Devil's Playthings | Myg

devil's playthings | myg

⤅ SUMMARY | Yoongi has been widowed for over 2 years now—long past the time of mourning—and has made no move to remarry. Despite all the eligible maidens trying to catch the rugged duke’s eye, he’s stayed stubbornly idle in his search for a wife. For a man at court, especially at Yoongi’s standing, remarrying was essential and highly expected; even though the man had heirs and his lineage was assured, a wife was a political move, and a highly coveted one. None of this slipped the young princess’ mind, her sharp eyes on the much older man. But Yoongi should be careful—“for Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.”

⤅ RATE | 18+

⤅ PAIRING | (dilf)duke!yoongi × princess!reader

⤅ GENRE | royalty au, magic au, forbidden relationship

⤅ SIN | sloth (for the ✥ 7 Deadly Sins collab ✥)

⤅ WARNINGS | age gap, use of sex pollen, mentions of m!masturbation, dirty talk, slight (slight) degradation, marking, spitting, titty fuck, facial, deep throat, oral both!receiving, sixty nine, fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, choking, breeding kink/breeding, spanking, squirting, hair pulling, clit slapping, cervix contact, overstimulation

⤅ WC | 9.3k

⤅ A/N | whoo it's finally here!! No one clown me for making even a royalty au a dilf fic 🤡 I also want to shout out @sunshinekims and @kithtaehyung for lending me their lovely names for this fic <3 and of course @sugasbabiie , who’s enthusiasm fueled me from the start <3 hope you guys enjoy! +

playlist + drabble

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the art of war | jhs

PAIRING royal Hoseok x reader

GENRE royal au. arranged marriage au. enemies to lovers. friends to enemies to lovers.

RATING 18+. EXPLICIT.

WC 5.1K

SUMMARY The bells are tolling and you've just been married to a man you despise on Christmas Day. On your wedding night, locked alone in a room with him, tensions are rising. And so is the past.

WARNINGS enemies to lovers and banter during and before sex. use of she/her pronouns to refer to reader. multiple orgasms. fingering. praise kink. handjob. unprotected sex. creampie.

AN HAPPY BIRTHDAY @xjoonchildx!!!!!!! while this was supposed to be a drabble, the muse (dearest Hobi) has been singing especially so recently and I couldn't help myself... ANYWAYS. I am wishing you the warmest, most joy-filled birthday and year ahead of you, you deserve the entire world. Sending so much love.

And a special thank you to @dntaewithluv who read this and somehow convinced me adding 1k extra of foreplay would be a good idea.

THE ART OF WAR

The wedding bells have long since stopped their tolling, but you swear that your ears are still ringing. From the choir of twenty, from the glockenspiel that rung out above your heads as you ran from the church, from the far-too-raucous reception.

Far-too-raucous because you couldn’t comprehend how anyone could be celebrating you marrying a man you couldn’t stand in a sham of an arranged marriage. Well, your mother wouldn’t call it a sham. She would call it one of her best business moves. You, on the other hand, had a very different sentiment about it all.

You watch as Hoseok, your now husband—! the word sounds so foreign on your tongue—shuts the door behind him and throws you a small smile. It’s not the first one you’ve received from him tonight, though the others read more like the others are looking, grin and bear it, while this one seems more an accident. More, I’m so tired of this bullshit. I know you are too. But a moment after the soft expression fills his face, he’s quickly rearranging his features to something stoic, cold.

Still. Though the kind gesture shocks you and runs like ice through your veins, you don’t return the smile.

Instead, you turn towards the vanity that sits in the corner of the room.

Before you in the mirror, you hardly recognize the scene: you, in a white poof of a wedding dress, every inch the daughter of a duchess. And Hoseok, behind you, Hoseok, in his wedding regalia, the sword still tucked into his belt, Hoseok, loosening his collar. You watch as his long fingers reach and bend, his touch gentle but commanding.

But there is a small part of you that does recognize this, that remembers this, from some long forgotten daydream. A daydream of you and Hoseok, together.

You and Hoseok hadn’t always been bitter. There was a time when you were children, teens even, when you would have called him your friend. Your best friend.

There was a time when you two would crawl under the bed when your parents came calling that it was time to go, desperate to spend “Five more minutes!” together. There was a time when he used to climb the oak tree in your backyard after scaling the stone wall, and slip in through your window. A time when you would lay, side by side, staring up at the yellow paper stars that you never bothered to take down from the ceiling as you grew older. You’d tell him it was too high to reach. But when the taller boy offered to take them down for you, you’d shake your head and say you’d do it yourself, secretly happy to have avoided the funeral of your favorite decorations.

Those stars still hung above your bed in your parents manor, though these days their gaze felt more like a bad memory than anything twinkling and good. Maybe it was time to take them down after all.

As you and Hoseok had grown out of childhood, things changed. There was never a specific point that you could locate as the beginning of the end. And there were good years too, years teetering on the brink of tension and unspoken words. Years where you had grown so close that the others thought of you as destined. You would ride into the forest together in the middle of the night, stealing horses from the stable, only to go skinny dipping in the moonlight. You would write letters to one another, letters you still kept tucked beneath your bed, too afraid of what you would lose if you threw them out.

But as you neared your eighteenth birthday, Hoseok had grown more withdrawn. He would disappear for long hours into his room. And soon withdrawn became coldness as you found him shutting doors quickly behind him with a hard look in his eyes, like he had something to hide.

And the truth was, you did have something to hide. You’d taken up an interest in the art of war, particularly hand-to-hand combat. As a young woman in this day and age, it was forbidden for someone like you, especially someone of noble birth, to participate in such a craft.

When you had finally mustered up the courage to tell him that you were no longer meeting up for midnight rides because you were training instead, he had said something that had your blood running cold.

“War will never be for women.”

“War ought to be for no one,” you had spat back quickly. “So who’s to say it can’t be for me!”

The conversation had devolved into harsh words and harsher sentiments. That was the last time you both had spoken for years.

Until one morning your mother had waltzed into your room with what she had called “thrilling news.”

Thrilling news that had landed you in a white dress with Hoseok at the end of the aisle, his gaze locked on you as the bells tolled and you walked towards your fate.

At first it’s just a glance. Hoseok looking over his shoulder at you as you tinker with the bow on an unopened wedding gift, left on your vanity. It’s just one glance.

But one glance turns into a second. His gaze skating over you as you begin to undo the intricate updo that you had insisted on earlier but now regret.

“You missed one.”

“I didn’t.”

But before you can really argue with him, before you can really absorb what he’s said as an insult about your personal ability to undo your own hair, he’s gliding across the room and plucking a pin out of the back of your head.

You hold your breath in shock. His fingers linger.

Your eyes catch in the mirror and hold for a second that stretches into eons. And then you come back to yourself. You don’t thank him. You simply snatch it out of his hands with a little huff and go back to what you’re doing.

But to your dismay, he doesn’t move.

“Is that the best excuse you could come up with to get me to touch you?”

You stand up so fast your chair falls down behind you as you whirl around to face him face to face.

But you didn’t expect him to be this close, you didn’t expect him to be chest-to-chest with you. Didn’t expect his lips to be inches away from yours—

“How dare you—”

“Is it that hard to pay attention when all you’re thinking about is kissing me?”

You’re furious, flames roving through your chest like a slow burning wildfire, and he’s so close and his breath is mingling with yours, the smug bastard, his eyes ablaze with the same fire you feel—

And before you know what’s happening, your lips are crashing together. Later on, when you can’t tell up from down, you won’t be sure whether it was you or him that began it all. But in that moment, you’re pretty sure it was you.

He doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his hands swiftly around your waist, tugging you with a little huff of air to his front where you can feel something hard and very large pressing into you.

It happens all at once.

Like two stars colliding, you are hurtling towards one another at the speed of light, missing one another in your pointedness but scathing one another in your proximity.

But you keep circling back. Slower, more curious, each time.

His lips slow against yours, his breath intertwining with your breath, his heartbeat beating at the same pace as yours. He whispers your name against your lips, and for a moment, you taste sweetness. That is, until he bites down on your lower lip.

You gasp, but the inhale is not all pain.

A spark rushes through you, smothering your skin in goosebumps.

“Fuck, Hoseok,” you curse, and he grins against your lips.

You tighten your grip on him and dig your fingernails into the back of his neck, trailing them below the nape of his collar, leaving red streaks in their tracks.

But instead of gasping, just as you had, he sucks in a shaky breath and whispers against your lips, “How did you know I like it a little painful?”

A cold chuckle leaves your lips.

“A good guess.”

He kisses you again, quick, furious, all teeth and tongue and it’s then that you feel him, him grinding against you.

That’s when the reality of the situation hits you.

This is not two mere strangers — or, you have to remind yourself, two mere friends. Both of those ships had sailed a long while ago. You are something else now, something entirely foreign. And something tangled up in one another, flames stoking higher with each breath, each tangled limb and—

Somehow you’re both flustered and furious in the same moment. You pull back from him, and he looks surprised, though he quickly masks the look that darts across his face.

“What—“

“I ought to get ready for bed.”

He watches as you turn from him and make your way to the mirror in the corner, tugging at the many bows and clasps that keep you tied up in this ridiculous excuse of a dress.

“For bed.” He grins.

You glare at him in the floor length mirror, but the implication of his words warms you from within.

You have duties to perform tonight, there’s no doubt about it. And you’re not particularly adverse to the idea either, not when he looks as radiant as he does tonight, not when he kisses the way he kisses. But it’s the principal of it all, all the years of resentment hanging between you like spidersilk.

Your fingers fumble as you try to reach around back and unbutton the intricate dress and you can feel him watching you, can hear the way he chuckles smugly as you struggle.

After several minutes of trying without any luck, finally, you give up with a huff.

There’s no way you’re getting out of this on your own. You grit your teeth with the way you’re about to debase yourself, shame trickling through you like molten iron.

“Can you—” you close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Can you please help me?”

They were supposed to send someone to help you out of this godforsaken dress, but— your face reddens as you realize that there was someone knocking on your door while you were tangled in your husband’s arms. And that you had been far too distracted to realize what the sound was. It pains you to ask for his help.

“Pleading looks so good on you.”

“I’m not pleading,” you scoff. “You try getting yourself out of a cage of a dress.”

He chuckles darkly but approaches you from behind, his gaze challenging yours in the mirror.

“Alright. If you’re going to beg.”

“I’m not begging!”

“If you insist.”

His fingers are cold when they skate across your neck and your gaze shoots up to meet his in the mirror. He stands tall behind you, his hair dark and falling into his face, his eyes even darker, even as they catch the reflection of the hearth in them.

