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here2bbtstrash · 4 months

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homecoming | knj

pairing: kim namjoon x reader summary: your husband is out-of-town for a two weeks. he may have to keep his hands to himself in the meantime, but that doesn’t mean he can’t tell you what to do with yours. au: lacuna!verse, est. relationship (marriage) type: drabble (smut) wc: 2.8k (yes, i’m still calling this a drabble) rating: 18+ — minors do not have my consent to interact cw: LAJOONA, afab!reader, phone sex, voice kink ig?, reader is noted to speak in a(n unspecified) regional dialect, namjoon w/ dom undertones??, guided masturbation (v fingering, clit stim), literally so much dirty talk, multiple orgasms + squirting, praise for zest, various pet names because i’m all over the place, a brief appearance by a beloved side character. a/n: so, uhhhh…. here’s some self-indulgent filth for the dash, lmao. this makes sense out of the context of the lacuna series, but i think it’s more fun if you’re familiar with these two 💕 these events take place after the main series (aka present day). a/n 2: reader is referred to (once) by namjoon as “mrs. kim” — it’s a pet name. i’m aware that name changes after marriage aren’t a thing in korean culture.

Kim Namjoon knows home when he hears it.

Even in hushed tones, it rings loud and clear through his AirPods, humming so closely to the source of his wandering thoughts that he can picture himself there. Despite the slight rasp brought on by exhaustion, its intonation follows the same, steep highs and lows he’ll never get enough of. It sounds like a dialect from a city he’s never lived in, but it’s home, nonetheless.

“I thought the point of this retreat was to… retreat,” you tease. “Don’t know how effective that is if you call your distraction, Joonie.”

To be fair, Namjoon wasn’t the one who called you a distraction. He certainly wasn’t the one who decided he’d spend two weeks sequestered in the middle of nowhere, either. That was all Yoongi, top to bottom.

Come to think of it —

“If Yoongi didn’t think to confiscate my phone, that’s a Yoongi problem.” Namjoon shrugs, smiling to himself.

With a muffled grunt, he then leans back against the mattress and stretches his arms overhead. It’s nowhere near as comfortable as the one you’re currently occupying — mostly because you’re there and not here — but it could be worse, he knows. The separation could’ve been indefinite, like it used to be, with you thousands of kilometers and a handful of time zones away.

This round has a definitive deadline.

This, he can tolerate.

Once he settles in, Namjoon lets his eyes drift shut, mostly so he can imagine you curled up next to him. “I think he’s punishing me, honestly,” he huffs. “Dragged me out to the forest without you and put me in lyric jail because he’s sick of all the shit I’ve written about being in love.”

At this, you snort; Namjoon knows without seeing you that you’re rolling your eyes. “And being ridden. You’re getting pretty suggestive in your old age, love.”

Old?

Damn.

Namjoon opts to leave that bit alone for now. Knowing you, that was the only part of what you just said that was intended to get a rise out of him — but the rest of it gets him thinking. After the fight he put up initially, he may have to concede that Yoongi was right about the strength of your influence. There’s only one image flashing behind Namjoon’s closed lids now.

And he pulls no punches, so he says as much out loud:

“If you knew what you looked like on top of me, you’d write poetry about it, too.”

Namjoon laughs a little when he says it, if only to mitigate some of the tension seeping into his muscles. Each cell in his body is demanding action that he can’t take at a distance. He’s restless in a way he hasn’t been in a long damn time, grabbing handfuls of the comforter below him because he can’t do the same to you.

It doesn’t hit the same.

You’re softer to the touch.

You sense that there’s a reason why he’s gone quiet all of the sudden; he knows you do. In fact, Namjoon suspects that your mind is wandering down that same, useless path. All he hears is your quiet breathing and the faint rustle of sheets while you struggle to get comfortable alone.

Suddenly, Namjoon can’t help himself. He wants the picture painted for him, wants to savor and study it in the few remaining nights that he has to spend in this fucking cabin. Needs to know if you’re in that little sleep set he likes so much — the one with the silky top and those tiny, little shorts that leave nothing to the —

“What are you wearing?”

