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sugaxjpg · 6 years

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underground king; m

⤷ Eventually you came to the realization that, if Namjoon was the king of the underground, you were as close as he would ever get to a queen.

✓ Couple: Namjoon x Reader | Boxer!AU and Gang!AU

✓ Filed under: smut, minor angst

✓ Look out for: violence, light daddy kink

✓ Words: 13,411

Author’s Note: guess who’s back, back again... guess who just edited this fic into the seven heavens and added about 6k more? das right

“Come on, (y/n), you won’t regret it!”

Hovering like a feather over your head, Yoongi’s proposal gradually fell into your consciousness. Quicker than you expected, the shadow of a frown was casted over your features and you found yourself rolling your eyes at his words, frustrated at his mindless insistence — what was that? The seventh or eighth attempt at convincing you throughout the last hour? Your patience was running thin.

Falling from in between your lips like poison, the bitterness of your response was enough for his mocking smile to wilther into seriousness, “How many times do I have to tell you?” you asked him, folding a particular shirt with more brutality than humanly necessary. The laundry room was already claustrophobic as it was, you did not need your friend pushing you against a corner and miserably failing to reach his goal. “I don’t want to get involved in your illicit practices, Yoongi.”

An ironical chuckle exploded on his lips as your answer found him, his sentence already hanging at the tip of his roseate tongue, “Do you prefer to spend your sad Friday night being alone in your sad, lonely house?” he questioned, sarcastic. You nodded instantaneously, making him look you up and down — underneath the cool, flickering luminescence of the laundry room, his hesitant eyes scrutinized your rash, stubborn expression with care. “Folding clothes? Really?”

Your confirmation came as you folded the last piece of clothing — an orange shirt you swore you had thrown out already — and placed it on the large basket by your side, “Really,” you told him, picking the object up and walking towards the open door. You could no longer endure neither the smell of lavender detergent, nor the irritating irony from your companion’s part. Yoongi was your best friend, fair enough, but it was at times like those that you regretted one day giving him the keys to your small apartment. “Why do you care, anyways?”

Nevertheless, you were already aware of the response that would be given to you. Ever since you ex boyfriend had dumped you — about five months ago, in a rather overdramatic public display, if you could say so yourself — you had closed yourself off to the rest of the world, choosing to spend your time in the comfortable warmth and peace of your small place. As much as Yoongi begged to say otherwise, your behavior had not been catalyzed by a broken heart — though, at first, it had been... a bit — but because your ex was one of the few people who could drag you out of your den and remind you of what the sunshine looks like.

The other person was Yoongi and, let’s face it, he was not doing a very good job at it.

Subsequent to the instant you left the laundry room, your friend took the opportunity and shot an infamous question your way, “When was the last time you had sex?” His voice came with a sarcastic tone that made rage bubble within the walls of your stomach, inducing your grip to grow tighter around the basket. You ignored the way his steps sounded against the wooden floor, following you close behind as you approached the staircase that would lead you to your room, “C'mon, (y/n), I worry about your health!” he spoke out again.

Without looking at him, you climbed up the steps, bare feet coming in contact with the cold, dark wood. There was absolutely nothing on this planet that would change your mind, especially not when it came to your sex life, “You’re being ridiculous, Yoongi!” you shot back at him, completely disregarding his misplaced inquiry.

“And you’re avoiding me,” the man chuckled, almost running to catch up on you. For a second, you considered throwing the basket at him and hoping that falling down the stairs would finally shut him up, at least for a couple of seconds, “besides, there’s a certain someone that I’m sure will love to see you again. And he’ll be very… disappointed if you don’t show up to his little show.” he made sure to add, certain that his claims would be sufficient to awaken some sort of interest within your chest.

Well, he was not precisely mistaken in regards to that. Upon hearing the message that hid between the lines of his speech, your muscles froze up in place, eyes growing wide underneath the weight that decision carried. Shortly after, you heard Yoongi stopping behind you, positive that the smirk that ornamented his features had been perfectly created to set your fury aflame — or panic, depending on which tide of emotion you would rather focus on.

Closing your eyes in a hopeless attempt at tranquilizing your quick-beating pulse, you took a deep breath, fingers loosening up around the handles you had gripped so hard on, “You fucking did not…” you started, measuring your words. Calm down — you mentally told yourself; a silent mantra or a faithless prayer — do not lose your cool, do not give this kid the satisfaction of getting under your skin.

But, of course, Yoongi was already drowning in seas upon seas of inner satisfaction. As much as you attempted to camouflage it, your friend was extremely aware of how deeply the mention of that peculiar person struck you, “Yeah... I kinda did,” he said. You could hear it in his voice: the bastard was laughing at your distress, and he was not even ashamed of it. “(y/n), you saw it coming, don’t even pretend otherwise.”

The mention of that “certain someone” had been a constant plague in your life. Even if the last time you encountered such persona was a bit over a couple months ago, the pallid phantasm of his presence appeared to corner you constantly, that being in casual conversations or important news reports. Furthermore, Yoongi could not shut his mouth about him ever since your boyfriend had dumped you, so you were well aware of the desires that hid in the background of those proposals. You did not exactly hate it, if you were to be utterly sincere. You did not hate him.

Oh yes, the almighty Underground King — where to begin? The young boxer had the subterranean town at the palm of his hand at the impressive age of twenty-three, expanding his power with every new victory, spreading a pestilent mixture of trepidation and respect wherever he went to. He was a flawless leader, a flawless criminal and, above it all, a flawless, invencible fighter — both in and out of the arena. Rumor has it that his control over the lower city was so gargantuan, in fact, that even the police had decided to turn a blind eye at his deviances, a silent agreement that, as long as he kept those acts underneath the asphalt, there was nothing for them to do. The laws were different under there, anyways.

If that was not sufficient, your best friend — you had absolutely no idea how — had managed to get close to the infamous Kim Namjoon, and he endowed the man as if he was the very own reincarnation of the Lord. As much as you would never admit it to yourself, you could comprehend the reason why he looked up at him with those dreamy, child-like eyes: there was not one person in the whole town, upper or lower, who had not heard of Namjoon and what supposedly happened to the ones who crossed his path. Approving his lifestyle or not, you had to say he was threateningly good at it.

Trapping you in an irritating and repetitive symphony of bargains, Yoongi begged for you to give him a chance and, at some point, it came to your attention that Namjoon was very interested in getting to know you. Mayhaps you were simply curious or there was some sort of desire hidden in your uneasy position, but it finally came the time that you gave into the stranger’s charms — one mistake in a drunken night being enough for Yoongi to never let you forget its occurence. But of course, as much as you tried your very best not to judge people, a boxer; gang leader; and drug lord was where you drew the line.

It would not happen again. You would make sure of it.

Back to your position, a long sigh erupted from in between your dry lips, setting your pulse to follow the arrhythmic progression of your panic. “Tell me you did not—”

His words sounded like a judge’s hammer deciding your fate, “—I told him that you would be there, yeah,” Yoongi interrupted, rising to the same step as you. From where you were, you could see the door to your room wide open, and you mentally measured the chances of locking yourself there before your friend could catch up on you. Before you could do that, however, Yoongi’s arm was already wrapped around your shoulders, leaning your head against his. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll love to see you again.”

Fucker.

“Who the fuck calls themselves ‘Monster’, anyways?” You asked with a dose of sarcasm, pressing down the leather jacket against your shivering figure. Internally, you cursed Yoongi for convincing you to wear that short white dress: it was so tight you could barely breathe, and now your legs had basically turned into stalactites against the hyperborean breezes of night.

For an instant, your question was all that echoed through the streets, at first meeting no answer. All around the two of you, traffic lights and prismatic signs spoke in morse code, guiding you towards your destination — your only company being their dim, flickering lambency, and the quick progression of your shoes against the gelid asphalt. Few were the ones brave enough to adventure to those corners of the city, for all they would discover would be the entrances to the underground.

