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“You still up for me, tiger?”

From his spot reclined against the pillows, Namjoon cocks his head, tired eyes narrowing into a smirk when he finds you leaning against the closet door frame. Sky blue silk hangs loosely off your shoulder, revealing the sheer bodysuit gracing your curves. You quirk an eyebrow and grin as your husband’s darkened eyes roam your body and linger on the deep v between your breasts, cream tulle contoured seamlessly to your hardened nipples. With a lick of his lips, he folds his arms behind his head.

“I don’t know, baby. Why don’t you come find out?”

His smirk never wavers as you push off the frame and saunter towards him, a quick shrug pooling your robe around your elbows.

You pause at the edge of the bed to admire the sight of him laid out in nothing but his ink and black boxer-briefs. Unable to resist, your eyes wander, tracing the swell of his biceps, the cut of his chest, the sharp lines of his hips, before you drop your robe to the floor. Namjoon’s lips nearly twitch into a snarl when you throw a leg over his lap, sitting back on his taut thighs with a sigh.

Your hands run over his chiseled torso to feel the uneven flesh beneath your fingertips. Years of training, of fights both won and lost, of facing opponents with a lust for blood, have hardened him, left a mosaic of scars in their wake to mark and maim the bronze canvas. He hides them behind a mural of art. Blots out the ever-present reminders of the choices he’s made in a storm of black and grey.

He is ashamed.

But to you, he is beautiful.

His hands find your thighs, the cool metal of his wedding band digging into your skin as you bend and press your lips to a line of raised flesh blanketed by the curves of a whale below his collarbone. You kiss the length of the scar, his body a map you’ve long since memorized. When you flick over his nipples, he hums, and you trail the column of his throat with your nose before nipping the underside of his jaw.

He is tense beneath your lips, but he always is, carrying his burdens on broken bones.

Cupping his face, you capture his lips with yours, tongues falling into a seamless dance as his hands begin to wander. They slip to your ass, palming the flesh, and you break away with a hum as he rocks you against his semi-hard cock.

“You feeling ok?” Your eyes lock on the deep cut slowly healing on his brow bone. A parting gift from his most recent opponent.

The sight isn’t foreign, but you always ask.

Leaning in, he drags his lips over your pulse. “Never better.”

With a click of your tongue, you tug him back and frown. He grunts in displeasure, but allows you to thumb over the faded bruise on his cheekbone and the fresh scar on his lip, his eyes following yours as they take in his slightly crooked nose and sunken dark circles.

He’s not ok, a fact you both know. He hasn’t slept much since his last match, a brutal victory against a vengeful competitor. That night, you had nursed his wounds with steady hands, whispered words of reassurance into his ear, stripped his emotions bare until he was sobbing into your chest.

He’s not a monster. He’s not evil. He’s just surviving. But barely. And that’s why you always ask.

“I’ll be alright, baby,” he mutters, gripping your wrist and gently pulling it from his face. He laces your fingers together and kisses the back of your hand softly. “Don’t worry about me.”

Your lips twist into a thin smile. “I always worry about you.”

For a moment, his eyes flood with sadness.

They flood with his hatred of the underground. His weariness of breaking himself and others to provide for you and your son sleeping soundly in the next room. His ache to do something–anything–else that will put an end to the dead-eyed reflection he sees in the mirror.

But the underground is lawless, and you know he doesn’t have a choice. Debts, loyalties, threats… all cruel dictators of the life Namjoon’s been forced to lead. And lead it he will, as long as you are living and breathing beside him. As long as you are there to rebuild him when he crumbles.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, and you shake your head, smoothing out the lines between his eyebrows.

“No,” you murmur, fingertips tracing his face. “It’s just my job as your wife.”

A wry smile twists on his lips, one you quickly seek to remove with several soft pecks to the flesh.

“And as your wife,” you muse between kisses, voice turning playful, “I wanna see what damage you can do.”

His smirk returns with full force, and he resumes his exploration of your ass. “Oh yeah?”