Thank fuck for the huskiness of his voice just then for the way it covered how embarrassingly he blurted that question out. It feels juvenile as hell to ask, like he’s texting his first girlfriend from his parents’ phone plan, thinking he’s playing it cool. The bulge growing in his jeans over something so minimal feels juvenile, too.

Fuck.

Has he always been so bad at this?

You reply on a breeze, and it’s clear that you’re covering, too — and that you’re messing with him, as usual. “Why? Worried I’ll catch a chill?”

“So, not much, then?” He counters, eyebrow twitching reflexively.

When you respond, the smirk is evident in your tone. “I wouldn’t go that far. Your shirt is pretty big on me.”

Goddamn.

Namjoon’s first thought is that he’d like to retract his previous statement. Those little pajamas of yours can fuck right off; your current state is the one he likes best. This is what fucks him up the most: picturing his wife draped in his clothes, leaving them smelling like vanilla and honey.

His second thought is to wonder whether or not you hear him sigh when his hand drifts from his side to the cock throbbing in his sweatpants. Palming himself through the fabric, he decides immediately that your hand feels better, even though it’s smaller.

“Theft is a crime, Mrs. Kim.”

It comes out the tiniest bit strained, but Namjoon doesn’t care. He’s doing his best, isn’t he?

“Be careful what you admit to.”

“Then I’ll just admit to missing you, Mr. Kim.”

His grip on himself tightens literally but by no means figuratively. Holding back a groan, Namjoon eggs you on. “Prove it, then. I want to hear how much you do.”

If he wasn’t listening intently for any sign of his impact on you, Namjoon might not have noticed the way you cursed under your breath just then. He didn’t, though. He heard that perfect little slip-up, and he needs to hear it again — that, and any other sounds he can pull from you. It’s only been a week since he last heard them in-person; he doesn’t know how he’s managed to go even that long.

“Tell me how,” comes your little plea on an exhale. He lets a second pass in silence, building tension so you’ll ultimately resort to begging.

In the end, you do.

“Please, Joonie.”

Goddamn.

There are a million reasons why you’re thankful for Kim Namjoon, but for now, the one at the forefront of your mind is his innate ability to stay one step ahead of you.

When your phone rang earlier, you didn’t have to reach for it; it was in your hand already, and you were trying to talk yourself out of bothering him. You’d kept to yourself since he left for that reason: the fear that you’d throw a wrench in his creative process, or that you’d wind up haunting his voicemail like some bored, lonely, ever-horny specter.

He beat you to it.

Later, when you were halfway into your conversation — him filling you in on his surroundings and works in progress — you struggled to focus on what he said because of how he said it. Voice almost rough from how little he’s used it in the past few days, hushed in order to complain about the friend on the other side of the wall. You’d closed your eyes and could almost feel him murmuring directly in your ear the way he would be, if he were laying next to you.

The hand not holding your phone to your ear kept migrating with every — distinctly non-sexual — word he gifted you, drifting down the length of his t-shirt and coming to a stop at the waistband of your underwear. You didn’t go any further, no matter how badly you needed to. In fact, you tried your best to concentrate; to listen past his tone and hear him.

You froze when Namjoon asked after your outfit, as if he’d caught you out somehow. For a minute, you wondered if he could hear the cotton through the phone and sense that you’d nicked it from him shortly after he left. Then, it dawned on you.

His thoughts had already raced off where yours were heading. He needed a visual while he waited for you to catch up; and when you took too long, he decided to get you there himself.

“Please, Joonie,” you beg, refusing to move your hand any lower until you’re given the green light.

If you can bring yourself to be honest about it, part of the reason you hesitate is that you’ve gotten worse at this. Although there was a long stretch of time where you were all you had, those days are long gone now. These days, you’re spoiled rotten. You don’t have to do this yourself.

What if you can’t now?

Namjoon simpers in the way he always does when his ego’s been boosted. The way that drives you insane, every time. “You shouldn’t be wondering if I can make you cum from this far away,” he tuts.

Caught out once again, you swallow hard.

“Ask yourself how many times.”