Yoongi only laughed at your inquiry, his skin ever so beautifully delineated by the neon signs that embellished the twilight-bathed street. He seemed much younger then, even if for a second, “You’ll see why that’s his nickname. The guy is a champion for a reason.” was all that he told you.

As simply as that, something switched within the corners of your cloudy contemplations. Like a punch in the stomach from an unseen enemy, the ponderousness of reality fell down upon you — gradually, then at once, making you stop dead in your tracks, “Yoongi, wait.” you called out, unsure if your voice had left your chest for a second.

Slightly taken off guard, your friend paused, then turned to you with arched eyebrows, “You good?” he questioned.

You licked your lips, promptly meeting the strawberry taste of your lipstick, “It's just that I’ve never been down before, I’m a little nervous,” you spoke honestly, yet avoided eye contact — were you embarrassed? There was no reason for it — and instead paid attention to the yellow light coming from the semaphore behind his silhouette. With your peripheral vision, you could see the boy watching you closely, expectant even. “I don’t even know what to expect, I don't know how to behave. I don't know, I—”

“—Woah, take it easy,” Yoongi took a step towards you, holding your shoulders, fingers massaging the spot in an attempt to calm you down. Even if the tension still had its claws dug deep inside your muscles, his action was enough for a shaky, assuaged breath to leave your crimson lips. “There is nothing to worry about, okay? I’ll stay by your side at all times.”

Even if his intentions were pure, his words were not all that you needed to calm down the currents of your worries. You did not answer, for there was a knot tying inside your throat and preventing you from verbalizing the sentences you needed to say — but what were those, again? In fact, what were you doing? There was a very special reason why you were avoiding the underground city and, above all, avoiding Kim Namjoon. Would you really throw it all away so impulsively?

Yoongi leaned his head slightly to the side, obsidian eyes falling to your own with an odd curtain of compassion over them, “(y/n)?” he called, the corners of his mouth almost twitching in expectation, “okay, if you really don't wanna go down there, you don't need to. I just need an answer from you, alright?” he guaranteed.

You swallowed your emotions dry, feeling the pressure you were under as clearly as the cold cuts of wind. You hated how Yoongi’s bottomless onyx irises stared deep inside you, the very suaveness of his low voice making it impossible for you to get away from his manipulation.

Then again, you were not certain you wanted to leave, too.

Pressing your lips together, you inhaled deeply before giving Yoongi an answer, “Alright, okay. We’re going down swinging,” you sighed, defeated. Your friend smiled, victory plastered all across his smug expression and shimmering inside his irises like stars to a nefarious galaxy. “what do I even have to lose?”

A chuckle followed your words, “That’s the spirit!” the man celebrated. Not even a second passed by before he was already taking your hand and leading you to the abandoned train station.

As it turns out, you had a lot to lose.

Outlined by paranoid misconceptions, the image you had painted inside your innocent mind made you picture that the subterranean town would resemble somewhat of an anthill, filled with fathomless, muddy pathways that led to small muffled chambers — or perhaps nowhere at all. You hypothesized that the obfuscous lights down there — if there were any — would not be enough to perfectly illuminate the features of gloomy strangers, nor the intentions that waltzed in the background of their curious eyes. As odd as the comparison might appear to be, it was as if you truly were going down to the lower levels of inferno, accompanied by your own personal demon.

Nevertheless, as you came to observe, it was not even close to that. After entering the decaying subway station, Yoongi guided you to one of the trails, then to what appeared to be a blockage in the tunnels. Meeting a couple strangers there, he lost no time and whispered a password to some grumpy old man, who you swore censored your presence with his ablaze stare. Before you could ruminate on that experience, though, the two of you entered a series of passages so inclined that you had to take off your heels in order not to lose balance. The corridors were, at first, humid and covered by penumbra — however, as you walked deeper into its claustrophobic shadows, fluorescent lamps lighted up your path, its luminescence casting an eerie glow on the cement walls drowning in graffiti.

Gradually, civilization showed itself in the small details: from stone stairs to cement-covered tracks, laughs of intoxicated strangers to the primordial constructions of the underground city, a complex parallel world that existed just below your feet. It was a cosmos of resplendent, polychromatic lights that opened before your eager eyes, lively conversations and loud electronic music mingling in a unique, overwhelming symphony. Suddenly, it did not feel like an astringent taste of hell, but a delicate, paradisiacal caress.

Throughout your path, Yoongi kept his promise by remaining close to you — sometimes even guiding you by hand, which was an aspect of his character you were certain he would never admit to — and explaining what every little construction had to offer. From brothels to massive parties, cheap motels to luxurious strip clubs; the underground city was a living, breathing organism, embracing its visitors in a hypnotic euphoria, taking their most hidden desires and gifting them at hand. Its atmosphere was so magnetic — so overwhelming — that you found yourself thinking that you should have come down there before. Not that you would ever admit that, of course.

All that it took for the forgotten nervousness to germinate within your chest was a simple turn, presenting you a kilometric line to what appeared to be a gymnasium. Its pallid yellow walls were peeling off in bursts of grey bricks and covered by glued papers, the faint tone disappearing underneath the weight of time and the abuse of its users. The most diverse of people accumulated outside the place, clearly eager for one more of the king’s spectacles. The effervescent buzzes of their disconnected conversations turned into a nebula of confusion to your ears and, somewhere deep inside your preoccupied mind, your consciousness yelled out that you did not belong amongst them.

As you started to lower the velocity of your steps, you were surprised by a strong pull on your wrist, inducing for you to momentaneously lose your balance and get back on track, “Um, Yoongi? Why aren’t we getting in line?” you nervously inquired, startled by the looks you two were getting as you passed straight through the impatient crowd. Yoongi’s grip on your wrist was delicate, but firm; presenting you with the insubstantial path to the front entrance.

“We don’t need to,” he simply replied, flashing you a smile as he glimpsed back. Something did not feel right about it, but you were in no position to complain, for you were sure he had the upper hand when it came to those unexplored lands.

Painted by a shade that resembled ruby, the front doors were solely blocked by a red satin rope. Upon arriving there — and burning under the furious eyes of annoyed strangers — Yoongi whispered an unheard sentence to the security guard, who answered with a strident laugh, then an amicable nod of agreement. The large man opened the way for him, but, when you were about to follow your friend into the construction, you were stopped by a hand bigger than your head.

In a way, being blocked by that gigantic security guard gave you some sort of melancholic faith: this was the sign you necessitated to call it a night and go back to the warm hug of your bed. Unfortunately so, your friend’s contemplations were awfully asymmetrical to your own.

Yoongi nudged the man with a firm touch, confident in his words, but somewhat irritated at the unnecessary obstacle, “Man, she’s Namjoon’s girl. Let her through.” he spoke with naturality.

Lucky enough, the man’s surprise was followed by a deep cough from his part, which helped camouflage the pink shade that monopolized your flaming cheeks. Reviewing his decision, you could see at the tips of his fingers grew white around the rope, “I’m sorry, miss,” his low timbre requested your forgiveness, and his legs stepped aside so you could make your way in.

Without a second to chew on what had occurred — was the group of waiting people quieter as well? — you stepped into the building.

The progression of the music reverberated through your bones, the intoxicating scent of alcohol and perspiration causing for your nose to cringe. Encompassing your figure, an ocean of euphoric bodies flooded the bleachers and the lane, surrounding the podium that was located in the center of the large court. A honey-colored spotlight shone upon it, making it stand out like a peaceful iceberg in the middle of chaotic currents. The ring was horribly worn out and stained with what looked to be old blood — which you chose to ignore as Yoongi held your hand tightly, making sure you would not get lost in the thick of the crowd.

It was your turn to slightly pull his hand towards you and, as the boy turned around to hear what you had to say, the flaming discomfort in your eyes almost spoke for itself, “Namjoon’s girl? Are you fucking serious?“ you yelled against the electronic beat.