Arms looping over his shoulders, you catch your tongue between your teeth. “Mhmm, think you can handle me, big guy?”

“What, you think I can’t go a couple rounds with you?”

With a matching smirk, you lean forward, rocking against his growing erection as you slant your lips to his.

“I think you can try,” you breathe.

He growls deep in his throat before reaching up and threading his fingers in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your neck. Your gasp melts into a moan as he marks his way across your skin, flesh turning crimson in his wake. When he closes his lips over your most sensitive spot, just below your pulse, you shudder.

In your years with Namjoon, you’ve discovered the bridging dichotomy between the fighter and the man you love. It’s in the way he claims you, paints you into a galaxy with his teeth and lips, etches his signature into your skin, as if bruising you with his love will erase the bruises he’s left in the ring.

You wear each one proudly, a constant reminder of the choice you made to call him yours.

“Joon,” you gasp, eyelids fluttering.

“Yeah, baby?” He nibbles at your collarbone before laving it with his tongue.

You don’t reply, instead shifting so your barely covered clit presses directly onto his cock, thick and defined beneath soft fabric. A small rut of your hips sparks an inferno in your veins, vocalized through a quivering whimper. His chuckles melt into groans as you grind against him, and he ducks to pull a nipple between his lips.

The sensation shudders through your bones, arousal flooding your cunt when he swirls his tongue over your bud through the barely-there fabric. A moment later, he has your bodysuit pooled at your waist and pauses to hiss a curse at the sight.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers, chest heaving slightly, before diving back in.

Baby.” You are clutching the nape of his neck, shivering helplessly as he traces the pebbled skin in relentless circles, teeth coming out to tug and release over and over until your head spins. A hand leaves your ass, and you feel his fingers pinching and twisting, palm cupping your breast with a tantalizing pressure.

He works you up, teases you breathless, pools the slickness soaking your body suit with each passing minute, and the pleasure is relentless. A constant vibration pulsing between your legs, through your fingers, down to your toes, rendering you a shuddering, whimpering mess in arms that flex to hold you upright.

Through the delirium, you realize he will have you falling apart just like this.

He confirms this when he purses his lips over your swollen bud, sucking with the right amount of force to have you riding that edge with a wanton moan. The sensation crescendos as he switches rapidly between your nipples, kissing and nibbling until it becomes too much, too fast, and you writhe above him.

“Oh fuck! Namjoon, I–oh shit shit shit, I’m gonna come,” you wail, and he growls against your chest.

Stomach clenching, hips rocking, hands vice-like around his bulging biceps, you surrender to your climax, babbling incoherently as it shudders through your body in pulsing waves.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” you whimper, aftershocks drumming up your bones, leaving you winded and feverish.

Namjoon pulls away with a triumphant grin, eyes locked on where your thighs meet. “You made a mess, baby,” he purrs, and you follow his gaze to see your arousal has leaked through the fabric of your bodysuit and hopelessly stained the outline of his cock.

Another whimper leaves you as he growls, “I fucking love your tits,” punctuating the statement with a kiss to each nipple.

Still panting, you reach down and snap the waistband of his Calvins. “Off. Now.”

Ignoring the amusement in his eye, you rise to your knees so he can slide them off, not even bothering to hide the needy breath that slips out when his cock springs free, slapping heavily against his stomach.

As soon as his underwear hits the floor, you shift between his legs to press wet kisses around his navel.

On nights after a winning match, Namjoon often takes his adrenaline home, releasing it in a tight grip of your hair and deep thrusts down your throat. After a loss, he lets you take the lead, drowning in the warmth of your tongue, cunt, whatever you want to give him, as long as he can cum.

But on nights like tonight, between matches, in the wake of training, he likes to be teased. Likes you to drag out his pleasure, because it reminds him he is still alive. Still capable of feeling something good. Still worthy of something good, even with a line of broken bodies trailing his own battered soul.