A needy, little whimper slips out of your lips before you can bite them.

It’s a bit embarrassing how desperate you’ve gotten in such little time apart, but really, who could blame you? Who could have this menace on the other side of the line and hold out longer? His voice alone has you halfway to gone already.

There’s a slight shift on his end that sends your thoughts spiraling again. Squeezing your eyes shut tighter, you listen for the small change in his breathing to confirm that he needs to mimic your touch, too.

“Slip your hand down between your thighs,” he instructs in a low tone. “Tell me how it feels.”

You listen, fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear, trailing over the mound of your cunt. When your middle finger dips between your folds, you let go of a breathy whine and drop your head back against the pillow beneath it.

“Embarrassingly wet,” you admit with your cheeks starting to burn. “It’s — god, Joon, what did you do to me?”

“Inviting, isn’t it? Fucking perfect.”

That’s not a way you’d thought to describe yourself, but now that it’s being murmured so reverently into your ear, you can’t find it in you to disagree.

“Do me a favor,” Namjoon hums. “I can’t tease your clit myself, so I need you to do it for me, baby. Tide yourself over with your fingertip until you can have my tongue.”

It’s not the most articulate statement you’ve ever uttered, but you mean it more than most things when you hiss, “Fuck.”

The pad of your middle finger swirls languidly over your clit, and the closer you find yourself to the edge, the easier it is to forget that it’s your touch ushering you there. With your eyes shut and his voice guiding you, your brain fills in the blanks, envisioning your husband in the space between your legs. You swear you can feel the heat rolling off his body. But then again, it’s his narration that’s really got you burning up.

“I’m still trying to decide what I want to do with you when I get home,” he says before sucking a thoughtful breath in through his teeth. You hear his tongue click, playful yet confident. “Maybe I’ll start by burying my face in that perfect pussy of yours, so I can feel you gushing firsthand and lap it up.”

Shit, shit, shit.

Thank fuck for your vivid imagination and the visual it gives you of Namjoon flicking the tip of his tongue over the button of your clit. His chin already shining, heavy-lidded eyes fixated on you as he licks, nips, and suckles. Daring you to look away while knowing you’d never dream of it.

��I’ll have to hook my arms under your thighs to keep you open for me — gotta keep you pinned where I want you, even when you shake.”

You’re panting now. There’s a light sheen of sweat breaking over your forehead, though it doesn’t do a thing to fight the heat that swallows you whole.

“Hold me however you need to,” you moan. “Don’t let me go.”

“I think you want to let go, baby.”

He sounds so cocky, and you can’t fault him for that; he’s right. You’re so close to your orgasm that you can feel its tingle building from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes. The arousal seeping around your finger makes it harder to find purchase, but you pick up the pace anyway, pressing harder against the bundle of nerves.

“You’ve listened so well, so far. You deserve to cum, don’t you?”

You nod so eagerly and pathetically — so completely unseen by the person you’re attempting to respond to — but can’t vocalize much more than a wail.

“Say it out loud, and I’ll let you, sweetheart.”

Your desperation reaches a fever pitch.

“I do!” You damn near yelp, “I deserve it — I need it. Wanna cum so badly, Joonie, please let me.”

You can hear the soft smile in his voice when he tells you to cum. That’s all you hear; everything that comes after it is muffled when the bomb inside you detonates and leaves your ears ringing. Back arching off the bed, waves of pleasure roll through your limbs, and your body shivers involuntarily.

Through your wanton mewling, Namjoon gives you an additional instruction: “Slip two fingers inside. Fuck yourself through the crash, beautiful.”

“Oh, my god,” you hiccup uselessly.

Have you always been this eloquent?

Fuck.

Even if words have failed you, your body hasn’t. It scrambles to follow your husband’s directive with an eagerness you may never have experienced before, like your muscles were waiting for his signal, rather than the one from your own neurotransmitters.

Your middle and marriage fingers slip through your slick without resistance, burying themselves in your dripping cunt while a low groan rips through you. Your walls are still fluttering, contracting wildly as you sink inward to your second knuckles.