Without faltering his amused expression, he responded with a, “Did you have a better idea?” Yoongi screamed back. Upon your silence, his smirk only grew wider. “Didn’t think so. And don’t act like it’s not true.”

You closed your mouth, debating if an answer would be worth giving. In the end, you chose to keep your thoughts to yourself, getting lost in your own worried reveries. As the faceless people opened to way for you two, their limbs coruscating under the flashing light, you found yourself out of equilibrium on the thin rope that divided anticipation and fear. After all, you did not know if that was true or not. Not after everything that had occurred.

Yoongi took you past the ebullient stands, where the locker rooms were located, with the excuse of seeing some acquaintances before the show started. As much as his excuse did not exactly make sense inside your head — since it was quite clear that only the fighters and their close friends would be there — you decided that it was a fate you could not avoid for any longer. To hell with it: if you were to see the almighty king again, it might as well be in a public place.

After closing the metal door behind yourself, the noise subsided like you had immersed yourself underwater, causing for you to suspire in assuagement; ears ringing in the sudden silence. Yoongi let go of your hand then, walking in front of you through the small corridor.

A couple minutes must have gone by in sheer quiescence — which had two different reasons. For you, it was the reticence of apprehension and, for your friend, it was the polar opposite. Excitement traced spirals around Yoongi’s head and, as he turned around with a cheerful, “Ready to see the underground king, (y/n)?” you swore you could see some sort of childish pleasure in the cool lights that melted over his features.

Once again: fucker.

After a breviloquent groan, your answer came in between your lips, “Shut up,” you replied, trying to follow the rapid progression of his steps. Why did you agree to wear heels, really? That decision was on the top of your list of bad calls, right underneath ‘Going to the underground city to meet a criminal, who just happens to have a slight crush on you’, “We won’t stay here for long, anyways. It's not like I'm spending the night.” you added.

“You mean: not again,” Yoongi laughed, and, after a few seconds, you two found yourself in front of double doors. Muffled conversations could be heard from the other side, their vague words losing their significance halfway through their path, morphing into a slight buzz soon to be lost in the static universe. Your friend looked back at you as if to make sure you did not run away, eyes analyzing your hesitant expression with amusement, “chill out, will you?” he mocked and, without gifting you a second to respond, opened the passage.

In the expanse between two consecutive heartbeats, you mentally asked for God to make you drop dead.

“Yo, Yoongi!” was the first thing you heard. Before your brain could even capture the image of the place, your attention was already being switched towards the owner of such distinctive, deep timbre — a tall man walked in your direction with open arms, greeting the two of you with a lovely rectangular smile and a warm gaze, which was barely seen underneath the cascade of his caramel-colored hair, “we were already thinking you’d ditch us for tonight. Namjoon was getting impatient, and that’s very irritating.”

As the handsome stranger moved to quickly hug your friend, a dry laugh was heard from behind him, “If he hears you saying that, you’re the next one he’s fighting, Taehyung” another boy warned playfully, his hair painted by a creme tone, hands inside the pockets of his black pants. As much as his voice carried hits of sarcasm, his features remained oddly serious, if not uncomfortable, “Sup’, Yoon—”

Abruptly, his phrase came to a halt, his eyes fixated on your unexpected presence. A glimpse of curiosity traveled across his beautifully delineated features as he studied you with patience, eyes navigating from your face and down your body — also taking a little too long to examine your bare legs, if you could say so yourself. When his gaze met yours again, through, he smiled kindly, “And who’s this beauty?” he wondered.

For an instant you expected Yoongi to respond, but you came to the conclusion that, from the disapproving shadows that were casted over his traces, he was far too irritated by the stranger’s hidden intentions to do so, “I’m (y/n),” you then answered, feeling extremely uncomfortable now that all eyes were on you. At the mention of your name, they all looked at each other, two boys sitting on a bench whispering something you could not understand. Reluctantly, you cleared your throat. “Um… Yoongi?”

Upon the calling of his name, your friend snapped from his trance, clearing his throat — his eyes were still fuming with something you could not quite characterize, and it only added up to your uneasiness, “Yeah, sorry,” he shook his head, remembering the promise he had made. Yoongi was cognizant that it would take you some time to grow accustomed to the new atmosphere, and that you would most blame him the second something went downhill, “(y/n), this is Taehyung,” he pointed to the first man who came to greet you, “Jimin,” to the guy with the creme hair, “Hoseok, and Seokjin,” he showed the other two men, who still sat on the wooden bench, “Everyone, this is (y/n). Pretend you like each other, or whatever.” he shrugged.

Following his speech came a thick blanket of silence, falling over the ambient as the new information settled in. The sudden quiescence did not last for long — perhaps a second or two — but it was enough for a few more details to be perceived by you: the long lines of indigo lockers; the oscillating lights above your head; the few brown benches that broke the monochromatic atmosphere. The locker room was particularly well-kept, especially if taken to account its location and its users, but some dark stains could still be perceived at the corners of the room, or underneath some broken tiles.

“So... that’s the girl we’ve heard so much about,” Hoseok’s voice broke the silence and, with it, your rapid daydreams. You could swear you could almost feel his enthusiasm resounding past his words, “it’s nice to finally meet you.” he said.

“You too,” you spoke back, even if you could not pretend as if you had been curious about those people. Of course, you could recall Yoongi mentioning a couple names in the past, but you seriously did not feel any sort of desire to meet the ones who worked under the name of the great Kim Namjoon, “So… are you all fighting?” you took a chance at asking, hoping it would break the thickness of hesitation.

It was Seokjin who replied, “No, tonight’s Namjoon’s night,” he explained, pausing for a second as if to read over your expression. You swore that it was like those boys were trying to read the pages of a soaked book, attempting to find meaning where there was nothing left — perhaps your arrival was truly unexpected, “It’s the finals, actually. Didn’t you know?” he spoke further.

Beyond one special roll of lockers, a muffled sound was heard. The way it smoothly broke the static of the murmuring lamps was sufficient to send your pulse into arrhythmia, for you were aware of the significance they brought along — God, he was right there, wasn’t he?

Somewhat embarrassed that such information had escaped your grip, your gaze flickered down to the floor for a second, your thoughts fighting to focus on the conversation, “Not really, this is my first time down here,” you choose to confess. Out of your field of vision, the metallic sound of a door closing shut startled your spirit out of your body, but you managed to hide it quite well, “I’m… a little lost.” you cleared your throat.

Your eyes moved upwards the second that a dry, muffled sound of steps echoed around the ambient, “Seriously?” Jimin questioned, surprise reverberating past his word, and into his deep eyes — there, something other than friendly intentions dwelled in saturninity. “I would have thou—”

“—Stop making her uncomfortable, Park.”

Rupturing your forged tranquility like a thunder breaks upon the stormy horizon, those five simple words were more than you ever desired; guilty of replacing your blood with currents of electricity, yet freezing up your stomach with the gelid fingers of panic. As much as you had convinced yourself that you were ready to see him again, your confidence evanesced the very second his presence stepped into your field of vision.

Namjoon, in all his glory, stepped out from behind the roll of deep blue cabinets. The humid strands of his dark hair fell over his observant gaze, droplets of water shimmering like small diamonds when met with the achromatic radiance of the fluorescent lights. Traveling downwards from his plump lips — where you could see a thin crimson cut — and perfectly carved jawline, his poorly tied robe made it possible to see a few more drops running down on his defined chest before disappearing behind the grey fabric. Merely one fragment of your brain noticed that he was working on the gauze on his hands, for his entire beauty blinded you to everything else in that particularly claustrophobic ambient.

God, you hated him sometimes, despised the effect he had on you.

To your luck though, one timbre broke your momentary enchantment, “Sorry, boss.” Jimin dismayed his inner panic with an uncomfortable laugh.

