkling champagne made you tongue loose. Feeling vulnerable and raw, you quietly searched his eyes. “Like, I thought by now I’d have it all figured out- where I’m supposed to be, what I’m supposed to be doing. I just thought I’d have more… more something.”

Namjoon set the plate down with a soft clink and turned towards you, his gaze steady but gentle. He wiped his hands on a dish towel, and for the first time that evening, he let the silence hang between you, as if giving you space to let the words settle before responding.

“You know,” he began, his voice low, “I think everyone feels that way sometimes. That sense of… not being where you thought you’d be. But I also think you’re more than what you’re giving yourself credit for.” He paused, then leaned against the counter, meeting your eyes in that way he always did- like he was truly seeing you, not just the person in front of him, but the one beneath the surface.

You shrugged, a half-smile pulling at the corners of your lips, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “I just-” You sighed. “I need to stop drinking.”

Namjoon studied you for a moment, his eyes softening as if weighing your words. He didn’t rush to fill the silence with advice or reassurances. Instead, he simply watched, letting the moment hang in the air, even as it thickened with unspoken words.

Finally, after a small eternity, he spoke.

“It’s okay not to have it all figured out.” He paused for a moment “Life isn’t a straight line. I know you like to plan every little detail of it, but sometimes, it’s just not how it works out. You can’t just arrive somewhere and expect it to be perfect.”

You wanted to laugh, to dismiss his words as is you didn’t know already. But something in the way he said it made it feel real. Like he wasn’t just offering empty comfort, but speaking form a place of understanding.

“And maybe you’re not where you thought you’d be. But that doesn’t mean you’re lost.” Namjoon set the tea towel down with quiet precision, then met your gaze once more, his smile faint but steady. “I think... maybe we’re all just figuring it out as we go. Some of us more than others.”

 You wanted to say something, wanted to argue, but the weight of his words settled over you, a gentle blanket you didn’t know you needed.

“C’mon, you’re tired. Let’s get you to bed.” The softness of his tone caught you off guard, tugging at something inside of you. His words didn’t come with expectations, didn’t demand anything from you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, you simply nodded, feeling a heaviness settle over you that was both familiar and strange. You stood up slowly, legs still a little unsteady from the alcohol, and made your way to the bedroom, Namjoon following quietly behind you.

You didn’t speak as you reached the doorway. There was nothing to say, not really. So instead, you turned around and wrapped yourself around his body, pulling him in a tight hug.

“Thank you Joonie.”

Namjoon chuckled, squeezing you tightly before whispering “Anytime love.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The fluorescent lights of the 7/11 hummed overhead, as you stood in the middle of an aisle, heart melting into a puddle as you cooed over a chubby-cheeked baby sprawled across a shopping card. All bundled up in a puppy themed onesie, the little one giggled as he reached for a colorful toy, and you couldn’t help but mimic his joyous sounds.

You watched with admiration as the mother, a confident woman in yoga pants (and a vomit-stained shirt), gently tickled the baby’s round face, eliciting a fit of giggles.

Namjoon, as usual, was talking as he dropped something into your shopping cart, not that you were paying him any attention. Not when the baby’s eyes caught your gaze, his smile widening as he cooed at you.

“God Joon, I want one too.”

Namjoon, ever the pragmatist, didn’t miss a beat. “Well, I can get you one, they’re on sale.”

His voice was light, casual, the way he spoke when he didn’t take your thoughts too seriously. You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

“What are you talking about?”

“The crackers?” he said, glancing at you, his brow furrowed in confusion as he held a box of crackers in his hand, examining the label as though the fine print held some secret to the universe. “What are you talking about?”

You stared at him for a second, still caught up in the midst of your daydream, before laughing softly.

“The baby, Namjoon.”

“Ah-” he paused, looking back at the baby boy. “I don’t think they sell those here,” he chuckled, throwing a sly glance your way. “But if you want, I can distract the mother, and you make a run for the exit with the baby.”

You laughed at the absurdity of it, shooting him a playful glare, knowing where his teasing would lead.

“Don’t say that! You’ll get us kicked out." You scold with a playful grin.

Namjoon just shrugged, as if the thought didn’t bother him, the teasing glint in his eyes only making you smile wider. You pushed your cart towards the checkout line, the weight of it heavier now.

It’s been a few weeks since you had that moment of weakness, but the ache still lingered, quietly tucked away in the mundane day-to-day distractions. You’d buried the feelings under careful planning, an extra dose of work, and fleeting nights out with friends. But the longing never quite went away.

Instead, it had grown far beyond a mere ‘baby fever’. It was a full-blown malady by now.

Namjoon, however, was a constant, a comforting presence amidst the chaos of your thoughts. And tonight, it was no different, even in the middle of a basic errand run to 7/11. He was there, filling the space with his usual teasing and lighthearted energy, offering a sense of normalcy you didn’t even realize you missed.

“But seriously, I think you’d make a wonderful mother.” Behind you, Namjoon continued to toss items into the cart- bags of chips, cans of soda, candy bars- anything within his reach as he dropped one of the biggest compliments you’ve gotten in the past few years.

It hit you like a soft wave, unexpected, yet somehow exactly what you needed to hear. You paused, a bag of cereal halfway to your cart, processing his words. The motions of the store continued around you- people chatting, the hum of a checkout line in the distance, the baby’s giggles- but for a minute, they all slowed, and it was just the two of you in that fluorescent-lit aisle.

You turn slightly, trying to keep the heat from rising to your cheeks “You think so?”

Namjoon, oblivious to the shift in your mood, continued picking through the shelves, tossing things in your cart with an almost absentminded rhythm “I do.” He said, his voice easy and sincere as it always was with you

“You’re nurturing, you know? And patient. You make people feel safe, like they can just… be themselves around you.” He smiled “And you’re the mother of the friend group.”

He was focused on a big bottle of orange juice when he tacked on “You’d be amazing at it.”

The way he spoke made it sound so simple. But to you, it felt anything but simple. A rush of conflict swirled in your mind.

“Too bad my dating life is so stale,” you grumble, snapping him out of his obsession.

Your past experiences hadn’t been exactly pleasant. From really weird alpha-sigma-dudes trying to convince you that your worth as a woman has declined since you passed the age of 25, to insecure men that felt intimidated by your position in the working field, to just bad timing in general- it was all just… complicated.

The cherry on top was your last relationship. You felt the bitterness creep back into your chest as you thought about him- the doctor. The one who had lied to you for over two years. Even now, the memories felt like a stab straight to your ribs. Like a snake squeezing your heart into nothingness. You gave him everything, trusted him with your heart, only to have it shattered in the cruelest way. You could still remember the disbelief in your voice when you had to confront him.

“God, how did I miss that?” You murmured underneath your breath, your grip tightening around the cart handle.

Namjoon, who had been rifling through the cart, didn’t seem to notice the dark cloud that settled over you.

“Stale? Nah, you’re daring life’s just on pause.” He said, completely unaware of how much his words stung.

“The only man I wanted to start a family with turned out to be married!” You snap. The words slipped out before you could stop them, sharp and bitter. You could feel the heat rise to your chest as the frustration spilled over, the old wound reopening with an ache. Namjoon froze mid-motion, his hand still hovering over a bag of something. The silence that followed was heavy, and you immediately regretted it.

But Namjoon, ever the perceptive one, quickly managed to draw you back in.

“That dick?” he huffed “Its better you found out early on. I can’t bear the idea of you having asshole-babies.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Namjoon’s lighthearted response, despite the lasting burn. The absurdity of ‘asshole-babies’, paired with the sincerity of his tone, almost made the bitterness dissolve. The tension in your chest shifting slightly.

He dropped the bag back into your cart and met your eyes. “You deserve someone who treats you right, who sees all the amazing things you are. You don’t need to settle for anything less.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his words sinking in. It was comforting to hear him speak like that, as if he believed in you more than you sometimes believed in yourself.

“Thank you love,” you said softly, your smile genuine but still fragile.

He flashed a grin, nudging you with his elbow as he walked along you towards the checkout.