“It does look good on you,” he says, and you’re not sure if he means the dress or the begging. Maybe both. But as you fight the urge to roll your eyes, you watch the way his gaze narrows on the skin of the nape of your neck, as it trails down your back. And as he begins to unbutton your dress, one by one, he takes his sweet time, like he’s unwrapping some kind of precious gift. Your brow furrows in confusion.

He’s not supposed to enjoy this.

You’re not supposed to enjoy this.

And yet you do, the way his fingers grace across your skin, the way your skin warms beneath his touch. You enjoy it. You find your eyes fluttering closed, and lose yourself so entirely that soon he’s saying,

“I’m done.”

He’s still holding your dress up, in some attempt to preserve a semblance of your modesty. Though you’re not sure there’s much of it left after your earlier tryst.

A tryst you have no explanation for.

You finally nod and he lets go of the fabric. The thick winter dress falls in a heap around you, revealing the thin but warm slip they’ve dressed you in beneath. It’s the equivalent of being naked before him. He begins to look away but you’re quick to say:

“Are you so afraid to look at your own wife?”

A sly smile flickers at the corner of his mouth and his gaze darts back to rove over your body. But where they linger are your eyes.

“Are you so eager for my attention you have to ask for it?”

You finally turn towards him and stare at him for a long moment.

This is when it begins. This is when it's supposed to begin, when it's supposed to happen: your wifely duties.

Awkwardly, you reach for him.

“What are you doing?”

“I have a duty.” You say, your chest warming, your hand tracing up his torso. But as your words fall on his ears, his gaze immediately hardens. Before you can reach his chest, where you want to trace over his heart, his hand snatches your wrist.

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not going to force you to do anything,” Hoseok says sternly, his brow pressing. He gently places your hand at your side and retreats to the other side of the room. “Absolutely not.”

The care with which he says it surprises you—and yet not at all. From beneath the hard exterior, you see the young Hoseok you once knew, once loved, poking through.

“But we should—”

“We should do nothing tonight.”

“But, but they’ll come—in the morning, to check.”

Hoseok’s eyes light with recognition.

“And you care that—? Ahh.”

You frown. “What?”

“I see.” He steps towards you, his shirt fluttering open with each step forward. You can’t help it when your gaze flickers downwards.

“You can just say it,” he says.

“Say what?”

“That you want me.”

“I don’t want you,” you scoff. “I only—”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I only want you in the way a wife wants her husband on their wedding night.”

“Is that so?” Hoseok asks. “And in what way is that?”

You immediately warm at the question. It feels like he has you pinned against the wall, even when he’s half the room away. As he steps closer to you, you find yourself holding your breath.

“Kiss me,” he orders. “If you’re too afraid to put it to words.”

And so you do, and just as before, it is furious.

Lips press, teeth nip, lobes bitten, and you know you will look a mess in the morning. He kisses down your neck, biting and sucking gently at the tender skin there and you cry, “You’ll leave a mark!”

“Then they’ll know you’re my wife.”

The thought brings heat to your abdomen, as the idea of wandering out the next morning looking absolutely ravaged plays in your mind. But was this how tonight was supposed to go? You had no qualms about giving yourself to your husband, but now, now, you were giving yourself willingly, eagerly, even. Your mother had instructed you on how these kinds of marital duties were to be performed, but this, lips locked and hands roving greedily over one another’s bodies: this is no duty.

This is passion.

Even if anger still simmers in your stomach.

He is kissing you, so deeply you think he might consume you whole, kissing you like you are the only person in the world. And right now it feels like it. The world outside quiets as you kiss him back, letting the noise of society, along with all the expectations and obligations fade away until there is nothing but Hoseok. The shape of his hands pressed against your back. The warmth of his thigh between your legs. The movement of his lips, inflamed and… needy?

Hoseok, Hoseok, Hoseok.

His hand glides up your back and tangles with your loosened hair as he presses you to his chest.

He walks you backward, his leg slipping between the heavy, warm fabric of your slip—too warm despite the winter chill—somehow managing to not trip you. The mattress of the bed hits your knees and you find yourself sitting, looking up at the man who is now your husband, towering above you. And right in your face:

“Is someone a little desperate?” You chide, running a finger along the bulge in his pants. “It doesn’t suit you.” Though that’s half a lie, because as you look up at him, your mouth waters, struck by the absolute depravity that he looks down at you with.

“I know what might suit you,” Hoseok cuts back, unerred by your half insult as his hands rove over your body. “My desperation, stuffed in your mouth, shutting you up.”

Your eyes widen at the prospect.

“Try me.”

He grins and bends down to kiss you again, interrupting your hands reaching for his pants. You are eager to unwrap him, but he is eager to take his time with you.

Things begin to devolve in the best way possible. Hoseok loses his shirt, then his pants. “I want to see you,” he murmurs as he kisses you, and soon you have lost your slip too, limbs tangling in the sheets, and soon his cock is in your hand, and you squeeze ever so gently, just to watch his eyes flutter closed.

“Let me—” he begins as his hands trail down your body.

“You don’t know—”

He scoffs. “I think I know you well enough to know exactly how to make you come undone,” Hoseok says, and something switches within you. It’s the first time he’s mentioned anything of your past, of knowing you before your wedding night, of all of the tension strung up around you.

“Don’t presume to know me,” you say. “You don’t. Not any more.”

“Is that a challenge I hear?” Hoseok asks, his brow raised.

You look up at him through your lashes, but before you can roll your eyes, he grips your chin gently, forcing you to look at him.

“Are you challenging me?”

“Maybe I am.”

It becomes some kind of competition, the both of you rushing to make the other one drown in their own pleasure before the other.

And it’s true: it’s hard to stay in control like this, with his fingers dragging through your folds, circling around your clit, his mouth pressed up against your ear, whispering sweet nothings, chiding you, urging you onward. But you cling to any semblance of control you have left, wrapping your hand around his length, running gentle, teasing touches along the soft skin of his cock.

That’s when he says it.

“You’re so good for me.”

And you come a little bit more undone beneath him. Your touch falters, your breath hitches.

“Oh, does she like being praised?”

You grit your teeth to keep from nodding.

“No—”

“I love the way you touch me,” he whispers against your ear, his fingers slowing against you, building into a gradual, unerring rhythm. “It’s like you know exactly what I need, what I want.” He nips at your earlobe. “So good.” He slips a finger within you and you gasp. “So good, just for me.”

On the final emphasis, he thrusts a second finger into you and begins pumping in and out of you. The final emphasis has you clenching around him.

His.

Even as you try to push the idea of him away, his body is wrapped around yours. His body is everywhere, atop, beneath, beside you. And you don’t want the distance, you don’t want any space between you at all.

As he draws one orgasm from you, then a second, you cling to him, hands tangling in his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, and threading around his limbs and his back, pulling him closer. And after you’ve come a second time, the two of you lay there, staring silently at the ceiling—starless, blatantly starless—as you catch your breath. The only sounds in the room are the crackling fire and the sound of your in-synch panting.

“I don’t think you could make me come again,” you challenge, and that’s enough for him.

He rolls on top of you with a cheeky grin and nips at your ear.

“As you wish,” he murmurs, and it’s not the fight you want, it’s not the fire you were asking for, but it’s good enough, because he’s sliding his hand down your torso again. As you buck your hips up to meet the touch of his hand, his cock aligns with your center, pushes in just enough.

The both of you freeze.

Eyes lock.

“We don’t have to—”

“No, please—”

The desperation in your voice surprises you, and you swallow hard as he looks down at you.

“‘Please?’” he repeats back to you, a genuine question in his voice. “You want this?”

You nod quickly.

“Then tell me.”

You repeat your previous sentiment with a sly smile. “I bet you can’t make me come on your cock.”

“I can,” he says, capturing your lips in a kiss. “And you know that. Tell me what it is you want.”

“Fuck me, Hoseok.”

He takes his time, teasing your opening with the head of his cock, sliding it through your come and the arousal already spilling again from you as your core aches with need.

“Please, Hoseok,” you beg.

“You’re so pretty when you beg for me,” he smiles. “So messy when you’re needy.”

He lowers his weight atop you as he glides his cock to your opening and pushes in an inch. You gasp, and before your eyes flutter shut at the wide stretch, you can see the pleasure that washes across his face. It’s divine. The mixture of concentration and pure desire that dances in his eyes, the way his gaze bores into yours before he bends down and presses his lips to the concha of your ear.

As he pushes into you all the way, you think you hear:

“Forgive me,” whispered in your ear.

“No,” you whisper back.

But he’s already moving, his face pressed in concentration, that look you know too well. So serious, so firm, you think, How am I going to live with this every day? Not because you don’t want to, but because in that moment you’re filled with so much need for him that you’re not sure what it will be like to want him when your marital duties have been filled and completed and you’re stuck in a house with a man who despises you as much as you despise him.

Though, when you think about it, this hardly feels like spite.

Not with his cock moving like this, not with his hips thrusting like that, rolling so smoothly into you.

It’s so surprising, how goddamn good it feels and all you feel is anger bubbling to the surface. “Fuck you,” you groan, your fingers tightening around whatever parts of him you can reach, nails digging into his skin.

“Darling, you already are,” he spits back through gritted teeth. “And so many would just kill to be in your place.”

When he flips you over, pulls your hips towards you, and begins rolling into you again, it’s entirely different. Something about the angle, your face pushed into the soft material of the mattress, your ass jiggling with each slap of his balls against your clit, it has you tumbling forwards towards delight so quickly you can’t breathe—

“This isn’t right,” you gasp and he stills, looking down at you in concern.

“What’s wrong?”

“How good it feels.”

You can hear the grin spread across his face as he begins again, his hips rolling slowly into you.

“Darling, this is exactly how it’s supposed to feel.”

“How—?”

He repositions you then, so he can look in your face, pulling you on top of his lap, before slippiing into you again.

“You’re supposed to feel good,” he says, as he begins pumping up into you. “And whoever told you you shouldn’t was lying.”

His tongue pokes out between his lips as you begin to move too, chasing your own pleasure now. He nods encouragingly as you drag your hips up his cock. Your breath hitches as he reaches up and slides his thumb across your lower lip before slipping it into your mouth.

“Tomorrow, this will be my cock on your tongue,” he whispers, and you swallow around his digit as he presses down on your tongue, your eyes wide as you bounce on his cock. “Fuck, you look so good,” Hoseok curses.

He removes his hand to kiss you, growling against your lips. His fingers dig into your ass as you fuck him. Once, he brings his hand up and slaps your ass and the sound that leaves your lips is ravished.

“Ah,” he coos. “I think I know exactly what it is you like.”

You ride him, bouncing up and down on his thick cock until you wrap your hands around his shoulders and press your chests together.