Towards him, Namjoon sent only a low, impassive hum. Even lost amongst the nebula of your overwhelmed mind, you could tell that the man had no major interest in remaining in that dialogue, “I’m happy you could come, (y/n),” he then turned towards you, eyes locking within a heartbeat. Swallowing hard, you found yourself unable to deflect his penetrating gaze.

As if a message had been sent telepathically, the other men grew aware of the tension that lingered in between the two of you, “We… were just… leaving,” Taehyung intervened, somewhat unable to find his words quickly. He could swear that, throughout the few years he worked for Namjoon, he never saw him looking at someone with so much intensity, “we should to get to our places before one of the crackheads bothers us again,” he hesitated; cleared his throat. Hopefully the others would get the clue. ”Hm— Yeah, good luck tonight, Namjoon! We are going now.”

Much quicker than your thrown-aback cognizance could grasp, the men left the locker room in a wave of compliments and wishes of good fortune towards their superior. When the door closed behind the last of them — Hoseok — with a loud click, you were sure you would murder Yoongi in the first given chance.

For an instant, you were unable to move. Air had metamorphosed into this consolidated and alien substance that did not quite enter your lungs, the silence overlapped even the spasmodic progression of your thumping pulse. Without looking, you could feel his eyes pierced on you; could envision the rise and fall of his chest as a prolonged suspire departed from his half-open lips, “You look amazing as always,” his deep voice spoke out.

Surprisingly firm, your body turned around to meet his silhouette leaning against the cabinets. As expected, his pupils were burning past your flesh, uncovering the vacillation of your soul, “Thank you, Namjoon,” running your hands through your white dress as if there was something to fix, you found yourself flinching away from his stare yet anew — you did not fear him, though, but feared your own bad decisions. The fighter solely followed your movements with his eyes, “You don’t look so bad yourself.” you added.

“I’m practically half-naked,” he grinned, stretching his hands and checking if all the gauze was in place. As much as Namjoon acted absent-minded, you were aware he was the polar opposite.

Fuck, just roll with it.

Your response dripped in between your lips before you could censor yourself, “I know.”

What are you thinking, (y/n)?

There was no certainty if his chuckle was instigated by your clear nervousness, but Namjoon smiled at your adorable reactions, holding out a hand for you, “C'mere.” he requested calmly.

You walked slowly towards him, the sound of your shoes resonating in the closed environment. Even hesitant, you could not help but obey his commands — the boy was completely magnetic, owner of such an enveloping aura that left you flabbergasted at his presence; downing in the silkiness of his deep voice. Namjoon’s tongue came out to his lips, following the movement of your legs. The man thought how he would do anything to be between them at that moment, having a taste of the paradise only the two of you shared; a personal heaven that was oh, so dangerously close to his caresses.

Finally, as your hand touched his, Namjoon gently pulled you against his body and your hands rested on his wet pectoral, breasts pressed against his pale grey robe. The tension between you two was heavy, almost palpable, your warm breaths mingling as you touched your foreheads; nose brushing lightly against his, “For good luck,” he murmured.

Namjoon pressed your lips to his gently, his fingers tangling in your hair. Immediately, he was poisoned by the flavor of your honey tongue. It was absurdly intoxicating, a drug he would never get used to. He felt like you were as addictive as nicotine, as mesmerizing as the a mermaid’s melody. And he could never get enough: he missed — needed — you so much.

You sighed against Namjoon’s mouth as your hands moved to the curvature of his neck, pulling lightly on the base of his hair. One of the boy’s strong arms wrapped around your waist, pressing your body against his with undeniable desire, concupiscence. You had entered that locker room with the decision that would never fall into one of his tricks again, but you found yourself defeated by the softness of his full lips, mind erased by the soft grunts that resonated in the space between your intertwined lips. Weak — he made you so, so weak.

The boy grunted as your tongues met, and he turned his head slightly to deepen the kiss. He saw himself wanting you more and more, demanding all of his self-control not to fuck you against lockers until you were screaming for your approaching relief. The moment your teeth found his lower lip, biting and gently pulling, he could not help but moan out your name, “Damn, baby girl,” he murmured right after, voice drunken by lust. You pulled away just enough so that he could talk, noses still brushing and hearts unhinged, “you have no idea how much I missed kissing you.” he breathed out.

You simply smiled, attacking his lips with more fervor — there were no needs for words of agreement when your every move was symmetrical to his own, working in the same dose of eagerness. The boy sighed, turning your body around and pinning you against the cold metal doors of the lockers. Like a natural reaction, your legs curled around his waist, causing Namjoon to moan, slowly grinding against you. The small friction was enough for you to drop a muffled whine, the familiar moisture already spreading through your underw—

“—Boss, are you… OH SHIT SORRY!”

Fuck.

Like a bucket of ice had been thrown on top of you, your immediate reaction was to pull away from Namjoon’s touch, head only missing the lockers for only a few millimeters. Feeling your cheeks burn in deep scarlet, you hid your face on the curvature of the man’s neck, praying to all the gods who may be listening that such position was nothing but a bad dream.

Though, has you felt the fighter’s voice reverberating against your chest, you were sure that it was happening, “Fucking hell, Hoseok,” Namjoon cursed out, clearly irritated at his friend’s interruption. But, hey, at least the two were still fully dressed. “learn how to knock, for fuck’s sake.”

“Sorry! ” the invader covered his eyes with his hand, voice a little sharper than normal. If the situation was not extremely uncomfortable, it would be absolutely hilarious. “I just— The fight is about to start, I wanted to see if you were ready—”

“—Yeah, yeah, I got that,” Namjoon interrupted, pulling away your bodies and letting you put your feet on the ground. You still could not look at the other man, choosing instead to focus on a random corner — those dirt stains suddenly grew so interesting, “I’ll be there in a minute.” he grunted, obviously fighting against every fiber of his body to do so. The last thing he wanted, in fact, was to leave your touch behind.

“Okay!” Hoseok exclaimed, still paralyzed in place.

If someone’s eyes could melt flesh, Namjoon’s were as close as possible, “Jung?” he called out.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Get the fuck out, will ya?”

The first time you met Namjoon was amongst the thumping of a generic beat and the neon lights of an old club at the upper city. Approximately two months after your boyfriend stress, Yoongi won you by exhaustion and managed to take you to such place, glad to see you joining him in one of his infamous nocturnal adventures.

You were not ashamed to confess that Namjoon caught your eye immediately — mainly by the way the boy behaved, emanating confidence and authority in the midst of his every action, no matter how mundane. He stood out in the crowd as if he held to an ethereal — or perhaps diabolical — luminescence of his own, and you were lost in his voice the moment you two started talking. Before you could tell, the party had progressed into the crepuscular veils of dawn, and the boxer did not leave you side for a second, equally overwhelmed by your mysticism.

After a few drinks from both of you, neither remembered how the night reached its terminal hours. Some vague memories still flashed in your mind — when he took you to a hotel, hands up your crop top and whispering sweet nothings into your ear; or when he stripped you out of your clothes, watching your body with desire as you moaned underneath his touches, in awe with the sacchariferous ambrosia of his tongue. You managed to recall getting in all fours, screaming out his name as he thrusted himself in and out of your dripping core, feeling on top of the world as he moaned praises, calling you his baby girl, his…

Queen.

That word was all that you could think about as the rays of morning light arrived over the upper city and you woke up wrapped in his strong arms, head resting on his chest. Truth was simple and terrifying: ou did not desire to be Namjoon’s queen, you did not want to get involved in whatever he did in the underground world. It was all supposed to be a regretful one night stand, nothing mor—

“Morning, babe. Did you sleep well?”

Of all things, you did not expect that. You did not expect his gentle smiles or his loving touches. You did not predict that the man would fight to stay in contact, to keep trying to see you as often as he possibly could. Never did you foresee that someone as feared and dehumanized as Namjoon would laugh so brightly when he was around you, and, above it all, you did not expect him to keep calling you… that. Eventually, you came to the realization that, if Namjoon was the king of the underground, you were as close as he would ever get to a queen — deep down, you hated yourself for loving it.