“Now, what the fuck did you buy? Why are there three bottles of ketchup here?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay! I have decided.” You announce suddenly, drawing the attention of everyone at the small table to you. The murmur of laughter and clicking of glasses fades into the background, and a bubble of anticipation surrounds your little booth.

The bar is buzzing with life; particularly crowded for a Thursday evening, yet, even among the crowded mess, Jungkook still somehow managed to secure a secluded little nook for your rag-tag group of four.

You glanced around the dimly lit room, where the flickering neon lights casted playful shadows along the walls- a slight twinge of courage envelops you as the warmth of the alcohol teases your senses, coloring your cheeks bright red.

Namjoon’s brow rises, and he takes a contemplative sip from his tall glass of beer, a thoughtful expression dancing across his face. In front of you, Jungkook and Aera are deep into their third glass, laughing at some inside joke only cringey couples would make, oblivious to the rising tension radiating from your suddenly bold proclamation.

“Decided?” Namjoon echoed, setting his glass down, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips as he watches you.

Aera and Jungkook both turn their attention to you as well. Jungkook leaned back in his seat, a mischievous glint in his eyes, while Aera wiped her lips with the back of her hand, ready for whatever random revelation you were about to drop.

“I’m going to have a baby by myself!”       

The words hung in the air for a long moment, as though the entire bar had suddenly gone still. Your proclamation floating quietly through the air before crashing and tumbling on the small table between you.

Namjoon blinked, his beer halfway to his mouth, while Aera and Jungkook both froze mid-laugh, their faces a reflection of disbelief and curiosity.

“What?” Jungkook was the first to speak, his voice completely drowning in confusion.

“I already set up a college saving’s account, and I got a head start on the nursery.” You reached for a napkin, just so your fingers have something to do. “The contractor is coming over this weekend to look at the room.” You looked up to gauge their reaction, but when no one spoke, you continued “I mean, I don’t even use the at-home office. It’s perfect.”

Leaning back into the seat, you plant your elbows on the table, the rough surface grounding you as the weight of your declaration settles heavy in the air.

“Wait, wait,” Aera says after regaining her composure, her eyes slightly narrowing with skepticism. “You’re seriously saying you want to become a single parent? Just like that?”

“She’s serious.” Namjoon cuts in, setting his now-empty beer glass down on the table.

He nursed that drink for the past hours only to finish it with one long sip?

 “Trust me, this isn’t a rushed decision. She’s been toying with the idea for months.” He mumbled, leaning back into the booth.

“Yeah,” you nod confidently “The kindergarten right down the block from me has an afternoon group. So, after the baby turns three, I can start working again. And until then I should live comfortably with my savings.”

“Noona you can’t!” Jungkook looks terrorized by the thought, the alcohol just as evident on his face as it was on yours. “So what? You’ll just start fucking every Dick, Harry and Joe in town until you get knocked up?”

Under normal circumstances, the youngling would be much more careful with his words around you, but now, with the buzz going on in his head, his desperation seemed to have taken over. His eyes quickly shifting from you to his Hyung, as if pleading Namjoon to back him up.

 The atmosphere shifts as Jungkook's words slice through your carefully crafted confidence. Laughter begins to bubble back to life around you, but your own heart has started to race, confusion and boldness swirling together like a cocktail in your stomach. You stare at Jungkook.

“You know that’s not how it works.” You reply, your tone steadier than you feel. An involuntary smile creeps back onto your lips. “It’s not that simple, and I’m not looking for casual hookups. God only knows what messed up genetics those dudes have. And I run a risk of an STD.” You shake your head. “No Kookie, I have a plan.”

You take a deep breath, allowing the faint buzz of the bar to seep into your consciousness again, grounding you while your amusement at Jungkook’s pure shock begins to surface again.

“Besides, the plan isn’t just a plan; it’s a well-thought-out strategy.” You try to encourage him, but he just blinks up at you like a hurt little puppy. “I scheduled an appointment at a fertility clinic.”

“And if the plan fails? What if you’re not ready for the challenges of parenting? It’s not just about the nursery or the savings. Have you thought about the reality of it?”

Deep down, you know that Aera just wants to help, however, her questions rub you slightly the wrong way.

“Of course I have!” You assert, a tad defensively but with sincerity woven into your voice. “I’ve done my research, Aera. What it takes. What I need. There are all sorts of resources out there for single parents. It’s not like I’ll be doing this entirely alone. I have you guys, and I know I can reach out to others too if it gets too tough.”

Jungkook ran an exasperated hand down his face, grasping at straws as he mumbled, “What about your love life? This is such a huge commitment, and you’re just going to push that aside for... A child?”

You appreciate the concern, but something in you quakes at the thought of your future being dictated solely by the prospect of a romantic relationship.

“My love life is already complicated. I don’t want to put my dreams on hold for a partner that might not even come.”

“Namjoon! Say something!” Jungkook pleaded, but the gentle giant just kept on silently studying you.

“Congratulations.” Was the only thing that left his lips after a long moment, making you beam up at him as if you’d just received a gold start on a test.

“See?” you said, your smile widening as you glanced back and forth between them. “Namjoon gets it! Life’s too short to wait around for the perfect moment!”

Aera finally shook her head, a soft smile gracing her lips despite the concern in her eyes. “It’s just, we can’t help but worry for you. What if it’s harder than you think? What if you regret this choice down the line?”

You reach for her hand, squeezing it gently. “That’s the thing Aera. I’m not doing this on a whim. I’ve mapped it out. I’m prepared. I believe I can give my child the love and support they need.” You smile, glancing between Jungkook and Namjoon.

“Fine.” Jungkook relented, leaning back in his seat with a resigned sigh, his hands raised in mock surrender. “I guess if you’re really set on this… just promise you won’t forget about me when you become Super Mom or something.”

Aera rolled her eyes playfully, yet her smile remained as she leaned against his chest “As if you’d let her forget. You’d probably be the most dramatic babysitter ever.”

A ripple of laughter echoed among the three of you, the tension momentarily lifting, only Namjoon just kept on staring at the bottom of his empty beer glass.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jungkook took no mercy on Namjoon as they walked down the street. After making sure you and Aera safely got an uber home, the little drunken monster unleashed.

“Hyung! You can’t let her do this!”

Namjoon gave a soft chuckle, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He was still processing everything himself; the weight of the conversation hanging heavily on him. Jungkook, who was practically bouncing on his feet with a mix of frustration and concern, shot him an incredulous look.

“You can’t just sit back and let her make such a huge decision by herself!” Jungkook insisted, his voice rising “She’s literally planning to have a baby alone, Hyung!”

“Kookie, she’s a full-grown woman.” Namjoon began slowly, rubbing a hand over his face “And she’s not doing this impulsively. She’s been thinking about it for months.” He paused, as if weighing his next words carefully “She’s not the kind of person to just… act on a whim. She has a plan. And I think, maybe, that’s what she needs right now.” He exhaled a deep breath, looking up at the street lights overhead, his mind running through the conversations he’d had with you.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed, a look of disbelief plastered on his face.

“And what about you?”

Namjoon stopped walking, his steps halting mid-stride as the question hit him like a stone wall. For a brief moment, there was nothing but the distant hum of a passing car and the quiet rustling of leaved in the evening air. He turned towards Jungkook; his eyes wide with uncertainty.

“What about me?” Namjoon asked, his voice low, the question more to himself that to Jungkook at first.

“Are we really doing this now?” Jungkook groaned “You love her. C’mon, catch up.”

Namjoon stood still, eyebrows meeting his hairline. He had always kept his feelings hidden, buried under layers of friendship and mutual understanding, the steady belief that he was just someone who needed to be there for you- no strings attached.

But now? Jungkook’s question churned him harder than he expected.

Namjoon blinked, unsure whether to laugh it off or tell him off.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kookie.”

Jungkook didn’t let up. “Hyung, I’m serious. I see the way you look at her! The way you act around her! You’re not fooling anyone!”

“Yes, because she’s my friend!” Namjoon tried to protest, but Jungkook rolled his eyes.

“You don’t look at me like that!”

Namjoon’s chest tightened, his throat a little dry as he tried to force some clarity into his emotions.