He’s told you as much in hushed words breathed into the darkness of your bedroom when he cannot sleep.

And, god, do you want to remind him he is worthy.

Your tongue dips into the curves of his abs, hands caressing the tops of his thighs as you trace over the v of his hips. He brushes your hair back and you catch his eye, heart blooming at the unfiltered desire pouring from his parted lips in bated breaths.

You don’t look away as you explore him with your mouth, nibbling a mark into his hipbone. His gaze is heavy, searing straight to your core, as you wrap your hand around him, swiping his precum off the tip with your thumb. It smears down his cock with each drawn out pump of your fist, and he grunts when you lick a slow stripe up the prominent vein framing the underside.

“Y/n…” His voice strains in his throat, fingers threading firmly in your hair, but you refuse to take him fully, instead running your tongue over every inch of his length, kissing from the base to the tip before sucking firmly on the head.

Swirling over the sensitive flesh, you dip lower, only to pull back immediately, teasing him with the warmth you know he craves but refuses to take. He needs the chase, and you’re all too willing to provide.

When you finally grant him a brief thrust into your throat, he moans with a buck of his hips, stuttering out pleas and words of praise, his fingers shaky against your cheek.

“Fuck, y/n, baby,” he pants, leg jerking when you swirl your tongue around his balls, drawing one into your mouth.

You drink in the way his chest rises and falls, flush visible even under his tan and tattoos, nipples pebbled, abs flexing with each labored breath. You love when he loses himself. When he allows the world to fade to black, until all he can feel, see, and breathe is you.

When he lets you in to gather the pieces of himself he’s chipped away.

You smile when he whimpers, thighs quivering around your shoulders, and pull back.

“What?” He groans, bumping his head against the headboard as you thumb over his slit.

With a kiss to his pelvis, you sigh. “You sound so pretty when you’re needy.”

Gently twisting your hair into a ponytail, he guides you up and drags your lower lip through his teeth. “I’m always needy for you.”

A contented hum fills the space between you as he moves you back into his lap. “I like that.” Hand still wrapped loosely around his cock, you give him another agonizingly slow stroke.

Mmm, I know you do.” Namjoon palms over your ass and thighs, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your bodysuit. “Get naked, please?”

You tilt your head back, neck going limp as you slump forward and kiss his lips. “Mkay.”

Dropping his cock against his abs, you rise to stand over him on the mattress and spin around under his dark gaze. He gets a front row seat to the wetness stringing from your nether-lips, glistening as it is revealed in the muted lamp lighting. His groan makes you giggle, and you have barely stepped out of the bodysuit before he shifts.

You feel his tongue latch onto your cunt with a delayed jolt of pleasure, nearly falling forward as you gasp. His strong arms hold you still, lips descending to close around your clit, suckling the bud, and your knees tremble.

“J-j-joon, w-what–” you stutter, breaking off with a whine and a strained rock of your hips.

His grunt is muffled against your wetness, tongue dipping into your entrance. “Can’t help myself.” He slurps obscenely, and you blush with an involuntary clench. The motion sends another drop of arousal onto Namjoon’s tongue, and he moans, lapping it up, but you need more.

“Joon,” you beg and tap urgently at his hands. “Namjoon, baby. Fuck me. Please, I need you to fuck me.”

Your wanton plea sees you twirled around and jerked roughly over his cock. He presses the tip between your folds to tease your entrance and drag over your slippery clit in tight circles.

“How do you want it,” he whispers.

Gripping his shoulders, you gasp when he dips an inch into your cunt. “Like this,” you breathe, desperate to trap him in your warmth.

The stretch is sinful, delicious and wet, your soft walls squeezing and fluttering around him as he lowers you onto his cock. When you press your ass to his thighs, he groans, head falling back, and you snag the opportunity to kiss at his Adam’s Apple, enjoying the vibrations of his voice beneath your lips.

“Shit, y/n, you’ll be the death of me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh and rock back only to snap forward, much to his enjoyment.

“Better me than anyone else.”