And you hated yourself for running away the way you did. You gave him no explanation or excuse, no goodbye or any sort of closure. One day, about two months ago, you simply cut him out of your life, never to even mention his name again. All that was left of the almighty king was the ghost of his delicate embraces and soft voice, along with endless requests from your friend to not give up on him so easily; the glimpses of his harsh features that would sometimes shimmer into light within the darkness of your mind. You promised yourself that it was the end for that sad excuse of a love story, that you would never be so naive again.

But now he was back, punching a guy to death.

Monster! Monster! Monster!

The crowd was euphoric, shouting his nickname in aggressive unisound. The exhilarated rooting of expectators was so intense that you could barely comprehend the line of your thoughts, so devastating and overcoming that you almost felt pity for Namjoon’s opponent — though, you were aware that the noise was not his biggest issue at that instant.

Monster! Monster! Monster!

“Annihilate him!” Taehyung screamed next to you, punching the air in pure emotion.

Your sits were, by far, amongst the most privileged in the house: practically on the ring side, right beneath where the conflict unraveled. From there, you could see in impressive detail the rise and fall of Namjoon’s heavy breathing, the way his eyebrows were lowered in concentration. You could see his muscles tensing and relaxing with every move, outlined by the traces of sweat that made his skin glow. Supremely, you could see why people were so afraid of him for, within minutes, his opponent had already been almost knocked out three times, clearly having severe difficulties accompanying the younger man’s precise attacks.

“Get him, boss!” Jimin yelled.

In one swift advance, the other man — Spinebreaker? You could not remember his name — threw a punch, only for his fist to meet the coldness of air. Namjoon took advantage of the opening, turning his body with surprising ease and launching a kick that hit his opponent directly on his ribs. With a muffled snarl, Spinebreaker staggered, but managed to keep himself on his feet. He was not a bad fighter, Namjoon was simply much, much better.

Next to you, you saw Yoongi moving closer to you, his voice rising a little above the others so he could be heard, “You should cheer for your boyfriend.” he teased.

“First of all, we’re not dating,” you spoke back, eyes never leaving the fight. Namjoon deflected an attack just for a few inches. His body moved with impressive agility, just covered by some loose, worn out shorts — you would be telling a lie if you said you did not enjoy the view, “second of all: no, thanks.” you concluded.

“Don’t be a pain in the ass, (y/n),” Yoongi rolled his eyes, pushing his shoulder against yours lightly. Namjoon turned away from another punch, losing his balance for a moment. The other man he was visibly weak, but he continued his offenses mercilessly, “and, yeah, I know you two are not dating. But I don’t think he does.” he chuckled.

Something that lingered in the background of his mocking tone made your focus break. You blinked twice, then moved to stare at your friend, “What do you mean?” you inquired.

He laughed at your oblivious attitude. Yoongi could not comprehend how someone could be so emotionally constipated, “Come on, couldn’t you tell? God, (y/n), you can be so dense sometimes.” he said.

“Yoongi,” you called, this time more seriously. “what are you saying?”

The boy cleared his throat and licked his lips, though his eyes remained trapped in the combat, “Okay, so… the guy talks about you nonstop. To the point that is driving me mad, in fact. He’s giving you your space because he thinks he did something wrong, not because he’s done with you,“ you listened carefully to his words, heart falling into despair at every prolonged pause Yoongi took. “Seokjin even said that like — shit! Defend yourself, man! — fuck, okay... Seokjin said that he wouldn’t mind giving up everything down here, if that’s what has been bothering you so much. But I don’t know.”

“That’s… a lot?” oddly so, you appeared to be unable to find the correct words to construct your response. Then again, you were not certain there were any, “But we don’t even know each other that well, that sounds a bit… radical, maybe?” you continued, reluctant.

“Hey, I’m just passing on the info,” he shrugged. It amazed you how unbothered Yoongi acted, even when being faced with something as life changing as that. Maybe he did not care, you thought, or maybe he was certain that would not happen. “I know Namjoon a little better than you, and I can say for sure that he likes you. This-is-a-romance-movie kind of liking. It’s kinda disgusting.”

Simply as that, the enchantment that held your attention on him was broken, “Oh, please, not with this again. We’re not in seventh grade,” you mumbled, turning your gaze back to the fight. Namjoon had been hit, the mark of a small cut had opened on his cheek, tracing slender lineaments of blood down his clenched jaw line, “he likes me and all the other girls.” you scoffed.

Awakening from his own self-inflicted spell, your friend’s eyes snapped back to his side, meeting yours in a mixture of confusion and disbelief, “(Y/n), there are no other girls, don't you understand that?” Yoongi sighed, irritated as if he was telling you something obvious as the color of the sky. “Namjoon is a solo player, and he’s into you. So either you gave him the best blowjob of his life, or he means it.”

Disregarding his terminal comment was probably the best measure you could have taken at that moment, “Whatever,” your voice came out neutral, but your thoughts were an absolute chaos. “Just give me some time.”

In a sea of incoherent screams and droplets of blood, Namjoon threw another precise punch towards his oblivious opponent. As soon as his face met those gaze-covered knuckles, the other man hung against the ropes after staggering back on the blood-splattered floor. Spinebreaker’s face was already decorated with vivacious scarlet splashes, his movements were perceptively lethargic and more fatigued — it would not take much longer now, the fight was almost done with.

Next to you, Yoongi cleared his throat, “You have been given a long time. I mean, I remember what you told me,” he continued, pausing for a second to watch the fighter’s agile movements — the man was truly mesmerized, “you don’t want to get into this crap. And I understand. But you gotta see that you’re already far too deep to back out like this. Shit, (y/n), you have the guy wrapped around your finger, you can’t just cut him out like that, you’re not that coward.” he told you.

“Thanks for the motivational speech, Yoongi,” you said sarcastically. Deep down, you knew that everything he said was true. And knew you would have to come to terms with it sooner or later.

With one last hit, Namjoon won.

His opponent collapsed onto the ground with a loud noise, unconscious, and the scream of the audience gathered in a single, deafening sound. Before you could get hold of your own unforeseen excitement, you found yourself mingling with the rest of the crowd, congratulating the king on yet another one of his victories. You could not tell where it came from, but suddenly a wave of pride washed over every fiber of your body.

The moment the man spat out his mouthguard and stepped under the ropes, walking towards you, you realized that trying to predict his actions was almost as impossible as telling how many stars decorated the nocturnal sky. Namjoon ignored all the other spectators and focused only on you, the most beautiful woman he ever had the privilege of meeting, as you cheered for him, small hands clapping happily. His tired walk was quickly replaced by a run, his smile shining bright as the distance between you two got smaller and smaller.

In all his victorious magnificence, the Underground King wrapped his arms around your waist, hugging your body against his and spinning you around with joy. And, when your lips met and the crowd exploded into cheers, that moment became the first time Kim Namjoon felt he had really won.

“And then he went like BAM! And the guy was down!” Taehyung narrated the fight, reproducing a few moves with enthusiasm.

“We know, we were right next to your sorry ass,” Yoongi replied, lying on the wooden bench. “are you high, man?”

Licking his lips, the boy took a second to consider the sensations that overtook his body, “Not yet, no,” he denied after such breviloquent instant of ponderation, then turning to his focus to the other man. “boss, how are you feeling?”

Namjoon’s eyes lethargically moved to where Taehyung stood, almost as if he had just been awakened back to reality, “I’m goo— Ouch! (y/n), take it easy there”, he flinched as he felt the wet cotton press delicately against his open wound.

With a diverted laugh, you merely nodded, but disregarded his sentence promptly. You and Namjoon were sitting on one of the benches as well, your fingers gently working on his open cuts, “I have to clean this up. Besides, how are you complaining about a little bit of antiseptics when you didn’t even flinch when you got punched?”