“Kookie. You’re drunk, you need to sleep it off.”

Jungkook shook his head, as if he were trying to clear out the haze of alcohol clouding his mind. But the intensity of his words didn’t waver. “I’m not drunk enough to miss what’s right in front of me.” His voice softened a little “I’m just saying… maybe it’s time to stop pretending?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Namjoon repeated, but his voice wavered slightly, betraying him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunday movie nights have been a staple in your relationship. Something you both held sacred since the beginning. Only under the most extreme circumstances had either of you ever canceled.  

Lately, though, you seemed to call it off more often than not. Ever since you started your weekly appointments at the clinic, Namjoon noticed he was seeing less and less of you.

But tonight, you were adamant to keep the tradition alive. The opening credits of Deadpool 3 were already up on the screen, waiting for someone to press play, while Namjoon busied himself hauling all the blankets to the couch. A spread of your favorite snacks sat neatly on the coffee table. The only thing missing was... you.

In your bedroom, you sat at in the middle of your bed, the laptop balanced on your lap as you repeatedly refreshed your email inbox.

“You ready?” Namjoon called out from the living room.

“Yeah, just a sec!” You refresh again, your face lighting up when the awaited email appeared.

Namjoon watches your reaction and laughs, “Let me guess. It’s going to be more than a second now?”

“I just got the donor list. Want to help me choose?”

Namjoon’s laughter fades, replaced by a look of concern that make your heart race. He shifts from one foot to the other, trying to gauge your enthusiasm.

“Choose?” he repeats hesitantly, “Like, pick a donor?”

“Yeah,” you respond, excitement bubbling over as you quickly type away on the computer. “You’re my friend. I want your input. It feels right.”

He bites his lip, unsure of how to process this new layer to your already documented decision. “You really want me involved in this?”

“Of course! I trust you. Plus, it’s a big step. I could use a little support.” You give him a little sheepish smile, almost hiding your face behind the screen.

Namjoon nods slowly, the weight of your request settling in. “Okay… I’m here for you.” You beam up at him, quickly patting the space next to you “Just-how do we do this?” Namjoon settled down, his eyes quickly scanning the screen.

“There’s a list of profiles with backgrounds, interests and even photos. We can look through it together.” You pause, letting him read over the page.

“This guy seems interesting.” you say pointing to a profile that catches your eye “He’s into poetry, works as a dentist and seems really kind…” but your voice dies down “Ah, but his hair line is receding.”

Namjoon leans closer. “What about this smiley one?” he asks, highlighting a profile with a striking smile.

“Nah, he has a bit of an overbite.” You move the mouse away, “I want to minimize the chances of the kid needing braces.”

Namjoon chuckles, watching you scroll through the list “Oh look! A Redhead!”

“Can I be honest?” you glance up at him, smiling once you caught his gaze “I’m not really into gingers.” You whisper, earning yourself a lighthearted laugh from him. His dimples deepen, and his eyes nearly disappear with mirth.

“You’re such a stereotype.” He teases.

You finish scrolling through the profiles. Each one eliciting more critiques than compliments.

“Too many tattoos.”

“Too much facial hair.”

A crooked nose, a weird eye color, a weird mole. Too short; too tall. That one yodels for fun. You could go on~

After a few more profiles you reached the end. “Ugh, none of these guys are right. It’s like a never-ending list of disappointments.” You groan, closing the laptop and falling back on the mattress.

Namjoon sighs dramatically, taking the laptop from your grasp and setting it on the bedside table, leaning back on the bed. “Maybe you should add a ‘no weirdo’s filter’.”

“Seriously! What’s wrong with some of these guys?” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

This was already the third trial, and you still hadn’t chosen a single profile. Deep down, you knew the things you got so fixated on were merely superficial flaws, but they felt monumental when it came to deciding your future. Even with your careful planning, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were running an undeniable risk.

That is not even considering the fact that the insemination might not even work in the first place. But that only added more chances and statistics to your plan, making your head spin. So, you consciously avoided that rabbit hole.

Namjoon chuckles softly, rolling on his side to face you. For a moment he said nothing, quietly studying your frustration.

“Listen,” he finally broke the silence, his eyes reflecting a gentle resignation “I know you don’t need it; but you have my full support. Whatever- or whoever- you pick.” His smile was so sincere that it made your heart skip over a beat, and in that moment, a new, bold idea took root in your mind.

You allowed yourself a moment to admire your friend- his perfectly symmetric face, kind eyes and adorable dimples. Your gaze drifted lower, taking in his chiseled jawline, elegant neck and the contours of his collarbones, all perfectly complementing his broad shoulders and newly toned muscles.

Suddenly, that unconventional idea that popped in your mind began to feel more enticing. After all, you knew him- the little quirks, the strengths, the pet peeves. You’d met his parents’ countless times. It could actually work out. And you were confident enough in your relationship to give it a shot.

You let out a soft sigh, your heart racing as you considered the next step in your journey. Turning to face him, you bit your lip as you hesitate before speaking.

“Namjoon… can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” He propped himself up on one elbow, concern flickering across his face.

You took a deep breath, gathering your ideas. “I’ve been thinking about this process, and-” You swallowed hard “It’s a big commitment. I want to make sure everything it perfect, you know?”

 He is so understanding, watching you quietly and nodding along to your ramblings.

“So, I was wondering if you’d be willing to get tested.” You rushed the words out, your gaze darting to the ceiling, avoiding his eyes.

Namjoon’s brows furrowed in confusion “Get tested? Like... for what?”

You swallowed again, trying to keep your voice steady. “For compatibility. I’d like to know the donor’s genetics, and it would really help to have your input on it. It you’re comfortable, of course.”

A heavy silence filled the room. You could feel the tension in the air as Namjoon processed your request, your heart racing louder with each passing second of his contemplative silence.

“Wait.” He finally snapped, his voice low and measured “You want me to get tested as a potential donor?”

Your palms felt clammy as you looked back at him, offering him a shy nod “Yes?”

“That’s not what I meant-” He stopped his own idea in its tracks “Won’t it make things weird between us?”

“No! Just think about it! I know you; I know your family history. I like your face. And we don’t have to tell anyone. And you can choose how much you want to be involved in the baby’s life. Like I said, I want to be a single parent.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen as he listened to you ramble on and on about your idea. His brows furrowed deeper, knitting together as he tried to process your words. After a few long moments of constant talking, he held up a hand, stopping your frantic speech.

“Slow down,” he instructed, his voice low and measured, “Let me get this straight- you want me to consider being a sperm donor for your child?”

You nodded eagerly, stomach twisting with emotion and heart picking up in double time. “Yes! I know it’s a lot to ask, but I trust you. We’re best friends, and it would be nice to have a personal connection to the kid’s other parent.”

He turned away from you, deep in thought running a hand through his hair in agitation. “I-I don’t know.” His throat made a weird noise “This is a lot to process.”

Suddenly feeling uncertain, you bit your lip hard. “I know, I know. And it’s totally fine if you say no. We never have to speak of this again.” You shift slightly, feeling heat rise to your neck. “I just though since we’re so close…” You mumble, losing your idea for a moment, before quickly picking it up again "It's not like we'd be raising the kid together! Just, you know...biologically related. As friends."

Namjoon sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Look, I need some time to think about this, okay? It's not a decision I can make lightly."

"Of course," you replied quickly, not wanting to pressure him. "Take all the time you need. I'm sorry for springing this on you out of nowhere."

He offered a small, reassuring smile. “It’s all right. I’m just surprised. That’s all. I’ll let you know once I’ve had a chance to really consider it.’

You nodded, feeling a mix of hope and anxiety swirling in your gut. “Thank you, Joonie. Just for thinking about it.”

He reached out, giving your hand a comforting squeeze “I’ll always be here for you.”

You returned the gesture, heart full of affection for your best friend. “I know, thank you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joon 🎍: Just got the tests back. Damn. Don’t even know what half these things are. Busy-bee🐝: If you bring them over, I’ll translate. 😊 Joon 🎍: Yeah. Omw rn. Did you have dinner yet? Busy-bee🐝: Nooo, can we please have Bibimbap? Joon 🎍: Anything you want, love.