“That’s it. Fuck yourself on my cock,” he says.

He’s so close. There’s something even more intimate about this, as your breath mingles and comes in pants, both of you relishing in the pleasure of the other’s body.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you curse as he hits a particularly soft spot within you, and you cling to him even tighter.

Your pace slows, and rather than hurtling towards desire, the both of you are relishing in it.

Slowly, Hoseok lowers you to your back, leaning over you.

Hoseok is determined to—what, you’re not sure at this point, but determined he is, knowing by the set of his jaw and the way his eyes won’t leave yours. Perhaps he is simply determined to draw as much pleasure as possible from your body, because with a quick movement he tilts your pelvis upwards, and the new angle, oh. You can now feel the ridge of the head of his cock pushing into you, and as it does, it catches on a bundle of nerves within you that makes you cry out. The second thing this does is that the base of his cock now presses against your clit every time he slams into you.

There is pleasure everywhere, like swimming in some deep well of warmth.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, rolling his hips into you. “Come for me, will you?”

And it’s a request, not a command.

“Come for me,” he hums against your lips. “I want to feel you around me.”

His voice is like a deep melody and as it resonates through you, you find yourself hurtling towards the edge of your own pleasure, warmth radiating from your abdomen, and the most delicious tension strung between your limbs.

“Please,” he whispers, and that’s enough for you to break into pieces, your orgasm crashing like the far waves of the kingdom through your entire body.

He’s not far behind you, and through your pleasure you can feel his cock twitch within you. He hisses, and holds himself back from you, his eyes fluttering shut. And suddenly you realize, you want his pleasure. You want his pleasure, not for the sake of winning some competition, but simply for him.

But without thinking, you reach up for him, wrap your arms around his back, and press him to your chest. He comes with you, body trembling, words spilling from his mouth that have no meaning, no rhyme or reason. But you catch it again.

“Forgive me—”

And you realize that the anger within you has been entirely replaced with the lingering numbness of absolute pleasure.

You’re sure it will return in good time, yout think.

So instead, you let your nails drag softly up the back of his neck before tangling in his hair, pressing his face into your neck. He peppers the skin there with the softest of kisses, his body still intertwined with yours.

And you lay there for what feels like eons, his weight pressing down reassuringly, the chill of the window finally seeping into your consciousness.

And suddenly, he is standing, slipping from you, his warmth removed.

“You’re leaving,” you say, your voice flat, monotone. Not stay, not, please. A simple statement of fact.

Hoseok freezes. He turns on his heel to face you.

“There is a winter storm raging right outside that window. And while you might be sweaty and hot and all worked up right now,” You flush at the implication, “I promise you that the cold will creep in. I was merely about to warm the fire.”

“Ah,” you say, turning on your side, away from him.

But a touch and a gentle tug brings you rolling back towards him. He looks upset, and before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching out to press at the frown lines that decorate his brow.

“You’re angry.”

“I’m not angry that you’d think the absolute worst of me,” he says slowly. “I’m only concerned that you’d think, and think so readily, that I’d be this quick to abandon you.”

He rolls into bed, pulling you on top of him.

“I’m hardly finished with you, how could I go?”

He kisses you then, and it’s not like the other kisses. The others were fire, burning towards something larger. This, however, is different. He kisses you to kiss you, for the pleasure of it all, for the feeling of your body warming against his skin, for the knowledge that you, you want to kiss him.

And what you found, at the end of it all, is that the anger in you is a dying anger. One like a star, burnt out and blackened, striving for the life that it one was, but ultimately hurtling towards a darkened coolness. And in the place of this old, stupid, anger, is rising something new. Attraction. Respect, even.

It frightens you.

©wwilloww Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without my permission.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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🔆 want to read more ?

⊶ winter solace (m). ⊷

After a difficult few months (and years), a fresh start in a new city is both equal parts thrilling and terrifying, but you’re determined to make it work. It’s just you and your dog-sized cat Nox, ready to take on the world. Of course along the way there are ups, and there are downs. The main down being you’re short on cash after the big move, unable to spend Christmas with your family. The main up is your kind and thoughtful neighbour who offers to celebrate the holiday with you, despite not being a fan of it himself… 

A part of the Happy Ho-lidays collab found here! Please look forward to everyone’s stories, they’re going to be amazing!! 

⤑ read over on ao3 here

pairing; kim seokjin x f reader               genre; strangers to friends to lovers, neighbours to lovers, slow burn, holiday & new year, divorced! reader, romance, minor/moderate angst, smut (excessive amounts of kissing, oral sex (female receiving), big dick talk, protected sex)  words; 27,066

trigger warning (!) this story contains talk of a past emotionally manipulative/abusive relationship. It also contains mentions of anxiety, depression and loneliness. 

jordan’s note; I worked very hard on this big guy (although, it’s possibly the first time I overestimated the wordcount?? NUTS). I hope everyone who gets a chance to read enjoys <33 

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Kairos

☼ Pairing: Seokjin x reader

☼ Genre: A/B/O dynamics, college au, omega!reader, Alpha!CEO!Seokjin, s2l, fluff, smut, minor angst (they’re idiots)

☼ Count: 25.6K

☼ Warnings: teasing, marking (+ a little blood), unprotected sex (stay safe kids!), knotting, creampie, multiple orgasms, impreg kink, minor dom/sub undertones, oral (f receiving), fingering, pillow humping, dirty talk, praise kink, heat sex, seokjin is a soft alpha

☼ Summary: kairos καιρός (greek, n.) - the perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates the opportune atmosphere for action, words, or movement

When your financial aid falls through for your last year of school, you fear you’ll have to drop out and postpone your degree. Until Taehyung gives you a suggestion to make a lot of money, quick. His idea can’t possibly end well, can it?

☼ a/n: So, guess who’s not dead? Sorry it took so long to get something new out, life’s been… busy. I’ve got other stuff currently in the works and I hopefully won’t take quite so long to put something else out again. Anyway let me know what you think! My ask box is always open ~ 💙💙💙💙

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esse tuus | pjm

esse tuus (latin) ↳ translation: to be yours

synopsis: You’ve been plagued by dreams of your boss ever since you started working for him to the point where you’re unable to “play” with anybody else. Frustration and possible lack of sleep has you feeling lethargic, to a point where you find yourself falling asleep at work, but little do you know that someone is behind it all.

part of the dulce somnii universe.

pairing: jimin x reader

wc: 9.8k

genre/au/rating: 18+ | incubus, office au, f2l | S, F

warnings: minor descriptions of injury, oral (f. receiving), fingering, heaps of feelings, orgasm denial/delay, sex dreams? name-calling, degradation, praise kink

lil note: happy birthday jimin <3 and happy halloween!

listening to: serendipity

m.list | ao3

The night sky only darkens with the evidence of rain. With most of its denizens asleep, the city winds down quietly while it waits for the storm to pass. Two men stand in the middle of the downpour, two sets of eyes staring at the same window – the third-floor apartment belonging to a woman, the only one awake in the otherwise quiet night. They’re silent, waiting with bated breath for the lights to turn off, so that no one could listen into their conversation, despite them surrounded by a powerful aura that shrouds their identities while wicking away the rain to keep their coats dry. As they say, you can’t be too careful when the walls have ears.

When the final inhabitant of the city surrenders to the call of sleep, their conversation begins.

“That’s her.” It isn’t a question, but Jimin nods in confirmation. “How long?” his companion asks, his deep voice clear despite the thundering stampede of rain colliding with the asphalt around them.

“Ever since I’ve known her,” Jimin replies wistfully. “Five years now.”

“I mean, aren’t you the same way? Isn’t that why you haven’t changed your form in nearly two years now?” he questions his tall companion curiously. “Surely that girl you were toying with is under your control by now, right? Why not move on to a different target, Tae?”

Taehyung doesn’t answer him immediately, the glare he throws at Jimin a sufficient reply. “It’s different,” he sighs after a heartbeat. “I don’t love her; I just need her to feed – to survive.”

“Bullshit,” Jimin counters with a roll of his eyes. “Pretend all you want, but you can’t fool me. I know the way you talk about her when you’re drunk.”

“It’s different,” Taehyung insists with a growl. Seizing Jimin’s shoulders, Taehyung’s golden eyes glint with irritation under the dim streetlight. “Because I’m not willing to give up my life for her… Unlike you,” he spits as he shakes his head. “I want you to think carefully about this. Are you sure you’re willing to give up your immortality, and eventually your powers, for a mere mortal?”

Jimin laughs, loud enough that it would normally wake everyone in the neighbourhood, but his powers have given him a gift of anonymity, so the sound is merely carried away by the wind. Instead of staring into the gilded eyes of his friend that mirrors the storm around them, he looks up at the darkened room again.

With a graceful smile, he peels Taehyung’s hands away from his shoulders before turning away to leave, away from this dreaded weather. Indifferent about whether Taehyung could hear him, Jimin’s ruby eyes twinkle as he grins, “Oh, I have never been surer.”

---

You’re not sure when the dreams started, but it was shortly after you started working under the new CEO, Park Jimin. They weren’t so frequent before, maybe happening about once or twice every couple of months with you recollecting bits and pieces come morning. Now, not only were the dreams occurring nightly, you’re left with an uncomfortable mess in the morning – made evident by the growing wet puddle soaking your sheets, but also the way you can no longer look at your boss without heat flaming your cheeks.

When you confide your issue with a good friend of yours, she only gave you a weird look, telling you that the dreams were attributed to the fact that: (a) your boss is fine as hell; and (b) the stress that’s been accumulating with the mountain of tasks he’s assigned to you.

“If you want my opinion, I think you just need to get laid,” Jessie scoffs with a roll of her eyes.

Heeding her advice, you donned on your battle armour that consisted of a dark-red dress with a plunging neckline. You’ve been blessed that night with an array of beautiful men who vied for your attention, but even after deciding to go home with the mysterious soft-spoken one whose arm was covered in tattoos, you couldn’t go through with it.

It’s not that he was bad in bed either. The raven-haired boy had kissed you like there was no tomorrow, sending your nerves aflame as you reciprocated his passion. But, as you closed your eyes in pleasure when he laid you down on his bed, his visage was replaced by a certain blonde CEO. And the wonderful night that seemed so promising ended up with you apologizing profusely in embarrassment before speeding away from the mystery man’s apartment at 2am.

Rain has graced the earth more often lately, so by the time you reach your apartment in the outskirts of the city, you’re drenched, adding another tick of irritation to the already shitty night. After you finished towelling your hair dry, you decided that it’s time to sleep, and when you drifted into the abyssal darkness, you hoped that your dreams weren’t plagued by a familiar swoop of blonde hair.