The fighter cleared his throat, “Adrenaline, I gue— God damn it!” he cringed, taking the cotton ball from your hands in one motion. “Okay, baby, I think that’s enough for now.”

Before you could say anything back, another comment resounded from the opposite side of the cool locker room, “The great king can’t handle a bit of pain,” Jimin smiled. The way Namjoon tensed up underneath your touch made you realize he did not like his provocative tone one bit.

Blocking his boss from making the situation worse, Seokjin threw an inquiry around, choosing to intervene in the tense atmosphere, “The party’s still up, right?” he asked to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” it was Namjoon who replied, fingers running through his recently washed hair, “you guys can go, I’m not feeling like it.” he quickly added.

A cloud of confusion grew denser around the fluorescent cubicle, his friends almost unable to understand what had been said, “What?” Hoseok asked, almost automatically so. “You’re the star, boss, what are you talking about?”

Namjoon’s uninterested features showed clearly how little that information struck him. There were more important things in his mind than some silly victory commemoration — which was, sincerely, becoming quite repetitive, “That’s great,” the fighter grunted, slipping his arm around your waist. The touch was firm and filled with warmth, somewhat between the protective and the possessive, “I’m still not going.” he repeated, unshakable.

Next to him, you placed your hand on his shoulder, unable to fight back the curiosity that was bubbling in your chest, “What party are we talking about?” you asked.

“We’re celebrating the Namjoon’s victory!” Taehyung replied promptly, as if he had been expecting that inquiry from your part. From everyone there, he seemed to be the most excited, and you could not help but think that maybe he was lying about not being high.

Humming, you turned your gaze back to the man by your side — his traces still harsh, yet flawlessly delineated by the thin neon lights of the cool ambient. It was awe-inspiring how perfectly Namjoon could coexist between the delicate and the brutal, oscillating like a pendulum in the thick of those opposites, “Sounds fun,” you chose to comment, targeting your words towards him. Namjoon’s hand stroked the curvature of your body, and you watched his thoughtful stare deepen into consideration.

Though, that moment only lasted for a short-lived instant. He had made up his mind, “It’s the same shit every time,” he said back, this time looking back to meet your features — raised eyebrows and pouty lips; the eyes that had so many time enchanted him into your embrace, “and I much rather spend the night with you, babe.” the fighter made sure to say.

Like a switch had been activated within the walls of your taken-aback mind, you felt the tides of roseate embarrassment painting your cheeks with hot brushstrokes. Yoongi, still lying down and with his eyes closed, seemed oblivious to your sudden embarrassment, “Are you okay with me going without you, (y/n)?” your best friend inquired.

Your throat felt a bit dry as you responded, but your words were as true as they could be, “Yeah, sure. I can stay.” you spoke back. You did not want your night to go any other way.

Namjoon smiled, still holding to your waist, “I’ll take good care of her, don’t worry.” he said.

After all the boys left the locker room — heading to the party with clear and resounding exclamations of anticipation — you and Namjoon were left alone for the second time that night. As peculiar as the realization might have been, his company with was not as intense as you had foreseen, the casual talk flowing almost too perfectly.

That was one of many reasons why Namjoon intrigued you so much: the way he could understand you so well; how he treated you as if you were the most precious thing he ever landed his eyes on, when, to others, he only showed his brute, authoritarian face. Those two, polar opposite personalities danced together inside the same person, changing and adjusting so flawlessly that you had a hard time keeping track of his thoughts. Regardless, you adored it. Adored him.

And, good heavens, it was like you could feel yourself falling all over.

“How many times have you won the championship, anyway?” your voice broke the momentary quietness.

Sitting on the bench, you watched the outline of his bare back, his muscles moving as he pulled out his clothes from the metal cabinet. Before the other men had left, the fighter had took a second to wash the sweat out of his body; small droplets of water still ornamenting his caramel-pigmented skin. At the verbalization of your question, he paused for a second, thoughtful, “Around… Nine?” Namjoon responded.

A small exclamation of surprise dripped in between your lips as you leaned back, resting your hands on the bench — the object was not especially large, but it was enough for you to lie down on it comfortably, if necessary, “So that’s why they call you Monster.” you teased.

Namjoon only laughed at your claim, certain that you were aware of the truth — his nickname came from much darker things than winning a few boxe fights over the years, “They call me a lot of things, sweetheart.” he threw back, tone slightly embellished by traces of melancholy. You did not answer, “But I guess you know that, of course,” the man closed the small door, then moved to place the pile of clothes at your side, “considering the time you were avoiding me.” he concluded.

Your eyes widened, heart shattering promptly. Foolish had been the hope that he would have overlooked that phase of your relationship, egotistical had been the part of your mind that swore he did not feel the pain of your departure, “Namjoon, I—” you started.

“—Don’t worry, baby, I get it,” he sighed. His dark hair was disheveled, falling over his eyes like a waterfall, masking perfectly how unable he was to maintain eye contact with you. Some part of him swore that, if he attempted to do so, he would not be able to camouflage the anguish that had monopolized his spirit for so damn long, “the things I do aren’t for everyone.” he spoke further — trying to convince himself more than you.

Namjoon hesitated for an instant, waiting to see if your voice would rupture his rambling. As an interruption did not come, he continued with a heavy heart, “But... here’s the thing,” he pushed the strands out of his dark chocolate eyes, “if it was anyone else, I wouldn’t give a flying shit. But it’s you. I have absolutely no fucking idea what you did to me, but I can’t stop thinking about you,” he took a deep breath, the honesty of his words weighting deep inside his chest, “Shit, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All I know is that I wanna kiss you until I’m out of breath.” he confessed.

You remained without reaction, absorbing everything he had just told you. Namjoon looked at you with extreme sincerity and, deep in his chest, he truly hoped you would comprehend that he was not as terrible as his reputation made him out to be. He wished you would realize how important you were to him, how he would give up his whole kingdom if that meant having you in his arms again — fuck, he was tearing himself apart.

Before you could verbalize one of the thousand contemplations that had washed over your mind, his voice echoed again, “But I can’t kiss you,” he murmured, defeated. Something in his lethargic tone made you realize the sadness he carried along, the despondency of being unable to fully call you his, “because I know you’re still scared of me.” Namjoon concluded.

There it was — the final drop that made the cup overflow; the unwanted attack that had set your soul aflame. Had you been a coward? Yes, but not because of something like that. You were not scared of him, and you could understand that now. Ever since you two met, you could tell that, underneath the heavy armor that he wore, a golden heart shined along.

“Namjoon, can you stop with all that self pity?” you stood up, standing face to face with the boy. In the way his eyebrows lifted and he took a small step back, you could see that he was as surprised as you by your unexpected action, “I’m not scared of you, I’m scared of all this,” your finger traced circles in the air and pointed all around you, referring to the underground city as a whole, “or, at least, I was. I’m not anymore.” you paused, letting your shoulders fall. “Listen, I’m not gonna lie: I was avoiding you— ”

He laughed sarcastically, “That was pretty obvio—”

“—I said listen,” you interrupted him. He grew silent, “I was avoiding you, but I’m not anymore. I’m here, and I’m very fucking confused with everything that happened tonight. And I damn well know I’m not scared of someone who can’t take a little bit of antiseptics, ” he laughed at that, making you relax a little, “So, yeah, you may be the king of this hellhole, but you don’t frighten me as much as you’d like. I’m not scared of you, Namjoon, so please stop pretending I am this fragile little doll you have to protect.” you breathed out.

Just like that, his own words turned into silence within his head. There was nothing else he needed to say, for the man was certain of the veracity your heated phrases carried along. He could see your reluctance, could see your heart being pulled in between reason and emotion — but fear? Oh, he saw no fear in the midst of the magnificent seas of your gaze, solely the tides of an ocean that attempted to pull him closer, “What are you saying?” Namjoon inquired, gaze flickering towards your parted lips.