Namjoon arrived a short while later, carrying a takeout bag that wafted delicious aromas through the kitchen. He set it down on the table with familiarity, fetching plates and utensils as you carefully looked over the medical results.

“Bibimbap, just as you ordered.” He said, grinning. He looked at you, his expression shifting to one of concern as he noticed the serious look on your face “Is everything okay?”

You glanced up from the papers, forcing a smile “Just trying to wrap my head around all of this.”

He slid into the chair across from you, pulling the take-out container and placing it in front of you. “Take a break from the serious stuff for a moment. Food first. Medicine later.”

You chuckle softly and opened the container, the colorful array of veggies and rice making your stomach growl. “You’re right. Can’t think on an empty stomach.”

As you began to eat, Namjoon began to rifle through the papers. “So, what’s this one?” He picked up a paper, squinting at the dense text. “I swear, some of these graphs look like they belong in a science-fiction novel.”

You giggled, nodding along “I know, right? Let me see… This one is about genetic markers for health risks, and this one,” you pointed to the colorful one “It’s about traits related to personality and intelligence.”

Namjoon let out a long-intrigued sound, “What does it say about me?”

You chuckle, trying to suppress a smile “Well, it’s not like one of those personality tests you find in a girly magazine. But it says our baby might have higher chances of being a visual learner, with higher openness to experiences.” You take a big bite, quietly chewing over the fact that you just called it ‘our baby’ – as in, you and Namjoon. Mashed together.

“Openness to experience? That’s code for ‘adventurous’ right? I think I prefer the term ‘spontaneous’.” Namjoon feigned offence, looking over the papers as if trying to confirm your diagnosis.

 “It’s another way to say you’ll jump at any wild idea.” You tease him, mouth half-full. “But it’s a good quality! You’re creative, fun and adaptable.”

He leaned in closer, curiosity piqued “And what about intelligence? Am I a genius?”

You flipped the paper around, scanning for the relevant section. “Looks like you score high on analytical thinking and problem-solving. So, I guess, in the right context, you could definitely call yourself a genius,”

“Can I add that to my cv?” he joked, before turning serious again “But does any of this affect your choice? Does it change anything for you?”

You took a moment, pondering his question as you quietly chewed your food. “I guess it just adds another layer to think about. I want the baby to have a good mix of traits, you know? If I choose a donor who has strengths like yours, it could make an indent in my favor.”

Namjoon’s expression softened, silently watching you scan the results, before a small smile tugged at his lips. “Whatever you decide, love.”

You smiled, feeling reassured as you grabbed the next paper “Thanks, love. Now, let’s see how your swimmers are doing!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a thin line between being a genius and an idiot. Namjoon liked using that line as a jumping rope. He had been called both names, sometimes within the same day. One minute he’d be diving deep into philosophical discussions, and the next he was deemed a mumbling fool simply because you fluttered your eyelashes at him.

He knows he is brilliant. His academic achievements and professional life were testament to that. A whole company depending on his decision. Yet here he was, getting grilled for the past hour by Seokjin and Taehyung for being the biggest dumbass that walked this dying earth.

“What do you mean you just agreed to be her sperm donor?” Seokjin blurted; his disbelief palpable as he leaned against Namjoon’s desk.

Namjoon just shrugged, trying to keep his cool. “It’s not as simple as that. We’ve talked about it, and I think it could work out.”

Taehyung leaned in; eyes wide with mock horror “You really jumped into this without thinking it through? Are you insane?”

“I thought about it plenty!” Namjoon retorted, frustration creeping in. “I trust her! We’re best friends. This isn’t some random decision.”

Seokjin raised an eyebrow, leaning back with a smirk “Best friend or not, you’ll be tied to her and that kid for life!  You’d practically be family!”

"Guys, I get it," he said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. "I've thought about this a lot, and I really believe this is the right thing to do."

Taehyung shook his head, a look of disbelief on his face. "You're not thinking straight, Namjoon. This is a huge decision, and you're not even considering the long-term implications."

"I am considering them!" Namjoon insisted. "I know that by agreeing to be her donor, I'm getting myself involved with her and the kid for life. But that's exactly what I want. I want to be there for them and support them in any way I can."

Seokjin sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Namjoon, you're a brilliant guy. You've always been one of the smartest people I know. But sometimes, I worry that you're so focused on doing the right thing that you don't stop to consider whether it's the smart thing."

Namjoon opened his mouth to protest, but Taehyung cut him off. "He's right, Namjoon! This isn't just a textbook case. This is real life, and there are real emotions involved. You can't just apply your weird logic to everything and expect it to work out."

Namjoon sighed, feeling a pang of frustration. He knew his friends were just trying to protect him, but he couldn’t help but feel like they were overcomplicating things.

"Maybe you're right," he said after a moment. "Maybe I am an idiot for doing this. But it's a risk I'm willing to take. I trust her, and I want to be there for her. That's all that matters to me."

Seokjin and Taehyung exchanged a look, but eventually, they both nodded.

"Alright," Seokjin said. "We'll support you, no matter what. But you’re still an idiot.”

Namjoon sighed; resignation evident on his features at he turned his attention back to his computer.

“You could’ve asked her on a date and get to the baby making naturally.” Seokjin added.

“She doesn’t want a relationship.”

“Well, you can skip straight to the baby making!” Taehyung exclaimed, but Namjoon just rolled his eyes.

 “It’s not that simple, Tae...”

 Unbeknownst to Namjoon, on the other side of town, you and Sumi, your good friend and co-worker, were engaged in a strikingly similar conversation.

“So, I asked him to donate a sample.” You fidgeted with your fingers under the table, unable to meet her eyes, cheeks burning with embarrassment as you voiced your actions. “Any thoughts?”

Sumi studies you for a long moment, her expression inscrutable. You felt the intensity of her gaze as she tries to gauge your sincerity. Finally, she broke the silence.

“Yes, and prayers,” she said softly “You need them.” She gives you that incredulous look that only the head nurses seem to master.

You blink, stunned by her response. You expected something different, something along the lines of excitement or curiosity, instead, her reaction was surprisingly tame.

“Why didn’t you just bang him?” She asks, her tone casual, no hint of professionalism in her demeanor.

Your eyes widen in shock “Ayy! Don’t say that!”

“I mean, you can cut out the clinical middle man this way,” she continued “And god knows you need to get laid.”

Your face grew hot. “That’s not the point...” you mumble.

Sumi raised an eyebrow. “Then what is the point, exactly?” She leaned back in her chair, bubble tea clasped in her hands and a smirk playing on her lips. “The baby gets made either way. This is just more fun.” She giggled “You know, Jimin told me that Namjoon used to have quite a reputation with women back in his day.”

You shift in your seat, avoiding Sumi’s probing gaze as you gathered your thoughts. The conversation has taken a turn you hadn’t anticipated, and you were struggling to find the right words.

“The point is, I want to do this the right way.” you say, aimlessly spinning the straw in your drink. “I want to give this child the best possible start in life, and that means doing things properly.”

Sumi considers your words for a moment, before nodding in understanding “I get that,” she says. “But you don’t have to be so serious all the time. You can still have fun and enjoy the process.”

You can’t help but snicker as she emphasizes the words “You sound just like Jimin,” you say, referencing her boyfriend. “He’s always telling me to lighten up and enjoy myself.”

“Well, he’s not wrong.” Sumi says with a grin. “And just so we’re clear, sex is the ‘proper way’ that normal humans use to make babies.”

You roll your eyes, “I know that.”

“Good. At least I don’t need to explain how that works.” She smirks “And I’m sure Namjoon would be more than happy to oblige.”

Suddenly, a very vivid image appears in your mind. Namjoon, hovering over you, his breath washing over your face as your hips collide together. You feel a shiver run down your spine, butterflies emerging in your stomach and quickly push the thought away.

“Make the poor guy feel more involved in the process. You’re treating him like milking cow right now.”

“God, don’t say that!” You cry out, shaking your head to clear the image from your mind. Namjoon was a gentleman, and you were grateful for his help. But the thought of asking him to sleep with you too made you uncomfortable. How would that conversation go?