---

The room spins as you attempt to make sense of your surroundings. There’s a hand on your shoulder that shakes you gently, but try as you might, the pounding in your head makes it impossible for you to keep your eyes open long enough to distinguish its owner.

“Breathe,” says a familiar voice. “It’ll go away if you just breathe.”

You do as the voice suggests, inhaling deeply while screwing your eyes shut, in hopes that it will drown out the ringing in your ears. Something soft glides across your eyelids and like magic, silence returns, a trusty companion.

Gingerly, you open an eye before wincing at the harsh fluorescent light. You blink a few times to allow your eyes to adjust to the brightness before finding yourself in the file room of your office, with steel shelves stacked with various kinds of blue binders, each containing reports of the company’s financial burdens and achievements through the years.

And in front of you, tie askew and flushed in the face, is your boss; the one and only Park Jimin.

He has you pressed up against a file cabinet, caging your body between two strong arms, white sleeves rolled to the elbows. You notice the hint of ink on the corner of your eye – a 13 on his wrist. You open your mouth to ask him about its significance, only to close it back up when his face looms closer.

Before your brain has a chance to register what’s happening, Park Jimin kisses you.

He kisses you with urgency, but not with haste – undoing you with every sweep of his plush lips against yours.

Though it takes you a moment, you pull him closer by his tie, earning you the familiar quiet chuckle that speeds your heart rate, and you too, kiss him back with fervour. Even when the inches between your bodies fall to zero, you want him to be closer still. And when he parts, you feel the ache of being torn apart. Your hands fall to his chest, the desire to rip the buttons off his white dress-shirt grows stronger with every second that passes as you study the swell of his lips, wet with saliva, glinting in the light.

“Do it.”

It takes you a second to register his words, but when your brain deciphers his meaning, your hands tighten their grip, wrinkling the white cotton fabric. With a heavy inhale, you yank. The buttons don’t fly off and clatter to the ground like in movies, but your strength did cause a few to strain against their threads. You run your hands down the expanse of Jimin’s chest as he shivers under your touch. You look up to see a marvel stand before you; one where his eyes are closed, and pretty mouth slightly parted to accommodate his staccato breathing.

“Kiss me.” Your words seem to be carried away with the hum of air conditioning, but before you have a chance to repeat yourself, Jimin slams into you, tangling his hand in your hair to tighten the hold he has on your head.

The cabinet clatters as he pairs the kisses with a buck of his hips, dragging his clothed erection up to your core; and you moan, your voice foreign in your own ears. You beg him for more as his nose trails the column of your throat, your own impatient hands fumbling to unbuckle his belt.

“Patience, my dear,” Jimin chides playfully. He puts a stop to your unsuccessful efforts by claiming your hands, kissing the knuckles with a smirk. You’re left stricken when his eyes meet yours, hypnotized by the ruby irises that stare deep into your soul.

“Your eyes… Were they… always that colour?” you mumble with a tongue that weighs like lead, but the fog descends on your mind again, rendering you incapable of speech.

“Ah!” you screech. The sudden high-pitch ring returns to block your senses and you cover your ears tightly to try and shake it off. From the din, you hear Jimin call your name desperately, but the pain is too great, and soon, you’re unable to see as a bright light consumes your vision—

Until you sense the same gentle swipe against your closed lids and the searing pain disappears, as though you imagined it all. When you open your eyes again, Jimin’s frowning. You try to remember the last few moments before the pain, only to draw a blank. Have you done something to upset him?

“Are you okay?” There’s a thin sheen of sweat above his brows and you reach out to wipe it away with your sleeve.

“I am,” he whispers despite the obviously pained smile. “But what were you saying?”

“Hm? I only asked if you were okay, sir,” you say hesitantly. Jimin’s acting strangely, ruby irises scouring your face desperately for an answer, but you’re not sure you know the questions to the test he’s given you.

“You were about to say something about my eyes,” he says slowly, evenly, like he’s explaining something to a child.

Your brows furrow. “I was?”

Jimin nods.

“I… don’t remember,” you admit with a shake of your head. Blinking at him now, you wonder why you would make such a comment – if you did. There isn’t anything wrong with his eyes. They’re the usual ruby red, flashing brightly against the light… right?

Yet, you can’t shed the nagging tug, the insistent voice in your brain that’s telling you that something’s wrong, but just as the low throb begins again, Jimin smiles sweetly, like he always does, and you feel at ease. A gentle brush of his knuckles against your cheek silences the part of your brain that’s trying to rationalize everything.

And when his lips return to glide against yours, you don’t remember what it was you were worried about.

“Oh—” You gasp into the kiss as his hand trails shapes on the skin of your thighs. Jimin takes the opportunity to kiss you deeper, swiping his tongue over your own. While you tangle your fingers in his hair, he hikes up your skirt and cups his hand over your pussy before he grinds your clit with the heel of his palm.

“Jimin—” Your fingers dig into his neck as you roll your hips into his hand. All of it is too little and too much, you’re unravelling too quickly – burning like a comet as you hurtle into his atmosphere.

Yet Jimin doesn’t stop, refuses to comply though you sob for his fingers; his cock; anything – to satiate the unbearable need to be filled. You claw at his arms, unable to fret over the long red lines you draw across the expanse of his skin. And just when you think you can no longer hang on, Jimin stops, a regretful smile on his face.

“What a shame. That’s all the time we have for now.”

---

“Holy shit!”

You’re up immediately, Jimin’s words still ringing in your ear. You swear you could still feel his hot breath against your skin, as though he was here the night before, but the absence of a warm body next to you signifies that last night was all but a dream.

Yet… it was so much more real than the ones prior.

Usually, you’d wake up recalling just the barest of details: Jimin’s lips curling into a smile or the way he’d coo your name as he draws patterns on your skin. But this time… you remembered everything; your mind highlighting every mole on his perfect porcelain face.

You wanted nothing more than to soothe the ache from between your legs but glancing at the wall clock on the opposite end of your bed suggests that you won’t have time to bring out Mr. Rabbit to play, considering that you have about 15 minutes to get ready before you miss the bus. With a regretful sigh, you left the warm comfort of your bed to brave the day.

---

“Good morning!”

Despite the enthusiastic chatter you’re engaging with your co-workers, you feel anything but. You’re still reeling from the dream, unable to stop recalling the way Jimin’s cool fingers brush against your blazing skin. You leave the pantry with a steaming cup of coffee and a heaving sigh before settling down to work.

Your calendar is full of reds and greens, indicating meetings that Jimin must attend and the ones you must attend with him respectively. A secretary to the CEO is a task that would normally require two people, but ever since your partner left, you’ve been left to work the pace of two people. Though Jimin has suggested that you hire a second person, you have refused, claiming that you’re saving the company resources since you’re capable of doing the tasks just fine on your own. Being so close to Jimin fills you with pride, especially knowing how much he relies on you to keep things running smoothly.

Fortunately, it also comes with you receiving a significant raise, much more than what you’d originally entered with. You have no doubt Jimin is to thank for that, having convinced the Chairman in a meeting to renegotiate the contract. Speaking of your boss, the time on the lower right corner of your screen indicates that he’s late – something that has never happened before in your five years of working together.

Just as your thumb hovers over the green call button, Jimin enters with a brilliant smile, greeting everyone and asking about their weekend. You’re almost annoyed at the way he nonchalantly enters through the door, acting like it doesn’t matter that he’s a few minutes late just because he’s the boss, but mostly because it isn’t fair that he’s doing just fine when you’re left stunned in your shoes; the memories of the dream lingering in the forefront of your mind when your gaze drops to his hands.

You snap to attention as he approaches, slipping on a mask of professionalism as you greet him. “Good morning, Mr. Park. You have a nine o’clock this morning and another one at eleven. Should I bring you the coffee now or in a little bit?”

As Jimin enters his office, he gives you a noncommittal hum, so you follow him inside and close the door behind you, sensing that there’s something in his mind.

“That skirt looks good on you,” he praises with a smile before settling in his desk.

You’re left momentarily speechless, surprised at the sudden compliment. You nod your head in thanks, one Jimin returns with another quirk of his lips. As you stand there in silence as he pulls up his laptop, you allow yourself to admire Jimin in the morning light.

You’d be remiss to say that he isn’t handsome. Everyone in the office, including yourself, may have pined for the young CEO’s attention once or twice since his arrival a few years ago, but you don’t delude yourself into thinking that the harmless banter between you was anything more than friendship. However, it’s moments like these, where he’d catch you off guard with his compliments, that has your heart thumping a little bit faster in response to his honeyed words.

He says your name with a chuckle. “Have I lost you already?” he smiles. You clear your throat and shake your head, stumbling out apologies for daydreaming at work, but Jimin only smiles wider, drumming his fingers on the oak table below.

“Please tell me if you’re not feeling well. Don’t make me worry,” he nags lightly.

You force a bright smile to hide your embarrassment. “I’m feeling just fine, Mr. Park. Better than ever,” you reassure him. “Sorry for spacing out, what were you saying?”

You catch the slight frown on his pouty lips and the strange shadow that flickers in his eyes, the obsidian melting into soft earth under the sun—

Wait a minute.

“Were your eyes always brown?” you blurt out, tilting your head to the side.

Jimin blinks in surprise, lips parted as he inhales sharply at your question. “I’m… sorry?” he mutters incredulously.

Silence.

There’s a creeping feeling of déjà vu as you’re unable to tear your eyes away from his. Something is amiss in this image in front of you, but you haven’t figured it out just yet.

Then, a chuckle, though it sounds strained and airy as Jimin breaks through your thoughts. “Of course, my eyes are brown. What other colours could they possibly be?”

An unpleasant fog descends on your mind, and you close your eyes momentarily to see if it’ll go away. When it doesn’t, your heart increases its speed instead, you offer him a pinched smile before turning to leave. You’re more tired than usual it seems, standing is starting to become impossible. You hope that a few hours of sitting at your desk would make you feel better.

“Right. Of course. My apologies, sir. Well, if you’ll excuse me…”

Just as you turn around to grab the handle of the door, your vision turns hazy, the images blurring together like remnants from your dreams. You try to blink through the fog, but the more you attempt to push through, the heavier your lids fall. Whatever Jimin is muttering is muffled in your ears, the language sounding foreign like he’s communicating underwater. When you turn around and see him stand, approaching your helpless swaying figure, he’s nothing more than a dark silhouette.

Before you descend into darkness, you think you saw a pair of ruby eyes and a voice, so full of regret, whispers in your ear.

“Sleep now, you’ll feel better when you wake up. I promise.”

---

When you finally blink awake, there’s a black jacket covering your body. It takes you a few seconds to register that you’re lying on a semi-familiar sectional, and you scramble to stand when you recognize the numerous awards decorating the wall in front of you.