You let him take the lead, let him drag you up by your hips until he nearly slips out, then slam you back down, beginning a damning rhythm that shocks your spine with pleasure. The mattress squeaks softly beneath your knees, the air between your bodies steamy and thick. Only the knowledge of two sets of doors and your son’s deep slumber allows you to vocalize your need for your husband with reckless abandon.

Oh, right there, Joon, right there,” you whine, when he adjusts the angle to pound directly up into your most sensitive bundle of nerves. His blunt head kisses your cervix with each drop.

“Yeah? That feel good?” He growls, running his lips over the column of your throat, and you whimper an affirmative.

“S-so so good, mmmm.” Sinking onto his pelvis, you circle your hips, grinding out a fresh wave of arousal that soaks the base of his cock with an arch to your back. Your cunt clenches around him, and his fingers tighten over your thighs, face buried in your neck.

“F-uck,” he heaves, “you’re unbelievable.” Beads of sweat trail his temples, and he pulls back to lock eyes with you, chocolate irises heavy with something deeper than lust.

“I don’t deserve you.”

His words send a sharp pang to your heart, bringing you to a halt.

You let the pleasure in your veins simmer to a dull throb as you steady your pulse, shaking your head with a determined glint in your gaze. Encased fully in your cunt, his cock throbs against your walls, and you quiver at the sensation.

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you press your palm over his racing heart, feeling it skip a beat when you squeeze around him.

“You feel that,” you ask, breathless, clenching again, and he moans brokenly. “You fill me up so well, baby. So perfectly. I was made for you.”

You drag yourself up and down, grinding your clit against the dark hairs on his pelvis. Your own breath hitches, forehead falling against his, chasing the twinges of pleasure with tiny ruts of your hips.

“You deserve me, Namjoon. You deserve the whole world.”

His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenching, and you know he doesn’t believe you. But you’ll keep telling him every day, every minute, until he does.

For now, though, you cup his face and draw him in, kissing him with as much love and devotion as you can pour into his lungs.

“I love you.” Another press of your lips. “I need you.” A breathless tangle of tongues. “Make me come. Please.”

You barely register the change in position before he is hovering above you, hooking your legs over his shoulders and entering you again with a single, powerful thrust.

Oh–“ You nearly choke, gripping his wrist where his fingers wrap around your calf. “Oh fuck.”

He reaches deep within you, filling a gap in your heart that aches without him. As his cock drags against your most sensitive spots, tears pool in your eyes from the pleasure, but it’s the knowledge that only he can unravel you, break you apart and piece you back together–just as you do for him–that has you gasping out his name.

He was made for you.

“I love you so fucking much,” he growls, groping your breast. “You’re fucking perfect.” His voice shakes with exertion, fierce eyes boring into your glazed ones, possessive and utterly consumed with you.


Your eyes roll back, and you nod helplessly, the pressure reaching a peak as you beg him to take you. Moans escalating, your fingers grapple for purchase, clawing at his biceps, his shoulders, anything you can reach. Your head rocks back and forth against the pillow as you ride along the precipice of ecstasy, tears spilling as you chase after the final push.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” you cry, and he grunts, rearing back to slip his hand between your bodies.

The presence of his thumb on your clit sends you careening into your orgasm, cunt pulsing around him wildly, your entire body vibrating, writhing under his weight as you sob out for him, barely registering the groans of praise he showers over you.

It seems to go for an eternity, wave after wave rolling through you, leaving you heavy-limbed and dizzy, a buzz settling in your eardrums.

A moment passes, and through your daze, you hear his voice, low and heavy, against your lips.

“I’m not finished with you, baby.”

You’ve barely caught your breath before he is flipping you over, manhandling your limp form with an ease that sends a leftover wash of warmth through you. Falling against the sheets, you stretch your arms over your head and let gravity arch your back.

He presses into the base of your spine, smoothing soft circles into your skin, before asking, “You good?”