Hey Joonie, since you’re already getting me pregnant, why not just fuck me?

Sumi laughed, "Well, it's an option. And sometimes, the most unconventional methods can lead to the most beautiful outcomes."

You couldn't argue with that. After all, you were about to become a single mother, and that was certainly not the conventional route.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart as you look across the table at her. She was watching you with a knowing smile, one that suggested she could see right through your nervous façade.

“And just think of it this way, all that money you save from all the clinic appointments can go towards buying cute baby clothes.”

That was the weakest argument yet, but still, you found yourself actually entertaining that idea.

“Do you really think he’ll agree?” as the words leave your mouth a pang of guilt strikes you. Namjoon has been nothing but kind and generous so far, and here you were, letting your horny thoughts take over. You respect and value your friendship more than the need to ‘make things fun’. You can’t do anything to jeopardize that.

“Trust me babe,” Sumi sounds so casual in her conviction. She’s right thought- sometimes, the unconventional ways do lead to the most favorable outcomes. And you can’t deny the spark that ignites in your chest whenever you think about Namjoon.

And this way, you can have more control over the situation. The amount, the frequency. The position….

After all, all the pregnancy and fertility books you’d read recommended that a deep connection is important when it comes to getting pregnant.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, fidgeting with your fingers again. “I mean, it’s not like I can just ask him to sleep with me.”

Sumi chuckles and takes a sip of her bubble tea. "Why not? You're two consenting adults, and you both want the same thing. It's not like you're asking him to marry you or anything."

You can't help but roll your eyes at her flippant attitude. "Yeah, I know, but it's not that simple. Namjoon is a good friend, and I don't want to ruin that. Plus, I don't know if I'm ready for something so...intimate with him."

Sumi raises an eyebrow. "Intimate? Girl, you're already asking him to donate his sperm. How much more intimate can you get?"

You take a deep shaky breath, trying to lower your blood pressure as you absorbed her words. She has a point- you hate it, but she has a point.

“Okay, I’ll think about it.” you finally say, meeting her gaze. Sumi just smirks at you, clearly pleased with that response.

“That’s all I can ask for.” She says, taking another sip from her bubble tea. “And remember, there’s no rush. Take your time and do whatever feels right.”

You nodded, feeling the heaviness in your chest swirl. You knew this was a big decision, and you don’t want to take any part of it lightly. But you also can’t ignore the possibilities that lay ahead.

As the conversation turns to other topics, your thoughts wandered back to Namjoon. You imagined his kind smile, his gentle nature, and his unwavering support. And you can help but let your mind fantasize.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Busy-bee🐝: Need to ask you smth. Joon 🎍: If it’s about the sample, I’m omw to drop it off at the clinic now. Busy-bee🐝: NoooOooOoo Busy-bee🐝: Stop! Busy-bee🐝: Pls don’t. Joon 🎍: Did you change your mind? Busy-bee🐝: No. Not quite. Joon 🎍: Quite? What happened? What do I do now? Busy-bee🐝: Can you just come over? Joon 🎍: Sure? But just so you know. I have a jar of sperm with me. Busy-bee🐝: Yyuckkk Joon 🎍: Don’t worry. It’s sealed. Busy-bee🐝: Still gross, lol. Just hurry. Need to talk.

While you waited for him to arrive, your heart pounded in your chest. You paced around your apartment in your pajamas, desperately searching for something- anything to clean or organize. The conversation with Sumi replayed in your mind, her words echoing as you contemplated your options thoroughly.  

You couldn’t possibly complicate things with Namjoon, could you?

A soft knock on the door breaks you out of your reverie. And with a deep breath, you open it to find Namjoon standing there, casual and charming, in a green hoodie and ripped jeans, the familiar warm smile lighting up his face.

“Hey,” he says, stepping inside “What’s up? You sounded urgent.”

“Um, yeah…” you close the door behind him and gestured for him to sit on the couch. “I wanted to talk about the… um, sample?”

He raises an eyebrow “Didn’t you just say not to take it to the clinic?”

You wince sightly, still grappling with how to express what you really wanted to say. “Well, I was thinking…maybe we can talk about the process?”

Namjoon settles down, giving you his full attention, confusion clearly evident on his face “What’s on your mind?”

“Sumi mentioned that-” You stop, allowing yourself a second to gather your fraying thoughts, “Well, since we’re both consenting adults…I thought it would be more medically apt to try this with a more ‘hand-on’ approach.”

He nodded, listening closely as he rubbed his chin. A cliché lightbulb suddenly going off in his mind and Namjoon’s eyes widened as he took you in.

“Are you suggesting you what I think you’re suggesting? Because if you’re not my mind went to a very inappropriate place.” He asks, his tone light but serious.

You stammer, nodding slowly as heat flooded your face and neck. “I mean, it’s just an idea. We’re both single…” you trail off, staring at a painting on the wall, “I know it’s unconventional, but I just want to make sure everything’s… right.”

He leans back, quietly considering your words, “It’s definitely a bigger step. Are you sure you’re comfortable with that?”

As he leaned back on the couch, he spread his legs wider, getting comfortable and invertedly drawing your attention to his well-toned thighs, making your mouth go dry.

“Honestly,” you force yourself to look him in the eye. “I don’t know. But I like the idea of us being more connected during the- that. It feels… outlined better?” you sighed exasperated with your own brain for not cooperating.  “But I don’t want it to ruin our friendship. You mean a lot more to me.”

“You mean a lot to me too, and don’t worry,” he says, “I promise the friendship will remain intact.” He paused for a moment, “And I also agreed once, so yeah, I’m here for you whatever you decide.”

A quiet moment passes as you let his words sink in. His expression was earnest, and the sincerity in his voice offered a reassuring warmth. It was comforting to know that, no matter what weird direction you decide to go in, Namjoon would still treat you like a priority. You let out a long breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Really? You’d be okay with that?”

“Of course,” Namjoon replied, “If your plan needs me here five times a week, then I’ll be here.”

A deep red blush creeps up your neck to settle on your cheeks, as your mind quietly conjures up the scenario where five nights in a row, Namjoon comes over and bends you over every surface in your apartment.

You smiled, a wave of excitement washing over you, but beneath that smile, your mind raced and your heart fluttered. This was a significant decision, and you needed to approach it strategically!

“The plan requires we lay down some ground rules first,” you say, shifting your tone to a more analytical one, “We need to define what this would look like for both of us. Like boundaries, approach and what we’re comfortable with.”

As you sit down next to him, your heart still pounds in your chest. “Okay, so, here’s what I was thinking,” you begin after a drawn-out breath, “We should approach this like a partnership, with communication and mutual respect. We’ll need to set some rules and make sure we’re both comfortable.”

“That makes sense. I want you to feel safe throughout this process. What kind of boundaries did you have in mind?”

 “Well, for starters, we should only do this when we’re sober and well-rested. And we should check in with each other beforehand to make sure we’re on the same page.” You scratch at the back of your neck, looking away for a second.

“That’s a good start.”

“And it’s about the baby making.” You add.

“We already established that.” Namjoon nods, a serious look on his face.

“Are you comfortable with a more casual approach or do you think we should be more clinical about it?”

“Casual. Definitely.” Namjoon shakes his head at the idea of doing it in a sterile white room, a shiver running down his spine. But he quickly composes himself and in turn asks you, “What about after? Do we tell people about this, or keep it to ourselves?”

You took a moment to chew on your bottom lip, considering the implications, even though you’ve thought about this before.

“We should keep it to ourselves for the moment being. Even if almost everyone knows you donated, they don’t need to know…” you trail off again, the blush deepening “How.”

Namjoon nods in understanding, “I can respect that. I don’t want any unnecessary drama.” He gave you a reassuring smile.

You take another deep breath, and allow the sense of relief that comes with his smile wash away any lingering discomfort.

“Thank you. I really appreciate everything you’re doing.

Namjoon reaches out and takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm here for you, no matter what. And I want you to know that I'm not doing this out of a sense of obligation. I genuinely care about you and want to help you achieve your dream of becoming a mother."