The sun casts hues of oranges and yellow from the large window into Jimin’s office and you watch in horror as the door opens to reveal your boss walking inside with a mug in hand.

“Mr. Park! I…” You don’t have an excuse ready for what happened: how you dozed off on his couch for an entire workday.

Jimin holds up a hand to stop your floundering speech. Instead of fury, worry exists in the lines of his brows as he approaches your seated figure. “You should have told me that you weren’t feeling well,” he murmurs gently as he hands you the mug of steaming hot tea. “I’m sorry. I really should have hired a new partner for you when Soyoung quit.”

“N-No. Not at all. I’m sorry for making you worry.”

To your pleasant surprise, he smiles. “No, please. Don’t apologize. As your manager, I’m taking responsibility for going against the company policy. Your job is meant for two people, and though you’ve done a stellar job so far, this only proves that we need to hire someone else.”

Jimin wouldn’t dig at your work ethic like that, you know it better than anyone that it wasn’t what he meant, but you still feel like you disappointed him. You let your heart sink for a few minutes before picking it back up, a new fire of ambition surging behind your eyes. “Mr. Park, if I may be so bold, today is an anomaly. You’ve said yourself that I’ve done a stellar job, so please…”

“Why are you so intent on doing this by yourself?”

Okay, so maybe the teensy crush you’ve developed for him hasn’t fully gone away. You can’t answer his question without revealing your secret, so you merely repeat ‘Please’ with your head bowed.

Silence stifles the air around you as Jimin thinks. “All right, fine,” he says with a reluctant sigh, though his lips quirk into a smile at your insistence. “But please tell me if you start feeling unwell again. Seriously, it’s better you stay home than coming to work sick.”

“Thank you,” you beam gratefully at him before taking a sip at your tea. It tastes pleasant, despite you not being able to pinpoint the flavour. Chamomile maybe? As you finish the last sip, you stand and make your way outside, intent on staying late to catch up on all the work you’ve missed today.

You relay as much to Jimin, but he stops you as you open the door to his office. “Would you do me a favour and grab these files from the file room?” he asks as he hands you a sticky note filled with corresponding dates and numbers. “Now would be preferable, but I’m not leaving any time soon. Oh, and be careful. I think a few of them are placed on the higher shelves.”

His warning falls on deaf ears as you scrutinize the numbers on the note. Strange. Why was he looking for records all the way back to when the company was founded? Figuring that it isn’t your problem, you promise that you’ll bring him the documents in a bit…

Which turns out to be the biggest promise you regret making thus far.

“Ow…” you whimper.

Your ankle stings where you had landed on it, having failed to grab the last file you need, which just so happens to also be placed at the highest shelf. The step ladder you used to reach it wasn’t tall enough, and despite standing on your tiptoes, your fingers barely graze the bottom of the folder. Your fate was sealed when your distracted brain started thinking about the dream you had the night before.

When you attempt to stand to clean the mess you’ve made, gravity pulls you back down when your injured leg is unable to support your weight. Now, you’re sitting on the ground littered with papers, unable to call anyone for help with the shitty cell service in the file room.

Tears well up in your eyes when you think of your sorry state. Would Jimin fire you for your incompetence? Probably not, but it’s been an embarrassing day so far, especially since you spent most of it dozing off on his office couch that’s usually reserved for his guests. You wonder how he fared with all his meetings that you couldn’t attend with him – what sorts of excuses had he come up with when they asked where you were?

“God, I’m pathetic.”

Just as you’re wallowing in your self-pity, the door to the file room opens and you spy Jimin’s blonde hair between the empty shelves.

“Over here,” you answer pitifully when he calls your name.

You can almost see the comically large, pulsing angry symbol as he frowns at your slumped figure.

“I told you to be careful!” he grumbles as he surveys your foot. You cry out when his fingers graze at the ankle, the tears you’ve been holding onto slipping away down your cheeks. Jimin’s eyes soften at your whimpers, and with a gentleness you didn’t know he possesses at the moment; he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “Don’t cry. It’s not broken,” he whispers reassuringly. “It’s a little swollen, but I promise you’re going to be better in the morning. Can you stand?”

You shake your head, hiccupping a ‘No’.

“Okay, put your arms around my neck. Yep. Just like that. Now, hold on,” he instructs before lifting you up.

“W-Wait,” you protest as he carries you in the direction of his office. “Aren’t I heavy?”

You could feel the rumbling of his laughter with your cheek pressed against his chest. He chuckles as though you couldn’t have asked a sillier question. “Of course not. You weigh nothing more than a couple of grapes.”

You pray gratefully to whatever deity can hear you because when he turns around the corner, the office is otherwise empty, save for the janitor that has his back turned. Your cheeks are so heated that you plant your face further into his chest, refusing to look at your surroundings. You stopped wondering if Jimin could hear the manic pounding of your heart when you hear his, and you carry that secret with you until you hear the door click shut.

---

Jimin rests you gently on his desk before retrieving a first aid kid from your desk outside of his office. He’s gentle as he examines your foot, taking care not to move it around too much and risk injuring it further.

“Okay, you’re definitely good, but make sure to ice it when you get home, okay? And please call into work if you can’t move tomorrow. I have faith that you absolutely can do your job from home,” he smiles confidently.

True to his word, the sharp pain has since ebbed into a dull throb as you twist your ankle around. Perhaps if you stayed in the file room longer, you wouldn’t have risked embarrassing yourself in front of Jimin, but you won’t lie – you enjoyed being wrapped up in his arms as he carried you into his office.

“Thank you,” you mumble, shifting forward to stand.

“Nuh-uh,” Jimin tuts, stopping you in your tracks with a gentle nudge on your shoulder. “That doesn’t mean you’re good to go anywhere, missy. You’re staying here until I finish my work so I can drive you home.”

“But…” you protest, only to have the words die in your throat when he shakes his head firmly. Relenting to his decision, you agree. “Only if I can buy dinner,” you persuade.

“Deal,” Jimin replies with a grin.

---

When the food arrives, you’re mostly done with catching up with your tasks, having worked through most of the evening in silence after Jimin retrieved your laptop from your desk. You didn’t realize you were starving until he returned with a giant white plastic bag’s worth of food. You weren’t sure what he’d like, so you got one of everything, allowing yourself to splurge a little bit after he took care of you that afternoon. Hell, the entire day.

“God, I’m starving,” you comment, closing your laptop to place it on the coffee table in front of you.

Your stomach grumbles louder with each plastic container Jimin opens, the smell of spices mingling deliciously in the air.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he grins, tapping on the plastic plate that was provided in your massive order. “Do you want me to bring the food over to you or can you stand?”

You test your ankle a few times by standing slowly, making sure to put most of your weight on the other leg. Finding your balance is a little tricky, but you’re happy to report that you’re able to at least hobble over to his desk without any chance of falling.

“Careful…” he mumbles as he watches you, arms outstretched as if he’s ready to catch you should you slip and fall. You have no doubt that Jimin would be able to do it too.

“See, I’m fine?” you grin with a roll of your eyes, scooping out some rice and every other side dish that catches your eye.

Jimin joins you on the couch, a hand holding his large stack of food while the other hovers over your elbow despite your protests. As you settled in and began eating, it’s only then that you realized how, dare you say, intimate this was. Of course, you’ve had plenty of company related outings where you end up in a restaurant with just Jimin, but that’s mostly during the day. And here, in his office so late in the evening, the surroundings are akin to a candle-lit dinner, especially since he decided to turn all the lights off aside from his sole table lamp, casting dancing shadows on his face that make your insides flop around while you attempt to focus on your plate instead of his gorgeous face.

When the rest of your dinner has been put away, you’re now left with a limbo in your schedule. On one hand, it’s approaching 9pm, and you still have work tomorrow, so you really should get going, but watching Jimin settle back into his chair, round glasses perched on his nose as he returned to his tasks, you’re reluctant to part from him.

“Do you normally work this late, sir?”

You weren’t paying attention when he had taken off his tie and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, but right now, with the sliver of skin on his chest exposed, he doesn’t look like the CEO you’ve worked under for several years now. In fact, you’re reminded just then that you’re about the same age, still relatively young and fresh-faced, and surely the hours he put in outside of work is the reason why he’s able to attain this prestigious title today. Jimin doesn’t reply to your question right away, mumbling a ‘one moment’ under his breath as he types.

“I don’t normally stay this late,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. “But a certain secretary of mine decided to play Sleeping Beauty on me today, so I have a bit more work that needs to be done.”

You open your mouth to apologize, but you’re cut off by his boyish grin. “I’m just kidding,” he teases with a wink.

“Well, umm, I should probably clean up the files since I’m mostly done with what I have to do for tomorrow,” you mutter sheepishly.

“Sure, don’t get hurt this time, all right?”

“That’s cold, sir,” you pout at his teasing grin. “My ankle is still a bit numb from the pain.”

You leave Jimin’s office accompanied by the sound of his sweet laughter, and when the door closes shut behind you, you can’t help but lean against it for a moment, smiling to yourself.

---

You spend way too long picking up the scattered papers from the floor due to your earlier injury. By the time you are done, Jimin appears, peeking his head in to ask how you’re doing. You gesture at the stacks of folders on the nearby table in triumph, proud that you were able to complete such a task.

“Colour me impressed.” Jimin examines the stack of folders in admiration, praising you for a job well done.

“Thank you, but this was the least I could do after making such a mess.”

He hums as he surveys the stack, flipping through the first few pages before placing them back down. “I’ll help you carry these upstairs. I wouldn’t want to be sued for negligence,” he chuckles as he picks up a stack.

Ever considerate, Jimin left you a stack to carry by yourself, so you don’t feel useless. You can only grin as you follow him into the elevators (and you may have stolen a few more glances than usual while you were waiting).

“Ah, look how late it’s gotten,” Jimin comments when the two of you reach his office. The old grandfather clock he keeps in there rings eleven times, but despite the lateness of the evening, you’ve yet to feel tired.

After placing your stack of folders onto his desk, you approach the clock out of curiosity. It stands out of place in the modern-looking office, the ornate swirls on the wood a great contrast to most of the sleek black furniture. It’s the first thing you notice when you first meet Jimin in the office all those years ago. You never had a chance to ask him what it’s about despite being so close… and you realize that tonight was a rare occasion for you to satiate that curiosity of yours.

Your fingers trace the swan etched on the side of the clock, admiring the way it comes alive in the wood, wings spread out as though it’s about to take flight in front of you. “What’s the story about this clock? It looks older than I am.”

Jimin looks up from where he sits, gazing warmly at your profile while you play with a relic from his past. “Oh, him?” he smiles fondly, leaning back on his chair. “He’s been with me for over 200 years or so? I’m surprised he still works, to be honest.”