Subsequent to a profound exhale, you took a step towards him, “I’m saying that I want you to kiss me, Namjoon.” you whispered.

Unable to fight back the blooming of his own desire, the man quickly granted your wish. The collision of his lips against yours was sufficient to steal all the air from your lungs — already so frail to breathe properly, it seemed — and send your heart into a vivacious pulse. Then and there, the world lost its focus: there was no flickering lights above your head, no scars of a recent battle bothering him. The chilly air of the room had been replaced by the heat of your bodies, an atmosphere so filled by sheer lust that you could not focus on anything else.

With a muffled grunt against your mouth, Namjoon turned your body around, practically throwing you against the cabinets, the metallic sound echoing through the awfully warm room. His firm hands grasped your ass, making your hips naturally grind towards his own. Even if like the ghost of a touch, you could tell that the fighter was already half hard, and the quick contact was enough for him to moan out once again. Last time, you two left some unfinished business, and he would make sure that would not happen again, not when you were so deliciously giving yourself to his touches.

Soon after, the man was taking out all his accumulated frustration in you. Namjoon tore your jacket from your body, throwing it away and holding at your sides as your legs wrapped around his muscular figure once again — he pulled you upwards and pressed you against the cool metal, giving you the support you necessitated to fully press your center against his. He left behind the paradise of your mouth, assaulting your neck with kisses and bites, feeling the blood shoot down to his cock every time his name dripped from your parted, red-bitten lips. You were the hottest thing he had ever seen, and you were driving him absolutely insane with every small exclamation of pleasure.

With a sudden movement, he lifted you dress up to your waist, one of his hands caressing the insides of your bare leg, dwelling in the smoothness of your skin. Any other occasion, he would do his best to tease you with slow, patient movements; would find pleasure in the manner you flinched away from the stimulation of his touch, at the same time complaining and wishing for more: begging for him. However, at that delightful instant, Namjoon simply wished to feel more of you, to drown in the pleasure of your embrace — fuck, he just wanted to be inside you, feeling your walls tightening around his hard member as you cried out his name.

Just that simple thought made him moan against the wet-kissed skin of your neck, fingers going towards your pulsating core, “Fuck, baby, you’re soaked already,” he groaned, massaging your clit over the humid fabric. You bit down on your bottom lip, closing your eyes in an attempt to contain your needy whines — he knew every damn part of your body like a map, was aware of how to touch you oh so perfectly, “Don’t hold back, baby girl, I want to hear you screaming my name,” he almost ordered, cutting your thoughts short of stamina. “I want everyone in this goddamn city to know you’re my fucking queen.”

And who were you to ignore an order from the king himself?

What departed from your lips what a conglomerations of syllables that resembled his name, their meaning lost in a current of moans and whines. Still, some part of your mind was focused on something else, for, before he could fully have you for himself, you desired to treat him just as well, “Namjoon,” you called out the second that his fingers pulled the fabric of your underwear aside. Your only response was a low hum against your jugular, “S-sit down, I wanna give you your prize,” you barely got out before another whine left your mouth.

Even if bothered by the separation of your bodies, Namjoon did as requested. Unbothered eyes accompanied your own eager ones as the man sat down on the bench, legs apart and erection visible through the thin fabric of his shorts. You swore you could drown in that image: his abs rising and falling with the rapid progression of his breathing, his wet strands of hair pulled back allowing for you to see the beauty of his features.

And then there were the cuts — god, the cuts. You did not know what it was, but some part of you burned at the mere glimpse of his white scars, or the fresh vermillion cuts that torn out his skin. From the bruises that bloomed in violaceous and ruby to the lines of crimson down his face, it all combined to form a person so magnetic and compelling that you could not help but allow for your lust to take hold of your body.

Quickly after, you moved close to him. As Namjoon’s irises met your actions with almost savage need, you started placing small kisses down his neck, fingertips outlining the curvature of his tense shoulders. Gradually you began trailing a path downwards, sucking and biting his skin. The response he gave you were subdued and throaty grunts; moans that continuously perished in between his lips, “Fuck, (y/n),” the fighter cursed when your hands circled around his waist and you knelt between his open legs, fingernails clawing at the base of his spine.

Your name sounded so dirty that you had to hold back a suspire of sheer devotion. Your hands descended even further, surrounding his hip bones as your lips found the elastic hem of his shorts. Without hesitation, you planted a kiss on his clothed erection, feeling the man’s body tremble underneath your diaphanous touch, his hips slightly moving towards your face. Looking at you like that, Namjoon felt he was reaching the limit of his sanity, “Babe, you’re gonna make me cum in my fucking pants if you keep doing that.” he warned. The idea did sound appealing.

Ignoring his requests, you patiently hooked your fingers around the hem of his shorts, pulling them down and leaving only his underwear. Your hand cupped his fabric-covered member, squeezing and massaging it lightly as you felt it twitching under the cloth, “You feel so hard.” you trailed off, forcing your voice to resound without a trace of desire.

Namjoon bit his lower lip, staring down at you with hooded eyes, “Stop teasing me.” his tone, however, was covered by a thick blanket of lust.

“You’re a little too... impatient,” you remarked, looking up at him with false innocence, “quit ordering me around and enjoy your little present.” you told him.

Before he could protest, your lips returned to his underwear, kissing his cock one last time before taking off his last piece of clothing. His dick hit his abdomen, hard and pulsating with need. You enjoyed the image for a moment, wasting no time as you began to kiss the inside of his thighs, slowly spreading his legs wider with the palms of your hands. Namjoon was breathing hard above you, unable to concentrate on anything but the impulse to feel your mouth around him, “Shit, baby, I need you.” he practically whined.

Humming, your mouth kissed the path up his leg, your lips slowly touching the base of his member. Such simple contact was enough for the boy to moan out your name, hand flying to hold onto your hair tightly. Your tongue gently licked his cock, savoring his salty taste and moving up his length. Just an instant before reaching the top, you stopped, your fingers curling around him, slowly beginning to pump his thickness. Namjoon needed a lot more, and he had already moved beyond the point in which his pride kept him from vocalizing his wishes, “Fuck, (y/n), p-please…” the man tried again.

His voice sounded hoarse and defeated, inciting a familiar heat to spread through the base of your spine, wetting your panties even more. You moaned against his cock, causing the boy to hold your hair even harder as he buckled up his hips. Without warning — the surprise was always the most delicious part — you took all of him in your mouth, coming down until it reached the back of your throat. Namjoon threw back his head, a loud, deep grunt reverberating all around you, “Oh my god, babe, yeah, fuck—” he cried.

There was something incredibly hot about having someone as powerful as Kim Namjoon completely helpless beneath your touch, and you were delighting yourself at every second of that. Patiently, you lifted your head, almost taking his cock out of your mouth, before moving down again. Your cheeks hollowed, sucking him, keeping a slow pace. You listened, core throbbing, as the boy repeated your name over and over like a empty prayer, somewhat unaware that he was doing so.

Namjoon pulled and pushed your head, making you take him whole every time you lowered your body, his tip hitting the back of your throat, “Just like that, baby girl, fu-fuck—” one specially breathless grunt interrupted his own sentence. You moaned against his length, adoring his reaction, yet feeling the discomfort spreading between your legs at an alarming pace. Precum was already taking over your mouth, and you knew he was close to reaching his edge, “Your mouth feels so good, babe, don’t — ah, fuck— Don’t stop…”

His sounds became more and more frequent, fingers guiding your head with precision as his hips moved to meet your movements. One last time, you felt his cock twitching inside your mouth before he came undone, repeating your name in between shattered groans and overwhelmed, breathless prayers.

After you had swallowed down on his release — something he could not help but praise over and over — you removed his member from your mouth and looked up to see the mess you had done. As you did so, your body was unable to capture a stubborn whine from departing from your chest, a sound so needy that even you grew surprised at its echoing connotation. Painted on the astounding canvas of his desire, every singularity of that scene seemed to blank your mind: Namjoon’s head was thrown back, eyes closed in concentration and small droplets of sweat gracing his face. His breathing was heavy, his mouth half-open and teeth pricked in the purest expression of pleasure. A vague rufescent hue had been casted over his cheeks, overlooked by the shadow of his frown. God, he was the very image of lust.