Your heart swells with emotion at his words. "Thank you," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "That means more to me than you could ever know."

You sit there for a moment, hands intertwined in silence. The weight of your decision quietly sinking in around you.

“I think the next thing we need to set is a schedule,” you say, ruining the moment. “It’s important we’re consistent about this, for the best possible outcome.”

“How often do you think we should try?”

“The research suggests that every other day is a good-enough frequency. But we can see how it works out and adjust afterwards.”

“Every other day. Got it.” He confirms, then asks the only important question of the night:

“When do we start?”

Your heart stops right in its tracks, even as you distract yourself by suddenly reaching to grab your phone, “Let me look at my cycle.” You mumble, opening the fertility tracking app you’d been using.

As you scroll through the app, you felt Namjoon’s presence loom closer, curiosity evident of his face. “How does that work exactly?”

“Do you need me to explain a period to you?” You tease, small smile breaking you from your serious poise.

“No. I just-” Namjoon took a deep breath, nervousness lingering on the edge of his voice as he ran a hand through his hair, “I’m just thinking out loud here, but why wait?”

An audible gasp leaves you lips when you look up at him.

The air between you crackles with electricity, and you suddenly realize just how close you were. In that moment you could almost feel the weight of your actions begin to unravel.

You lock eyes, the tension thickening as you ponder his suggestion. Taking a shaky breath, your heart thunders, and you struggle to process the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you.

"Are you sure?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. "I mean-"

Namjoon nods, leaning closer to you, his voice steady "I'm sure."

You bite your bottom lip, your mind racing as you try to decide whether or not to take the leap. You've always been a planner, someone who likes to have everything mapped out in advance, but for once in your life, you find yourself wanting to throw caution out the window.

It couldn’t possibly hurt; in fact, it might prove to be beneficial. You’d get the awkward stage over with quickly, instead of letting it simmer while waiting for your fertile window.

Why let nervousness and anticipation settle in when he’s right here, sitting on your couch looking absolutely delectable?

You quickly go over your mental check-list, feeling grateful that you showered and shaved just before he arrived. Your Pj’s are cute, and while your underwear isn’t the sexiest, it’s decent- either way, this isn’t about passion; it’s practical.

You were almost done chewing your lip off when you feel his thumb gently touch your chin, stopping you.

“Only if you want.”

“I can’t remember if I made my bed this morning.” You whisper sheepishly, pulling him out of his serious demeanor. His heartfelt laughter weaving through the tension that hung between you.

“That’s what you’re thinking about?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m here,” You giggle, shaking your head and throwing your phone somewhere on the couch. “Let’s do this.”

Namjoon’s smile broadens as he stands up, extending his hand to you. You almost hesitate for just a moment before placing your hand in his, letting him  pull you up from the couch and in his arms. Heat radiates off his body as he leans in, his hand gently brushing your hair away from your face.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, closing your eyes as his breath lingers just above your lips.

Then, he kisses you.

At first, it’s gentle, his lips barely brushing over yours, a subtle invitation for you to take the lead. His lips taste faintly like mint from Chapstick, soft and warm, and soon the kiss deepens with a surge of passion. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him closer, feeling the heat between you build. Namjoon’s hands glide to your back, exploring you with a leisurely touch that sends waves of excitement through you.

He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down to your neck, and you tilt your head back, moaning softly when he gently nibbles on your ear.

“You’re adorable.” He whispers, his hands moving to the front of your shirt to cup your breasts. You gasp as he teases your nipples through your shirt, and with a flicker of courage, your hands slip under his hoodie, feeling the hard lines of his abs under your fingertips.

Namjoon smirks at you as you tug his hoodie upward, but he helps you pull it off, revealing his bare chest and you run your fingers over his toned muscles, feeling his heartbeat beneath your touch.

“Joonie, you’re so jacked.” You say with an airy laugh, feeling a surge of confidence pulse through you. “God, I need you.” Taking his hands in yours, you guide him towards the bedroom, your heart pounding in your chest.

Walking ahead, you can feel a wave of self-consciousness wash over you, even as you remind yourself that this is just Namjoon—the man who always chooses his words carefully and who’s always there for you. But any hesitation melts away when you reach the bedroom. You push the door open, and with renewed vigor, you quickly shed your shirt and bra, moving on to your pants.

Namjoon’s eyes widen at the sight of you standing there in just your underwear. Though he fights to remain respectful, the hunger in his gaze is unmistakable when you bend down to throw your clothes in the corner of the room.

When you face him again, his lips capture yours, silencing whatever you were about to say. His tongue delves into your mouth, teasing and exploring, and you respond eagerly, his touch sending a thrill of excitement through you.

“You’re so pretty, baby.” He murmurs, his mouth leaving a trail of fire down your neck and shoulders. You arch into his touch, your eagerness growing with every lingering touch.

When his mouth finally finds your breasts, he captures one in his mouth and starts teasing it with the lightest graze of his teeth. A sharp gasp escapes you, a rush of pleasure shooting straight to your core.

Your hands fumble with the button of his jeans, desperate to feel him against you. But struggling to push his jeans down, Namjoon steps back just enough to help you, letting you slide them off with ease.

Taking a moment, you stop to gawk at his arousal straining against his boxers. Damn, you had a feeling he was equipped. He just carried that air about him.   But nothing could have prepared you for how massive he actually was. The sight of him, hard and ready for you, sends a new wave of heat through your body, and you find yourself biting your lip in eager anticipation.

You can’t help but stare, taking in his impressive size. He truly is a giant, with broad shoulders, a muscular chest, and an impressive cock. You can’t wait to feel him against you, inside of you, filling you up all the way.

But Namjoon has other ideas. He kneels in front of you, his hands moving to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze before pulling you closer. He plants a series of soft kisses along your stomach and thighs, each one sending waves of electricity coursing through you.

“Can I take these off?” he asks against your thigh, playfully snapping the elastic of your panties. And unable to speak, you nod.

With a quick tug, Namjoon hooks his fingers around the elastic and pulls, leaving you completely bare before him. You gasp as the cold air brushes against your skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he looks up at you, his gaze intense and full of determination.

You take a moment to savor the image before you: Namjoon kneeling, his eyes dark with desire, radiating an intensity that makes it seem like he could devour you whole. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, and without hesitation, he places one of your legs over his shoulder, kissing your inner thigh while his fingers move to your folds. A jolt of pleasure shoots down your spine as he finds your clit, rubbing tight, deliberate circles against it.

“So wet.” He breaths against you, sending shivers through your body. He glances up at you one last time, seeking your permission with his gaze.

“Namjoon, wait,” you say, gently pushing him away. “This isn’t how we make a baby.”

God, the hold he had over you was intoxicating, making it nearly impossible to refocus and regain your composure.

He chuckles, the hunger in his eyes still smoldering. “No, but this is going to make you feel really, really good.” He replied, his voice a low rumble, hands still holding you steady by the hips.

“I know. But this isn’t about feeling good.” You insist, your hand dropping from his hair and your leg from his shoulder.

Namjoon almost looks disappointed as you step away from him, but then he nods, understanding the importance of your goal.

“Right, I got carried away.”

“Here, just sit on the bed,” you instruct, offering a hand to help him up. Namjoon obeys, perching himself on the edge of the bed, his gaze locked onto you, tracking your every step as you approach. 

Removing his boxers, you’re awestruck once again by the sight of his pretty cock—big, veiny and heavy with a flushed pink tip, leaking precum. Namjoon reclines slightly, his hands resting behind his head, watching you straddle him. You spit into your hand, wrapping it around his hardness to pump him a few times before positioning him at your entrance, slowly sinking down on him.

You both let out a sigh of pleasure as he fills you completely. A soft whimper escapes you as you bottom out, and you bury your face in his shoulder as his hands move to your hips, his thumbs tracing gentle circles in a soothing rhythm.

“Are you okay?” he whispers in your hair.

“Yeah, give me a second,” you reply, taking a deep breath as you adjust to the stretch, his warmth filling you completely. After a moment, you straighten up, meeting his eyes with a soft smile. “It’s been a while.”