You can only gape in surprise. “You mean this clock has been in your family for over 200 years?”

A shadow passes over Jimin’s face. “…Not quite,” he mutters, though he’s not sure you heard him. “Anyway, he’s given to me by a friend. It’s the only furniture I carry with me from my house every time I get a grand office to myself,” he gestures at the room, splaying his arms wide.

Your fondness for him grows as he talks wistfully about the clock like it's alive. It suits him, you think, how he treats everyone with such kindness, you’re not surprised that it extends to objects as well. Turning back to face the clock, you sigh, knowing that it probably is time for you to leave if you don’t want to risk being late tomorrow morning.

“Well, if there’s nothing else, sir, I think I’ll get going now.”

Jimin looks at the clock and nods, and to your surprise, he stands up from his desk, placing his glasses on top of his keyboard before offering an arm towards you. “All right, I’ll walk you to your car. It’s awfully late and I don’t want anything to happen to my favourite secretary.”

The compliment makes you laugh, butterflies threatening to burst from your stomach. “I believe I’m your only secretary, sir.”

“Ah, I meant what I said,” he winks.

Just as you’re crossing the threshold of his office, your heels catch on the edge of his rug, sending you tumbling forward with a yelp. You expect your flailing arms to catch yourself when you hit the floor, but the impact never comes because Jimin’s suddenly right there, strong arms holding your waist as his eyes expand in shock.

“Are you all right!?” he half-shouts. “You really should be more careful!”

You can barely listen to his nagging because your hands are pressed on his sculpted chest, a sliver of skin peeking through from where he undid the first two buttons of his dress shirt. Your breath hitches in your throat as you graze the heated skin with your fingertips, and you hear Jimin inhale sharply – whatever words he was uttering caught in his throat as he zeroes in on your hands.

He whispers your name oh-so quietly, caressing every syllable with his tongue, and you slowly bring your eyes to his face. Jimin traps you in his hypnotizing gaze, never letting you break away, not even when your heart pounds so loudly against your ribcage, you’re sure it’s about to breakthrough; not even when your breaths turn into shallow staccatos, your head beginning to swim from the lack of oxygen. You can sense the strong emotion that rests behind those knowing eyes, and as you continue to stare, you wonder if it matches the one you hold in yours.

“Why do you look at me like that?” you murmur.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me?” You didn’t mean to make it sound like a question, but your voice catches in your throat when Jimin leans in, his eyes drooping close.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” he whispers, lips ghosting over yours, faces merely inches apart.

“Yes.”

The breathless affirmation barely left you when Jimin attaches his lips to yours, kissing you with the same urgency that you’ve felt in your dreams, only this time it’s real. One of his hands travel from your waist to cup the side of your face, his thumb swiping against your cheek. He catches the bottom of your lip with his teeth, tugging it lightly to make you moan against his hold.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he rasps into your skin as he undoes your blouse. “To touch you; to kiss you this way… You’ll be the death of me.” Every word is punctuated with a searing kiss, his lips setting your skin ablaze when he passes by your neck, your jaw, your collarbone.

“Ah—Jimin,” you gasp, tugging the ends of his blonde locks as you wrap your legs around his waist.

Jimin lifts you up with little effort, his mouth never leaving your neck until he sets you down gently on his desk; his things thrown haphazardly on the floor below with a sweep of his arm.

“Beautiful,” he mumbles at your half-naked state. His thumb swipes over a pebbled nipple, causing you to arch your back with a whimper. He lets his nail scratch gently along the sides of your breasts, almost absentmindedly, while he watches your reactions with amusement. “Would you let me see all of you?”

All you can muster is a breathy ‘Please’.

You help him remove the remainders of your clothing to join the mess on the floor, your body shivering as you lay naked on his desk. Jimin hums as he traces your curves with the palm of his hand, until he reaches the apex of your thighs. “Let me take care of you first, yeah?”

With wide eyes, you watch him sink to the floor while his strong hands push your legs apart to reveal your glistening slit. Jimin breathes in deeply as he kisses along your thighs, his lips leaving a trail of reminders before he dives in.

“Jimin…” you whimper as he drags the flat of his tongue along your folds.

Jimin notices the way your spine locks in place when he repeats the action. “Relax for me, sweetheart. I got you.” A hand reaches out from below to intertwine with yours and he gives you a firm squeeze before resuming his task.

He starts out slow – dragging the flat of his tongue across your folds while his remaining hand circles around your entrance. You’re left shaking where you lay, unable to connect your thoughts together to stammer out a coherent sentence. All that’s left in your brain is his name, increasingly becoming permanent with every second that goes by.

When he feels your body relax underneath him, Jimin prods your entrance with his tongue, sinking in and out of your hole as you pulse around him before he replaces it with a finger, and then two. You hiss at the slight burn, squeezing the hand you’re holding into a tight grip.

“Relax,” he reminds you gently, swiping his thumb across your pale knuckles. “Focus on nothing else but me.”

“More…” you mewl, shivering under his grip. “Praise me more.”

Jimin chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. Instead of a sassy remark, you receive the soothing lilt in his voice. “Good girl,” he whispers. “My good girl. You’re doing so well; look at this cunt greedily sucking me in.”

You’re lavished in praise, though his voice shifts into a deep growl with every coax of his fingers inside you. And when his thumb swipes across your clit, the tight tether you held onto slowly unravels.

“Are you close, sweetheart? God, you’re really tight,” he hisses before replacing his thumb with his mouth. “You’re gonna be a good girl and cum on my fingers, right?”

“Yes,” you breathe, burning like a thousand suns under his attention. “I’m so close!”

“Let go for me. I’m right here,” Jimin reassures you in whispers before silencing himself with your taste.

“Jimin!”

You think you screamed, but you can’t be too sure, not when your body is pulled apart and pieced together as you come undone before him. You’ve never had an orgasm like this – a great abyss threatening to pull you under as the waves slams against your wavering figure repeatedly. Through it all, Jimin drinks your essence, his sleeves soaked through as he continues to thrust into your walls.

“I can’t—not anymore,” you protest weakly.

“You can and you will. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” Your feeble attempts to push his head away stop at his emphasis. “That’s it,” Jimin praises as your hand returns to your side before planting a series of kisses along your folds, “Just relax one more time for me, okay?”

Jimin is by no means gentle this time around, slipping a third finger inside before increasing his pace. His once sweet words morph into growls laced with passion, washing your body aflame with desire. “God, you’re so fucking tight. This tiny cunt can barely fit my fingers, I’m not certain you’ll be able to fit all of me inside,” he grunts. “Do you think you can handle the stretch?”

You can barely keep your eyes open through his taunts, your mind spiralling out of control as you focus on the pleasure derived from his fingers. The answer you give him is intelligible, a choked whine of his name in place of agreement.

“Oh?” Jimin lifts an eyebrow at your state. “Too fucked out to talk already? I’ve barely started,” he chuckles. “What’s wrong, baby?” In his dangerously low voice, the otherwise cute pet name sounds demeaning. “Are my fingers too much for you?”

He tuts in disapproval when a beat lapses without a coherent response. Then, like sweet torture, his pace switches into a snail’s crawl. “I don’t know if you can take me in if you’re this out of it with just my fingers. Squeeze my hand once if you want to continue. Twice if you want to stop.”

“No!” The protest you utter is whiny and grating to your ears, and your attempt to sit up fails when your body refuses to peel itself away from his desk. “Don’t stop, please? So close.” That was… barely a sentence, but you beg silently that it does the job. Remembering his request, you squeeze the hand you’re holding once to reassure him.

Jimin smiles at your resilience. “Okay, but we’ll go slow this time. Ah, ah,” he tuts when you begin to whine. “Slow or not at all. Your choice.”

You grit your teeth at the illusion of choice, but the pace he’s set doesn’t seem so bad at all. With a great sigh, you relent to his wishes. “Slow,” you whisper. “We can go slow. I promise I’ll be good, sir.”

“Sir?” he muses with a raised brow. “Hmm… Well, I do like the sound of that. And what about you? Do you like ‘sweetheart’,” he plants a kiss on your thigh. You shiver. “…’baby’,” another kiss, this time higher, “…’pet’?” Jimin replaces his fingers with his mouth as he makes out with your cunt, his tongue slipping in and out of your pulsing hole. Face soaked with your arousal; he returns his fingers in their rightful place, eyes glinting with mischief as he fucks you slowly. “Or maybe, you prefer something harsher… how about ‘slut’?” Jimin attaches his mouth on your clit, grazing the nub ever-so-gently with his teeth.

Your gasp slips into a moan at the spine-chilling sensation, your eyes rolling back. “Love it—ah! Call me whatever you w-want.”

“My good, pretty slut. So turned on she’s making a mess all over my desk. I’m sure the smell will linger for days,” he chuckles into your skin. “Oh, look at you, clenching hard around my fingers. You like the thought of me walking inside my office tomorrow and thinking of you, huh? I’ve always known you were territorial. Isn’t that why you won’t let me hire a partner for you? Staking your claim as the only person that always has access to me?” At your subtle nod, his smile widens into a mischievous grin. “Looks like I was wrong about you being good. You’re a naughty thing, aren’t you?”

Jimin couldn’t help the taunts coming out from his mouth, the true nature of his being – the need to corrupt – showing itself through the cracks in the control he wields. And you… so responsive, beyond anything he’s ever imagined. Your body is so sensitive that it doesn’t require him to use his powers at all. Maybe the dreams he’s been poisoning you with have taken affect. The thought saddens him somehow. Could this not have happened without the use of his powers after all? Was he nothing without them?

Caught in his thoughts, Jimin doesn’t realize the stutter in his movements. He’s about to apologize when you interrupt him, as you assume that it’s your fault for not responding to his questions. “Sir, please! I swear I’m a good girl. Please don’t stop… I’m so close.”

His spirits lift at the sight of you mewling before him, your body jumping with every crook of his fingers inside. No, he thinks, it’s time for him to focus on you and nothing else, resonating with his earlier advice. He releases a little bit of his power, letting it mingle with the air to heighten your senses. “If you’re so good, cum for me then,” he breathes, drowning you in praise and kisses along your heated skin. “One more time. Let me hear you call my name one more time.”

“Jimin—” you obey, breathless and shaking. “Jimin.”

His name is a prayer etched upon your lips and with every inhale, Jimin’s unaware of the mark he’s left, not just riddled along your skin, but at the very core of your heart. This time, when you come undone, it’s with a blazing inferno, your body calling out to your release and a strong desire for him to be yours.

“That’s it. Let go.”