You flinch when he grazes his cock over your folds, still sensitive and swollen, but nod, ready and willing. “Take what you want, baby.” Finding his hand, you intertwine your fingers. “I’m yours.”

It’s hard to think after that.

The slapping of skin on skin mingled with breathy whimpers and throaty groans grounds you as you surrender to Namjoon’s hold, bending to his strength. He chases his high with an iron grip on your thighs, ensuring a mosaic of bruises for the morning, and you know he won’t last much longer.

“Gonna come,” he grits out, hauling your ass higher, readjusting to slam you back onto his cock. “Fuck. You ready for me?”

Mmmm, yeah, fill me up,” you moan, voice pitching as you cling to the sheets, reveling in the oversensitivity.

His hand leaves your hip to travel up your spine, weaving and fisting through your locks, pushing your face further into the mattress as his body bows over you, hips losing their rhythm. His breaths are ragged, grunts deep and feral in your ear, and you reach back to clutch at his thigh.

“Come for me, baby,” you pant, swirling your hips as he grinds into you, and then he is releasing with a choked groan, his warmth flooding you so deliciously that you sigh softly.

Chests rising and falling in tandem, you hold each other as the lust settles into a thrum of contentment.

“You think Wooyoung woke up?” The question is a whisper against your skin.

“No,” you huff, eyes closed heavily. “You can’t wake him up with the fire alarm.”

Namjoon’s laugh vibrates against your spine, and you smile. You feel his fingers detangle from you hair, and a kiss is pressed into the space between your shoulder blades as he slips his softening cock out, allowing you to roll to the side and stretch your legs. A drop of his cum trails the inside of your thigh, and you nudge his leg with your foot.

“Clean me up,” you chide.

He chuckles on his way to the bathroom, returning with a damp cloth that he runs over your body, rough hands a stark contrast to the gentleness of his touch. When he’s done, he passes it to you, letting you pull him in for a kiss.

“Thanks, baby.” The cloth finds the hamper as you go to pee, and stepping back into the bedroom, you find Namjoon already dozing off beneath the covers, one arm hooked behind his head.

You pause by the bedside with a smirk. “Wore you out, did I?”

He smiles, eyes still closed, and you climb in next to him, pecking his dimple before nuzzling into his side. His free arm wraps around you tightly, as you rest your cheek on his chest. “You’re my strongest opponent,” he mutters into your hair, making you laugh.

You settle into silence, but your fingers think for themselves, absentmindedly tracing over the intricately detailed moon inked across his ribs. Textured scar flesh hidden beneath swirls of black and grey bring back memories of cage fights you no longer attend, of nights spent beside dingy hospital beds yelling at your husband for pushing too far, of each and every time your son has run into your arms, crying and asking why his daddy looks like that.

It boils your blood to know there’s nothing you can do. You are powerless, unable to protect Namjoon from the world that claims him, unable to protect your son from the reality that ages him beyond his five years. Unable to protect yourself from the fear that, one day, Namjoon might not come home.

He feels you tense and drums his fingertips over your waist. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…” A beat of silence passes, and Namjoon’s thumb presses into your hipbone with a little more force. “…just…“ Rising on your elbow, you reach up to brush over the cut above his eye. “…wishing some things were different.”

He remains expressionless, but you can see through the mask. Can see the guilt, frustration, and anger accumulated behind a fragile wall of self-preservation. Years of relentless searching allowed you to find the fracture, poking and prodding until it shattered for only your eyes to see. In its wake you found him broken and alone, consumed by the self-hatred and shame suffocating him at every turn.

You pulled him out of the rubble, gave him a light to follow, a reason to fight his way out of the ring. You stood by him, gave him everything he never thought he deserved, gathered the pieces of his soul he ripped away himself. You stitched him back together, wove your love into the seams, made him smile for the first time since his long lost childhood.

You found the boy beneath the man, and you want to give him the world.

You wish some things were different. But not him.

“Do you regret it? Marrying me?”

He knows the answer, and you know why he asks.

You saved me from myself.