Namjoon nods, his gaze soft as he steadies you, guiding you into a rhythm. Rising and sinking back down, you gasp at the sensation of being this stuffed, bracing your hands on his chest for balance as you start to rock your hips, grinding against him.

At first, you move slowly, savoring the feeling, but soon your pace quickens, spurred by the intensity building in your lower stomach.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Namjoon encourages, squeezing your hips to help you maintain your rhythm. Your quiet moans blending beautifully with the sound of skin meeting skin, filling the room with your shared pleasure.

Before long, your thighs start to burn, but the growing tension inside you keeps you bouncing on his cock. You were almost there; Namjoon could sense it too in the way your walls flutter around him. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers deftly finding your clit and stroking it with perfect precision.

And once he feels you getting too tired to continue, Namjoon takes over, trusting up into you with powerful, steady strokes that meet your faltering movements. The intensity of his pace, mixed with his fingers that never slowed, push you right over the edge, sending you spiraling into bliss.

You cry out as waves of pleasure ripple through you, your orgasm shaking you to your core. Namjoon groans, feeling you clench around him as your body crashes against his chest. His hands grip your ass tightly, and his thrusts grow erratic as he chases his own release, his breathing ragged and soft whimpers escaping his lips. Each sound spurs another clench from you, drawing him even closer to the edge.

“Come on, baby,” you whisper in his ear, fingers gently massaging his scalp as you let him use your spent body however he pleases. “Just let go.”

With a loud, drawn-out moan, Namjoon buries himself deep inside you, and you feel his hot, sticky cum filling you completely. A cry escaped you, muffled against his shoulder as you sink your teeth into his soft skin, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment.

Your body slowly relaxes, breaths still coming out in quick, shallow gasps.

Namjoon looks over at you, a satisfied smile softening his expression, and a deep, unexpected sense of connection settles over you, an intimacy unlike anything you’ve felt before. Leaning in, you kiss him slowly, silently thanking him for the experience

As you pull away, you roll to lie beside to him, your legs still intertwined. Staring up at the ceiling, a warm contentment fills you, grounding you in the quiet rhythm of his steady breathing.

“Thank you,”

 “Anything for you, love.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

6:30 AM- Your alarm rings.

You bolt upright, momentarily forgetting you were meant to wake up, letting out a little groan as you flop back onto the pillow.

“Why do you wake up so fucking early?”

The voice behind you startles you, and you remember with a rush that Namjoon ended up spending the night. His deep, early morning voice sends a flutter of butterflies through your stomach, memories of last night’s activities rushing back to you.

“Usually I do my yoga,” you mumble back, “and after that I shower and get ready for work.” You yawn, stretching all your limbs, before settling right back in his arms, snuggling closer.

“Why?”

“Because we can’t all afford to sleep till noon.” You tease.

Namjoon chuckles softly, wrapping his arms tighter around you. “Fair point. But I could get used to sleeping in with you.”

You smile, your heart picking up at the thought. “Maybe I’ll let you join my morning routine someday.” You stay nestled in his arms for a few more moments, enjoying the comfort of his warmth. But soon, the call of nature interrupts your peaceful morning.

With a reluctant sigh, you wiggle out of his embrace. “I’ll be right back.” You say, glancing over your shoulder at him.

Namjoon nods, sleepy smile on his face as he watches your naked body, before he snaps himself out of it.

“Are you going to take a pregnancy test?”

You chuckle as you swing your legs off the bed and pad softly towards the bathroom. “It’s too early. That would be a waste of a test.”

The cold floor contrasts with the warmth you just left behind, and as you close the door, you can’t help but grin, thinking about how nice it is to have him there with you. 

You quickly go about your business, splashing some water on your face to wake yourself up. After a moment you finish up and head back to the bedroom. Namjoon is still lounging against the pillows, his eyes slightly glazed but filled with warmth.

“Back already?” he asks, sleepy smile spreading across his face.

“Yeah,” you walk over to your closet, rifling through your clothes as you decide what to wear. The soft morning light filtering through the windows, casing a warm glow over the room. Once you’re all done you walk over to him, leaning down to plant a sweet kiss on his cheek.

“I’m heading out. I’ll leave the spare key in the kitchen for you.” You say, feeling a mix of excitement and reluctance to leave.

He smiles, his dimples showing up on his cheeks, “Thanks, I’ll take good care of it…”

You laugh lightly, leaning in again, this time kissing him.

“God, if anything, I hope out baby gets your dimples.” You confess, your heart swelling at the thought.

His expression softens, a hint of surprise lighting up his eyes. “That would be adorable.” He says, a smile spreading across his face, and this time he leans in to kiss you. So soft and sweet, almost convincing you to join him back in bed. You need to place a hand on his chest to pull away, a deep red blush spreading across your face.

“I’ll text you later.”

“It’s a plan.” He smiles, watching you walk away, taking the warmth in the room with you. When the bedroom clicks shut, he finally feels like he can breathe again.

He was a walking disaster. Books will be written about his sheer foolishness, how he willingly tosses aside logic and reason in your presence.

Yet, deep down, he recognized that beneath his eager exterior lay a selfish yearning- a desire for you, wholly and completely, all to himself.

But for as long as you would have him, even like this, with weirdly restricted intimacy, he would give you everything you ask for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the following months, you two manage to establish a working system. The spare key was Namjoon’s now, and he had a dedicated drawer in your closet for his things.

His toothbrush quietly chilling next to yours in the master bathroom.

Along the way, you uncovered a surprising list of things you never imagined you’d learn about your best friend;

Like the fact that he is a talker, loving the way you’d clench around him when he spills pure filth in your ear. He talks you through your climaxes, encouraging you to lose yourself, and cheering you on as if you were competing in a marathon each time.

He also had a habit of giving you all kinds of pet-names, sweet endearments that easily fell from his lips. “Sweetheart”, “Baby”, “Honey”, “Lovely”. However, your favorite was probably the time he accidentally called you a ‘busy bee’ in the middle of one of his ecstatic hazes. The unexpected nickname bringing a smile to your face, even as you surrendered to the waves of pleasure he unleashed within you.

He also had a thing for hickeys. Your breasts now fully decorated with blooming red love-marks, after you scolded him for leaving one right under your collar bone for the whole world to see.

For two weeks, you only wore turtlenecks because of him.

But what stood out the most was his seemingly endless stamina. If it wasn’t for your insistence to take it easy, he would very willingly fuck you until the early morning light.

Much like he was doing right now…

But it was Saturday. You decide you could afford to sleep in.

You could feel him right in your stomach, a ring of cum forming at the base of his cock as he kept on pounding into your abused pussy.

One of your legs over his shoulder, and the other one around his hip, pulling him closer as he kept on trusting into you. You tried your best to move with him, meeting his rapid movements, but you got lost in the pleasure when his finger flicked your clit. You almost scream reaching your climax for the nth time, your body shaking with the force of the release. Namjoon didn’t slow down though, instead picking up the pace as he chased his own orgasm.

“That’s a good fucking girl,” he growled “Not gonna stop til’ I fill you up with my cum. That’s what you want, right angel? Want to be stuffed full? Have it dripping out of you when I’m done?” he rendered you a completely useless, weakly moaning back at his filth.

“God, if you’re not pregnant after this.” He groans in your neck, making you shiver again.

The moon was high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the room. Engulfing him completely in a silvery haze, and you couldn’t help but admire the beautiful man on top on you. His closed eyes, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead, his lips parted in pure ecstasy. You almost couldn’t believe this was your best friend, the person who knew you better than anyone else in the world.

Namjoon reaches his own climax, and you clenched around him, milking every last drop eagerly.

 He collapses on top of you, your bodies slick with sweat, yet you just lay there, wrapped in his arms as the night quietly carried on.

This was the new normal, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

After a little while, Namjoon pulls out, quickly grabbing a napkin from the nightstand to wipe away any excess cum before it stains your sheets. You winced at the touch, feeling sore in the best of ways.

“I’m sorry baby. I went a little hard.” He says after discarding the napkin, pulling you closer to him.