So, you do. With your heart trapped in your throat, pounding along to the tune of his fingers; with your nails scratching the back of his hand that you’ve held through the entire duration; and with all your adoration, pouring out from every crevice you didn’t know existed in your body.

This time, when you beg him to stop, Jimin listens. He stands to claim your lips sweetly, engulfing them with his, a slow kindling in comparison to before. Your eyes can barely open, but when you manage to peek, you see the knot of concentration resting on his brows. The smile finds its way into the kiss, one that Jimin reciprocates. It doesn’t matter that you can taste your saltiness on his tongue, because all that exists now is Jimin.

Jimin, your attentive boss, who’s always had his team’s best interest in mind.

Jimin, the harmless flirt, who reminds you every day that you’re beautiful when he catches you staring at your reflection in the mirror with a cocky grin.

Jimin, colleague, friend, and hopefully lover.

You intertwine your arms around his neck to pull him deeper, closer, until there’s not an inch of air between your bodies. What you’re doing hardly constitutes as kissing – lips gliding across each other. Exhaustion seeps into your bones, making them heavier than before. When you part, there’s beautiful silence, a serenity created from unspoken words, though there’s a quiet certainty that both parties feel the same way despite their unshared feelings.

“Jimin, I…” you begin to whisper, the confession sitting idly on your tongue. Your lids are heavy, refusing to open despite your desire to see his face. “That was incredible.”

Jimin nuzzles his face on the crook of your neck, breathing you in, sweat and all. “Satisfied?”

You chuckle breathlessly, a shaky hand absentmindedly playing with his hand. “I don’t know if I can stand, injury aside. I’m pretty sure my legs are wobbly.”

“I can always carry you to your car,” he hums. “Better yet, let me take you home.”

“I’d like that very much.”

Jimin helps you up with a firm hand on your back before handing you the clothes he threw earlier on the floor. When your hands are too shaky to loop the buttons of your blouse, he chuckles and takes over, so you take the time to admire his beauty – at the now-messy blonde hair that frames the sides of his face, a complete disarray compared to his normal slicked-back look; at his cheeks, dotted crimson from exertion; and all the way to the satisfied smirk resting on that perfect pout. Oh, you can kiss him all day.

Naturally, your gaze gravitates to his eyes, and you smile when you notice his expanded pupils, how they almost engulf the crimson of his irises that they’re almost black.

…Crimson?

Your hand wraps around his wrist to stop his current task while your eyes search his face for an explanation.

At the death grip circling around his wrists, he stares into your wide eyes with confusion. “Is there something on my face?”

“Red,” is all you say, a whisper of disbelief, but it’s enough for Jimin to connect the dots.

There’s a crack in his carefully constructed façade.

“Shit!” He rips his hands away to turn around and shield his eyes from yours. Jimin has used his power the entire day, and now he’s left spent, an empty battery, unable to erase your memory and change his appearance. He tries to think of an excuse – something to put you at ease for now, but nothing would make sense, and his panicking brain has left the building in lieu of aiding him.

Red. Just like your dreams. The feeling of déjà vu, the heavy fog that puts you to sleep… was it all his doing? Your face pales into horror as you look for an answer in his quaking shoulders. It couldn’t be… right?

“Are you the reason for my dreams?” You had to make sure. He can’t be the reason for it… right? When he doesn’t respond, you leave the desk and approach his figure. “Jimin?”

Just before your hand touches his back, Jimin moves away. “Stay back,” he murmurs in warning. “I… I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

You retract your hand away, but you’re firm in your stance, refusing to move until you have an explanation. “Tell me. Just who are you?”

Jimin struggles with his options. Erasing your memory is the safest bet, but it’s a power he has yet to master. The fickle nature of the magic would mean that he’d risk losing this entire night with you. Going back to your relationship before would be agony. There was no way he’d be able to be the same boss, you’d spy the longing on his face a mile away. No, erasing your memory was not an option… so, what does that leave him?

“The truth.” You voice his thoughts so easily. “I want to know the truth.”

This entire day was all wrong. You weren’t supposed to find out so soon. He figured he could hide his true nature a little longer, but now any hopes of a relationship with you have been thrown out the window… all because he couldn’t maintain his control over his powers. Stupid. So, stupid. He’d have to relocate, so he doesn’t have to see your face.

The soft call of his name breaks him from his thoughts, like a hand reaching out into the darkness. In his agony, he accepts your help, which means turning around to face you.

To face the truth.

A gasp leaves your lips. And then he begins.

“I’m not human, though I don’t doubt you’ve probably figured it out.” Jimin offers a rueful smile that you don’t reciprocate. You clamp your lips to avoid interrupting, letting him explain from the very beginning.

Your mind whirls with information about supposed mythical beings of old. When you ask how long he’s walked the earth, he winces. “Too long,” Jimin mumbles, but doesn’t delve further into the matter. You don’t broach the subject either. Jimin explains that he’s an incubus, who feasts on dreams to regain energy, but he swears he only takes a little at a time and that it hasn’t affected any of his previous targets.

You skirt over the fact that there’s been others before you. It makes sense, but the ugly green monster that rears its head is less rational than you are.

“So, your previous… targets,” your lips curl in disgust at the word, “don’t remember their dreams… Why do I remember mine?”

Jimin shrugs and stays silent, though you have a feeling it’s not from lack of knowledge.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whisper with regret.

Though he isn’t surprised by your decision, his heart breaks all the same. He hangs his head in shame, letting the curtain of his hair shield you from his tears. Of course, you’d feel cheated; manipulated. Any rational human would assume so – that their emotions are completely fabricated because of his powers, even he couldn’t be deluded enough to believe the possibility of your feelings to be genuine. Yet, your next words bring a flutter of hope in his heart.

“10… 15 years will go by like a blink of an eye and everyone will begin to wonder why you haven’t changed.” You shake your head, not in disbelief, but to rid the thoughts of a domestic life ahead with him as you begin to lay the foundation of a wall around your heart. “And if we have kids…” That’s a delusion too far in the future, but you’d be lying to say you hadn’t thought of it. You shake your head once. Firmly. Discarding all hopes of a future with Jimin.

When you lift your head to apologize for a final time, you’re surprised to find him amused instead of grief-stricken.

“What?”

Jimin can hardly contain his excitement. “So… your only problem is time-related? That I won’t grow old with you?”

Was he insinuating that your concerns are stupid? “Okay, Mr. Demon,” you scowl. “What other problems should I be worried about?”

He chuckles quietly before reaching out, the tips of his fingers brushing against your cheek. Your body turns rigid, and you’re hardly breathing. With a wicked grin, he whispers, “How about the fact that I have the ability to compel you to serve me? Haven’t you considered that I, a demon, may be dangerous?”

This time, it’s your turn to laugh. Through your heaving breaths, you manage to see the pout on his face, which only makes you laugh harder. “Jimin,” you chuckle, wiping your tears with the palm of your hand. “I have no doubt that you would have done it already if you wanted to. So, yes, I’m more worried about the time thing.”

“Does that mean…” he whispers, hopeful. “Does that mean you want to grow old with me?”

“Yes. I mean no! I mean—”

“Please,” he cuts you off. “The truth.”

It isn’t fair how he used your words against you, but you answer him anyway. “I don’t know if we should jump into talking about marriage so quickly,” you mumble, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “I mean! We’re not even dating yet.”

“Then be my girlfriend.”

You must be hearing things. “What?”

Jimin takes a step towards you, his palm now fully resting against your cheek. “I mean it. If your only issue is time, I already have a solution. I gave up my immortality a year ago now,” he confesses. His crimson eyes hold the same intense yearning you’re too familiar with: of sleepless nights alone, and of unsatisfactory touches from strangers. “I would’ve explained everything to you if you hadn’t found out today, but, I guess this is sort of fate?”

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “In all my time on this earth, I’ve never met someone like you, and I don’t think I’ll meet another after you either. That’s why it must be you. Even an immortal being dies eventually, and I’d rather choose my way of ‘going’, so to speak.”

Jimin lets the words sink in, waiting patiently for your response. “You meant it all?” you parrot, stunned at the confession. “How long have you been… interested in me?” Was it too early to say ‘love’? Depending on his answer, you assume so.

“When you introduced yourself five years ago in this office,” he sighs wistfully, stealing a glance at his door like he’s relieving the memory. “All I’ve wanted to do was to touch you;” he leans in, face inching closer.

“To kiss you;” he whispers as his lips mould against yours.

“To hold you.” Jimin wraps you up in an embrace, holding you tightly in his arms. In your ears, he whispers, a final confession that eases all your worries. “I want to grow old with you.”

The sincerity in his voice brings you to tears, and you let them fall, soaking the white of his shirt grey.

“Hey, hey, are you crying? Did I say something wrong? Please don’t cry…” Jimin frets, lowering himself to hook his chin on your shoulder, so he could squeeze you tighter.

You nuzzle further into his chest with a teary chuckle. “N-No. Nothing’s wrong. Just happy.”

“Good,” he mumbles before planting a soft kiss on your cheek. “Although now that I think about it, I haven’t heard your response.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you forgotten already?” he chuckles. “I asked you to be my girlfriend.”

“More like demanded,” you snicker. “But yes, I’d love nothing more, but you’re going to have to prove yourself to me first.”

Jimin lights up at your response, the ruby in his eyes glowing bright despite the dim light. “Of course, anything you ask, I’ll do it. I’ll show you every day that my feelings are genuine.”

He then proceeds to hold up his pinkie towards you. “As long as you promise to stay with me?”

With a laugh, you join your pinkie with his, sealing the promise with a final kiss.

“I do.”

moon's notes: i didn't include sex in this because i'm kind of bored of writing it tbh? but i will have a drabble out sometime next week for this couple because i love them so so much! what do you think about the dulce somnii universe so far? do you like it? what theories do you have for the other members 👀

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Scent of a Woman {KNJ romance}

Pairing: leopard hybrid parfumerie boss!Namjoon x female reader!employee

Genre: Hybrid AU. Romance. Smut. Pining. Slow burn. Angst. strong father themes. NOT DADDY-type themes. EXPLICIT 🔞🔞🔞

Warnings: super super eemootiionaaal sex- is that a warning? No breed-you-with-my-pups here. Leopard-style sex, which just means, really, he comes in from the back ( I watched Nat Geo to make sure LOL). Mirror sex (so that they can look at each other @ralypenny this is part of your ask that I finally fulfilled).

Summary: In this hybrid AU, hybrids are rich and powerful. You are fully human in form and in weakness. Too bad you’re falling for your hybrid boss. And mayhaps he’s falling for you.

Word count: 10k

Special thanks: @hobi-gif for being a kick-ass beta reader with 56 edits that I never knew I needed. You read this while you were so tired, and took the time to encourage me. I'm so grateful.

