Bts smut stories

Joonie | Kim N

Pairing: Ex!Kim Namjoon x Fem!Reader 

Type: One-Shot Smut 

Word Count: 7K  

Content: ex-boyfriend au; exes to something?; literally so much angst; yearning; pov switches; oral sex (f receiving); unprotected sex; p in v penetration; cursing; texts from Yoongi. 18+

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Sitting cross-legged on the rug, your weary, unfocused eyes stared somewhere in the vicinity of Min Yoongi. Shrouded all in black, you nearly assumed he was your sleep paralysis demon, hunched over his keyboard with his eyes narrowed in thought – but you hadn't slept much at all lately. Not with your deadline looming overhead like the sword of Damocles.

He relayed what was already looping through your brain. "It's missing something."

You scrubbed your hands over your face, too burnt out to care if your foundation stayed where it was supposed to. "I know," was all you said, though it wasn't all you were thinking. Listening to this demo – this crushing song about love lost – you knew what was missing.

Or rather, who.

Once again reading your mind, Yoongi spoke with a wary sigh. This time, he said the quiet part out loud. "Listen, I know that on a personal level, this is a terrible idea. But if you really want this track to ache –"

"I'll call him."

Yoongi turned to look at you over his shoulder. He, like you, hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours; but his surprise still managed to crack through an otherwise impassive expression.

"You sure you want to be the one?" His frown was microscopic, but it was there and it bruised. "I have to hit him up, anyway, so I can handle this for you."

You'd never told him – or any of your friends, come to think of it – the details of your whatever it was with Namjoon. You couldn't call it a breakup; that would necessitate a relationship. You couldn't comfortably assign that word to this indescribable something.

But maybe that's precisely why it hurt to breathe when you thought too hard about it. Maybe the thing that burned in your lungs was the fact that whatever it was wasn't much of anything at all.

The universally known narrative was that you met Kim Namjoon at a release party two years prior. After years of putting out extended plays, he was dropping his highly anticipated, full-length masterpiece.

That's what your label called it; that's what the press called it; but you couldn't agree. That word wasn't heavy enough – it didn't give due credit to the pieces of himself he broke down and buried within those twelve tracks. You felt seen when you heard it. When you saw him, it was game over.

As the story goes, you went home with him that night. While true, it was the tiniest fragment sitting sharp at the tip of an iceberg. The rest was an ill-equipped ship, sailing in slow-motion through the dark.

He'd spent the entirety of his celebration focused on you. What you thought; what you wanted for yourself; what made that tipsy, uninhibited giggle come flying out of your chest. And then, holding his hand like it'd been tailor-made for yours, you followed his lead out of there while confused partygoers murmured in your wake.

He fucked you like he knew you – on a cellular level – and he looked at you like you were all there was. You'd spent the entirety of the following day there, draped over him or nestled underneath him. You were never not touching in some way – in the little interludes of sleep; while cooking a breakfast too big for the two of you alone; on every surface of his apartment.