Lackadaisical, his head moved back straight, then slightly leaned down. The man opened his eyes and, before you could fully comprehend the sheer concupiscence that pulsated within his hollow gaze, a murmur that that resembled something like, “lie down for me, baby,” interrupted your contemplations.

What followed that request moved far too rapidly for you to fully recall. Trapped in a foggy cloud of your salaciousness, your body moved on autopilot, the forms and shades of the room around you turning into an abstract conglomeration of nebulous elements. It only regained its focus once you found yourself trapped in between Namjoon’s body and the wooden bench — just as expected, it was the right size if you wished to lie down — merely registering the white fabric of your dress being thrown to the ground.

Foul, a long moan escaped you as Namjoon’s mouth attacked your breasts, tongue prowling your erect nipples as the other was massaged by his large hand. He had completely lost control over his own senses by seeing you moaning and squirming beneath him, he could no longer handle his most primordial instincts. He desired you like nothing else in that goddamn world.

Impatient, the man left your chest, mouth delineating the way down your figure and towards your legs. He was quick to position himself between them, hands on your ass so he could lift your hips up for better access. He bit down on the sensitive skin of your thigh, going towards your core with lascivious explosions of carnality. Just as you did with him, he took off your underwear — too — patiently, eyes shimmering with aphrodisia as he saw the way you were ready for him; panties absolutely soaked.

Without a single second of vacillation, his swollen lips met your clit, sucking hard on the bundle of nerves. Your back lifted from the seat instantaneously, hands flying to his head and fingers curling into fists on his hair. Namjoon moaned against your touch, causing the vibrations to spread through your lower body, “Oh-Oh my god, Namjoon, please—” you whimpered.

He did not answer. With a single movement, one of his hands left your ass, playing with your wet folds and teasing your entrance — slowly, then eagerly. The fighter’s name came out as trembling breaths, and you found yourself unable to think of anything but the fantastic sensation of his mouth working on your core, licking and sucking all your wetness.

The second his face moved away from you so he could speak out, you felt the tingling sensation of your upcoming release starting to creep up on you, “You taste so fucking good,” he grunted, practically speaking those words to himself. He was like a man hypnotized, a marionette to his deeper cravings, “I could eat you out all day, baby...” he trailed off.

With that, he slipped two fingers into you and moved back to lick your sensitive spot, groaning as you lifted your hips, grinding against his face. Your high was approaching, he could feel it the way you clenched around his fingers, “Namjoon, I’m—”

“I know,” he interrupted. And oh, how he knew, “cum on my face, baby. I wanna taste you,” he ordered, his voice hoarse from the desire that consumed his spirit.

The cue was clear, and you were happy to take it. Combining with a terminal call for his name, your voice metamorphosed into continuous moans and whines; your orgasm overtaking your body with each passing second. You could feel your knees growing weak, your fingers losing fraction on the strands of his hair; reality slipping away from your grip. It felt so fucking great, you wished you could prolong that moment just a little bit more.

However, Namjoon barely gave you time to recover before he was attacking his lips one more time, his hands gripping your body tightly, your own taste invading your mouth as your tongues danced together in a messy, uncoordinated waltz. You felt his erection moving up and down between your folds, your wet juices embracing his throbbing member. Still sensitive, you sighed against his mouth at the contact.

As low as it was, that sound was what it took him to make up his mind — it was time to quit with the foreplay, “I need to be inside you before I lose my damn mind,” Namjoon hissed, voice drunk on ardor. “get up for me, babe, I’m gonna fuck you against the lockers.”

You could not tell how, but your legs managed to hold you up, even if your movements were slightly slower with weakness. Behaving well, you moved closer to the lockers and watched as the man accompanied your movements, his lowered eyebrows showing that you were doing something wrong, “No, no,” Namjoon trailed off, one of his hands moving to grab your arm. Firmly — but not in a manner that it would hurt you — he turned your figure around, pressing your breasts against the cold metal, “I want your back to me, baby girl.” he whispered.

Once again, who were you to disregard an order from the king? Especially when he asked so kindly.

His chest found the skin of your back, pressing you further against the long line of cabinets. Namjoon’s hands caressed your ass with strong touches, making you stick out your lower body in an attempt to find some kind of friction, “Arms up,” he requested.

You obeyed anew, feeling as one of Namjoon’s hand gripped your fists into place, right above above head. In a single movement, his other hand circled your hip, working on your clit. The contact made you lift your ass again, and, with that, his member moved past your folds, hitting deep inside you, “Shit, (y/n), you’re so tight,” he murmured, lost in his own reveries, “so fucking wet for me...”

“P-Please—” you could not help but beg, it was all becoming too much.

Oh, and there it was: the melodious symphony of your fragile voice resounding in his heart; the bargains of someone who could not take much more of that delightful torture, “Please what?” Namjoon inquired, his harsh voice tickling the curvature of your neck.

Of course you knew exactly what he needed to hear — what he desired to. You could have said it many minutes ago and avoided the mouth-watering prolongation of your relief, but both of you were aware of the effects that simple word had on him. It was quite fun, but it was even better when you waited for the right second, “Please, daddy, fuck me…” at last, you said it.

Namjoon froze for a second, feeling your words shoot through his body in inhumane speed. The next second, he was not the same. With a savagery that was almost unfamiliar to him, the grip on your waist grew stronger as he began pumping in and out of you with force; groaning every time your walls clenched around you in oversensibility, “You like this, baby girl?” he asked after a particularly deep thrust.

And, God, how much did you adore it, “Yes, daddy, please,” was all you could say, pleasure completely taking over your senses as the repetition of that name only increased the force in his actions. You could already feel the muscles of your thighs beginning to shake, your second orgasm approaching with ferocity, “Daddy, don’t stop, daddy—” you cried.

Namjoon groaned out, ignoring the constant sounds of metal every time your figure was pressed against it, “You take my cock so well, shit,” his mumbles continued, his mind lost in the trance that was your body moving against his own. He had almost forgotten how absolutely delicious you felt as you stretched around him, screaming his name with all the strength left in you, “baby girl, fuck, I won’t last long.” the man warned.

Your only response was a whine that resembled his name, your words lost in the exhilliating midst of everything you were feeling, every sensation of absolute pleasure that overtook your mind and soul, “C-cum for me, daddy, please.” you breathlessly requested.

Who was Namjoon to ignore an order from his queen?

“F-fuck,” he grunted, his movements getting increasingly sloppy. He released your hands, holding down on the cabinets as the pressure inside him grew more and more. Namjoon was pounding deep inside you, feeling your walls get ever tighter until, at last, he released inside you, your name leaving his lips like a mantra. With a few more faint thrusts, you came undone around him, clenching and turning into a pleading mess; moans so loud you were sure the whole town could hear.

Hearts pounding with the rhythm of your infatuation, the sounds that filled the room were only the heavy breaths that followed your release. As the world progressively returned to substantiality — the coolness of the lockers, the clouds of heat that were sent down your spine — you felt as Namjoon’s lips met the curvature of your neck, placing a love-filled kiss against your sweaty skin. Soon after, his fingers came and pulled your hair away from your face; his kisses resumed. There it was again: the calmness after the storm; what that you once found so strange, now felt just right. Over time, that was an aspect of his persona that you would get used to.

Mayhaps one day you would fully understand Kim Namjoon. Perhaps the time would come that you would discover why, among so many people, he had chosen you to be his one and only queen. Regardless, all you knew was that, as he caressed your skin with the tip of his fingers and held your body gently against his, dwelling in the afterglow of your pleasure, you could not be happier to reign at his side.

You could not be happier to be his queen.

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