You lay there, spent and satisfied in his arms, a little chuckle escaping you at the absurdity of ‘little’ being the past four hours. “Rough day at work?” you ask, looking up, your fingers gently pushing the hair away from his forehead.

“You have no idea,” he huffs, glancing away “With the business trip coming up I can’t seem to catch a break.”

“You’re leaving on a trip?” you stand up straight, looking down at him, trying to keep the disappointment from your voice.

“Yeah baby, I told you I’m leaving on the 5th.” He replies, his voice twinged with exhaustion.

“That is this month?” You fumble out of the bed to grab your calendar from the desk, turning all the lights on and flipping through it.

Has it been two months already? How come you’re not pregnant already?

You quietly look over the pages, calculating exactly what day you should be getting your period on. And your heart raced when you realized;

Last week. This might be it. You might be pregnant already.

“Oh my god, Namjoon!” you giggle like a little girl, jumping and spinning around the room. “This might be it! I’m one week late!”

Namjoon’s eyes widened in surprise, and he grabs your arm, pulling you back on the bed. The calendar flying away somewhere as he places his hand on your still-flat belly.

“Really?”

You nodded, a big smile completely taking over your face

“Yeah really.” You giggle “I mean, can’t know for sure, but I’m one week late.” You insist, almost kicking your legs with excitement.

No way you were going back to sleep after this. Instead, you jump back up, running around the room like a little tornado, gabbing your clothes and rushing to the bathroom to shower.

You needed to schedule a doctor’s appointment, go buy the last of the supplies, pick a color for the nursery and look up all the forms needed for maternity leave.

Namjoon sat in the silence of your bedroom, listening to the water from the shower run as you chaotically prepare and plan your future. The thought leaves him feeling a little empty, knowing he is not a part of that plan.

He wanted to invite you to join him for the business trip in Singapore, the plane tickets bookmarked and ready to be purchased. Even if he’d be busy working, the thought of having you nearby calmed his nerves about the whole ordeal. But now he hesitated, unsure if it was a good idea. With everything getting more complicated- especially the possible pregnancy- his feelings were tangled between simply wanting to support you and grappling with the deeper emotions he couldn’t ignore.

“Do you think you can handle building a crib?” you ask when you return form the bathroom.

 But only silence greeted you, with no sign of Namjoon left behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life had this way about it. One moment you’re riding high, and the next one you’re struggling to comprehend the fragility of human nature.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, yet it still stings when your plan doesn’t perfectly match reality.

You plan a future with a man, only to be confronted with the painful truth that you’ve been the second woman all along. Shaking you to your core and ruining any future relationships for you along the way.

You take the leap, decide to get pregnant, and for a moment, it feels like everything is finally falling into place. But then that red dark spot appears, shattering all your dreams and hard work.

You didn’t need the pregnancy test anymore- not when your period arrives unexpectedly at the hospital office. Yet, you still find yourself staring at the little stick resting on your desk while Sumi draws a blood sample.

“Are you going to be okay?” She asks, pressing a sterile swab to your arm before continuing. Her voice is gentle, but you can only hear the concern beneath it. You nod, though uncertainty lingers in your mind, and the weight of your reality feels heavier than ever.

You spend the rest of the day meticulously reviewing the hospital’s schedules, throwing yourself in the comforting security that the numbers and graphs provide. You check supplies, organize the timetables, and ensure that no section of the hospital is backed up. Each task grounds you, allowing you to focus on something tangible amid the chaos swirling in your mind. 

At around noon you get the message from the testing facility. Deep down, you already knew the blood work would come back negative, just like the test stick, but it still shattered the last glimmer of hope you had left.

You read the message again, trying to process the words, but they blur together as a wave of disappointment washed over you. The sterile walls of the hospital suddenly feel suffocating, and the rhythm of the bustling environment seems to fade into the background.

You take a deep breath, fighting back tears. Great. Now you were hormonal too.

You force yourself to push through the day, focusing on tasks, but the ache in your chest still lingers.

Joon 🎍: Are we still on for tonight? Baby-momma 🐝: Nah. Got my period. Joon 🎍: Shit. Are you okay? Baby-momma 🐝: Shit pretty much sums it up. Baby-momma 🐝: But I’ll be fine. Joon 🎍: Well, it’s Sunday. We could just watch a movie…. Haven’t done that in a while. Joon 🎍: I’ll even pick up your favorite greasy foods if you agree.

You smile at your phone, feeling the warmth spread through you despite the heaviness of the day. The idea of sharing a cozy movie night with him feels like a welcomed escape. You type back quickly, your heart lifting just a bit.

Baby-momma 🐝: That sounds nice. I could use a distraction✨ Joon 🎍: Great. I’ll be over after work.

 When the working day is finally over, you make your way home, quickly going through the motions. You shower, tidy up a bit, and set up the living room for the movie night, arranging blankets and laying out an array of snacks across the coffee table.

Namjoon said he’s be there by 7, but as the clock ticks closer to 9, you find yourself bored out of your mind. You glance at your phone for any updates, but there’s nothing. You try to distract yourself with a show, but your mind keeps wandering to what could delay him.

Just as you consider sending a text, you hear the key turning in the lock. The door swings open, and Namjoon steps inside, a smile breaking across his face.

“I’m sorry I’m late. Got caught up in a meeting.” He says, holding the bag of junk food.

You feel a rush of relief as he walks in the familiar warmth of his presence instantly lifting your spirits. “You made it just in time.” You say, gesturing to the setup.

He chuckles, placing the bag on the coffee table.  “I got you one of those abominable triple chocolate cakes you like.” He settles in besides you, unpacking the bag and you can’t help but smile up at him.

“God, I love you.” You grin digging in, completely unaware to what effect your words have on him. He pauses for a moment, a hint of surprise flickering across his face, before returning your smile with a warmth that sends your heart racing.

As you both dig into the food, Namjoon seems a bit more pensive than usual, his smile lingering as he watches you blissfully enjoy the cake. You almost moan out loud after the first bite, your face surprisingly similar to the one you have when you reach your climax.

After a moment he clears his throat, looking away as a deep shade of red takes over his ears.

“Hey, I was thinking,” he begins, glancing at you with a hint of hesitation. “You know that I have that business trip coming up.”

“Yeah,” you’re barely paying him any attention.

“I’d really love for you to join me.”

Your head snaps up, surprise lighting up your features. “Wait, really? You want me to come?”

He meets your gaze, his expression earnest. “Yeah, I think it would be great. I’ll be busy with meetings, but we can explore together in the evenings. It’ll be fun.”

You can’t help but smile, feeling a rush of excitement. “If I can get off work, sure. Just tell me when to book my tickets.”

Namjoon’s face lights up with relief and happiness. “Yeah, I’ll send you the details as soon as I can.”

You giggle, already daydreaming about the adventure ahead.

“Next week, no?”

“Yeah.” he replies, taking a big mouthful of his burger. You grin, excited at the thought that by that time you would also be done with your period.

“Ah! There’s a medical conference happening around that time too. It would be so cool if they aligned,” you say your excitement bubbling over.

Namjoon nods, his eyes lighting up. “That would be perfect! You could network while I’m in meetings.”

“Exactly! I’ll look into it!” you say, feeling the anticipation grow. The idea of a trip filled with both work and exploration feels like just the right remedy for your disappointment, reigniting a spark of hope.

The duality of man.

  ↳ return to saga index 

⟶ read in chronological order here 

A series of hook ups with Kim Seokjin, the college’s biggest fuckboy…

↳ the index (in order of events)

#1 The first time 

#2 The repeat 

#3 The kiss 

#4 The cherry lube 

#5 The daddy kink 

#6 The accidental cuddle 

#7 The kink shame

#8 The last (good) time…before you fell for someone else and dumped him… 

↳ bonus (not in order of events) 

#1 The orgasm 

#2 The movie theatre 

#3 The raging boner 

#4 The tentacle dildo

#5 The request 

#6 The 69

#7 The discovery 

#8 The sext

Written 2018-20. Reworked/Edited 2020 Please refrain from posting my work elsewhere. No translations allowed. © floralseokjin 2020