“I’m jealous of you, you know. I wish I could be the one you’re clamping down on now.” The low timbre of his voice vibrates down your spine. “I bet you can still feel that orgasm rolling through you. What do you think, sweetheart? Can you give me another one before the first fades away?”

If you manage to survive the night, you may have to kill him for how deadly he’s proving to be, but you swallow that thought down with whatever feral, gasping sound you threaten to let go of next.

“Curl your fingers upwards for me. Stroke that sweet spot the way you like — wanna see if you can make yourself squirt like I do.”

Everything that follows seems to happen around you, not to you, because your soul starts floating somewhere near the ceiling fan that hangs over your spent body. The flood comes, and you lose whatever grip you have on reality, as well as the one you had on your phone. It tumbles somewhere off to the side. Maybe? There’s a scream, you think, which presumably flies out of your mouth.

Delirious and out-of-breath when the tide ebbs, you reach out your hand and pat blindly around the mattress for your cell phone. Somebody needs to inform your husband that his exorcism was, in fact, successful — or that you’ve died — if he couldn’t hear as much himself. You suppose that someone will have to be you.

Namjoon is doing his best to keep his quiet laughter to himself when you ultimately snatch your phone off the floor and pull it back to your ear.

“I wasn’t sure if that thud was your phone or your body,” he teases. “You good, sweetheart?”

You collapse back against the bed with an unceremonious grunt, screwing your eyes shut only to find that the stars are still there, swirling aimlessly. “Ask me again in ten minutes,” you mumble, sounding even more pathetic than you did earlier. “Or call my time of death. Dealer’s choice.”

Namjoon sighs forlornly, “Rest in peace. Our time together was far too short.”

You’d roll your eyes if you had the strength to open them, but you don’t. Instead, you let your limp neck give out; your head rolls to the side until your cheek winds up pressed to your pillow. It comes out garbled and breathless, trailing off at the end:

“Did you…?”

“Nah.” He chuckles again once he senses where your question was headed. Quickly, he elaborates, “But don’t worry about me, baby. There’s only one place I plan on finishing, and it’s not a cabin in the fucking woods.”

You pout, although the suggestion makes you everything but sad. “Come home soon, please.”

“I think home already came.”

When you finally exhume yourself from your sheets the following morning, it’s only because your phone vibrates so loudly against the nightstand that you had no choice left. Curiosity, as always, gets the best of you.

You scoot closer to the edge of your bed in order to reach the source of the buzzing, fully anticipating some photo of whatever Namjoon has scrounged up for breakfast — proof that he actually can navigate a kitchen without you present to supervise.

Namjoon’s name is listed when you open the thread. Unfortunately, not as the sender.

Yoongi [07:47]: ATTENTION KIM FAMILY! keep an eye on your mailbox. my therapist will be billing you both directly for the shit i had to overhear last night.

Your eyes widen far enough that they might fall out. The rest of you cringes so completely that your already-sore muscles ache even worse, although you might deserve that.

Before you can even begin to formulate a response, another pair of texts vibrates into your rigid grip.

Yoongi [07:48]: btw, joon - i made breakfast. you’re NOT allowed to look me in the eye while you eat it. Yoongi [07:48]: filthy ANIMALS

bts permanent taglist:

@sailoryooons @ugh-yoongi @gimmethatagustd @chimmisbae @somerockstarsgf @mgthecat @whatthefsposts @kookstempo @xjoonchildx @quarter-life-crisis2 @persphonesorchid @ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhintothevoid @firesighgirl @iadelicacy @cowboylikeyoongi @minholykingofkorea @serendididy @withluvjm @bbyorchid @nonbinary-demonbrat @piecsblog @myimaginationsrunningwild @zelchena @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @pamzn @cyanide-mustard @taegeum @purplebeebs @i-purple-buff-bunni

multi permanent taglist:

@jihopesjoint @bahng-chrizz, @variety-is-the-joy-of-life

also paging @daechwitatamic, @yoongiphoria and @here2bbtstrash because they vibed with the main series, lmao.

#GASP!#WHAT DID WE DO #TO DESERVE A LAJOONA DRABBLE???#brb devouring this

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