Much appreciation to the following who have read it in some point of draft form and encouraged me: @httpnamjoonie94reads @jinfizz, @bonvoyagenoona @bangtanmademedoit @lcksndkys @xjoonchildx

——————————

“Stupid human,

Homo sapien

Little Alien

Tiny Cranium

Eat uranium

Poop Titanium

Homo sapien

Stupid human.”

You know the chant by heart.

Even now, more than twenty years later, the tune, the cadence, the leering faces that surrounded you are hauntingly familiar.

One glance at your comparably smaller build, your simple clothes, your plain, singular-species face was obvious enough to announce to anyone that you’re fully human.

The hybrids of your time are often part of the super-rich. It’s no surprise considering their survival instincts for attracting the richest, biggest, smartest, and fastest mates are well-honed from centuries of evolution.

Imbued with stronger genes than full-blooded humans, the hybrids live longer, look prettier, work faster, breed better, and probably fuck harder too.

So you were expected to count yourself lucky your mother worked as a live-in housekeeper for a rich hybrid family. And you were expected to count yourself lucky that their residential address allowed you to benefit from the most exclusive school districts in the country full of wealthy hybrids.

But you weren’t lucky.

Everyone knew you as the housekeeper’s daughter, as if that were more dignified than your name. Everyone made fun of you for being smaller, slower, shorter. More human.

And every day, you trudged to school, walking down the halls feeling like prey waiting to be fed to a room full of predators.

So you suffered alone through elementary, middle, and high school, always as the housekeeper’s daughter, always the butt of their jokes, always ready with fingers curled into hard fists to fend for yourself.

With each passing year, three things became clear to you:

You could never work for a hybrid.

You would never date a hybrid.

You should never, ever fuck a hybrid.

(Unless he was really good looking.)

————————

Kim Namjoon feels a little disconcerted.

He’s always been uber confident in his decisions, single-minded in his pursuit to establish the city’s most sought after bespoke parfumerie.

But lately, he’s doubting his choice to hire you as his shop assistant.

Your presence in his parfumerie disorients him. At first, it’s how the shop’s minimalist decor was suddenly disrupted by a burst of colour when you snuck in an inelegant bunch of flowers and placed them in a little jar of water, tucked away in an inconspicuous corner.

The old florist at the corner couldn’t sell this yesterday was your excuse. The petals were starting to droop, leaves yellowing with age, stems weak and insipid. And though the red gerberas clashed with the pathetic little violets, they held his gaze whenever he passed by.

Every day, a new bunch of sad-looking flowers would sit in the same jar, in different leftover color combinations. And every day, he found himself looking forward to them. Today it’s bright pink carnations mixed with orange marigolds, vulgar in their color but intriguing in their scent. Yesterday, it was half-dead roses mixed with a bright yellow peony.

He’s used to perfection— precision even —not this explosive mess of color and smells. By his standards, he should not even think these haphazard flowers are pretty. But here he is, admiring the furl of the carnation petal, thinking how silky smooth it feels despite its ragged edge. It’s almost… beautiful, nevermind the little brown flecks from its over exposure in the sun.

He doesn’t know why he quietly lets you bring this visual chaos into the calm monochrome of his shop. Or why he stops breathing a little when you brush past him to dust the corner of the shelf. (The shop has never been cleaner since you arrived.)

He can’t fathom why it’s suddenly hard to finalize the top notes of a perfume for one of his most important clients. Or why he finds himself wondering about the shampoo you’re using because the fragrance is driving him insane with curiosity.

But here you are, tying your buttery yellow hair ribbon on the door handle because it looks pretty like that and you heard an old country song on the way here and there’s no old oak tree to tie that around so the door will have to do.

He grimaces a little at your prattling, not trusting himself to speak. Because, truth be told, he wants nothing more than to rip off that ribbon and let his nose linger all over the satin fabric. He wants to, no, needs to, break down the entire fragrance profile which teases him every time you’re near.

It’s only logical since he’s in the perfume business.

At least, this is what he tells himself as he clenches his knuckles white to stop himself.

Only logical.

----------------------------------

Sometimes, you wonder what it’s like to be thoroughly fucked by the Kim Namjoon.

But of course, as your boss, he’s off limits like everyone else you’ve been attracted to. Let’s see… there was your brother’s best friend, your best friend’s ex-boyfriend, your science lab partner whom you later found out was gay and actually pining for the guy across the aisle.

You have a niggling feeling that you’re living in a strange fanfic universe full of well-trodden tropes but you banish those thoughts just like you banish your thoughts about Mr. Kim.

You remind yourself you are just a shop assistant and you desperately need this salary. That you have three rules regarding hybrids: one which you’ve already broken, two which you wish you could break, and all three with Kim Namjoon.

Sigh. If only you didn’t need this job, then there would be no rules to break. Your degree in art was a total waste of money in terms of finding a job after graduation. And when you walked by the swanky, modern storefront which advertised for a shop assistant six months ago, you ventured in without hesitation, desperate to pay off your college loan after another failed interview.

Entering the elegant interior, you went quiet for a moment as you spied a man suited impeccably in black, his gaze intent on the glass beakers of oils set on the counter.

It really had been too long since you studied a man who was not Cezanne or Matisse. With his sleek, sinewy build paired with a breathtaking side profile, he looked like a very tall, and very delicious glass of dark rum and Coke: sweet, smooth, and altogether dangerous.

Suddenly remembering you were here for a job opening, you were determined to make a first good impression.

“Hi—” you try your brightest, chirpiest voice.

“You’re hired,” he declared, without looking up.

“Excuse me? Wait. What?” you asked, heart racing.

“You’re obviously not here to buy perfume, so you must be here for the job opening. You’re hired. Starting today.”

You glanced at your plain black and white office attire that you’ve worn to hundreds of interviews. This was a high-end boutique but you didn’t think you looked that poor.

“If you really want to know, it’s not the outfit, it’s the desperation,” he said, eyes still focused on each drop of amber liquid he’s releasing into the glass beaker from an oil dropper.

“D-desperation?”

“I smelled it. Heard it in the thudding of your heart the moment you’d walked in.” He said it like he was talking about his coffee order (iced Americano, venti). “You’re desperate. And I need someone. Don’t usually take a full-blooded human. But I’ll take you.”

He finally lifted his eyes and you saw their slight but unmistakable fiery glow.

He’s one of the big-cat hybrids. They always seem so sleek and sophisticated, so sure of themselves and well, confident. It’s the money, it’s the superior genes, it’s everything... you’re not.

“Um, yes. I’m desperate for a job. Mister...?” You were nervous as hell. He was making you nervous as hell. Perhaps he was toying with you, like how a cat likes to play with a mouse.

“Kim. But call me Namjoon.”

That Kim Namjoon. The one in the tabloids for all the wrong reasons.

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m the right candidate for this position. I’ll just see myself ou—”

“Wait. You don’t have to worry about that. My hybrid interests are rather, you might say, specific.” He smirked, as if he would ever be interested in you, full-blooded in human form and human weakness.

Okay. You’re not his type. Got the message loud and clear. “Uh, the monthly salary?”

Lips curled in a triumphant grin, he announced, “5 million won.”

Holy shit.

And so that’s how you find yourself here, days peacefully filled with dusting between crystal flasks and glass beakers, fetching blotters and flacons for Mr. Kim, sweeping the shop floor and making everything sparkle.

Your daily tasks also involve decanting perfume oils according to your boss’ specifications for sampling. By now, you’re used to arranging the vials of oil on a little movable bar cart for his signature bespoke sessions with each client; always paired with a glass of bubbly for Miss or Madam.

Cleaning, dusting, decanting are all easy parts of this job.

The hard part is dealing with the disdain, and sometimes, even disgust, you get from his clients—all female hybrids of some variety. They flock to this boutique because for the longest time, it’s been taboo among the female upper class hybrids to carry the scent of their hybrid ancestry.

You feel like you should pity them; after all, they can’t help it if they smell like horse and hay, like wild game or cat piss.

But it’s difficult when they never grace you with a second glance when they enter the shop; harder still when they brush off invisible dirt from being infected by your presence when they leave.

With their impossibly high cheekbones, noses yet higher in the air, they show not an iota of kindness. To them, you’re just staff. And well, you of all people know the hybrids are used to treating their staff a certain way.

You remind yourself the salary is worth the dismissive tone, the scornful glances.

That you can and you will carry yourself with dignity even though you weren’t born into money like them.

That the only difference between you and them is that they’ve held the attention of Kim Namjoon for hours at a time.

That he has listened to each one talk about her favorite childhood memories, her favorite meal, her hopes and dreams to get a feel of what she’d like in a personal fragrance.

That when he works on a new fragrance for a client, she’s all he thinks about, always quietly brooding about the fragrance profile until a rare smile breaks across his face because he’s got it.

That he’ll smell the inside of her wrists, inhale a breath behind her ears to see if the scent combination worked with her skin. The top note. The heart note. The base note.

He’s just doing his job. You tell yourself.

It’s not a big deal. Not at all.

Then why do you wish that you could just be one for them, just for one day?

--------------------------------------------

Kim Namjoon just can’t get this right.

He’s been building Eau de Parfum No. 1071 for a client for some time now. The complex fragrance was going well with its symphony of sandalwood, vetiver, oud and oakmoss. The top notes of orange flow like a kind, generous invitation, the base notes carried mainly by oakmoss and sandalwood are strong and supportive, but the heart note, the heart was missing.

On a whim he tries a bit of vanilla. Too flighty.

Maybe a bit of neroli. Too serious.

He thinks for a moment and then looks over his files on this client. Perhaps something floral. Or fig?

It’s here where he works his hardest, commanding oils to mix and mesh, to meld into a message. Sometimes it’s longing, other times, it’s innocence. This client wants sophistication, and Kim Namjoon always delivers.

Yet, something about this fragrance profile of No. 1071 puzzles him. It seems a little too masculine for the client in question.

Perturbed, he approaches you. He almost never asks for a second opinion, but he can’t stop his feet from stalking quietly out of his private office and onto the shop floor.

Nowadays, he finds himself relishing the split second before you sense his presence.

It’s when he can breathe in your entirety, undisturbed. He misses nothing, not the perpetual slight tilt of your head like you’re listening to some invisible music of the spheres, not the impish grin of your lips like you’re in cahoots with those god-awful flowers you bring in everyday. There’s the serious eyes, the sometimes sassy mouth. Smart and sexy like a mix of heaven and hell.

It’s a while before you notice him, and his heart skips a beat when you ask in that quiet, serious way of yours, “Yes, Mr. Kim?”

“I need you to smell this and tell me what you think,” he says, voice a little crackly.

“Well, Mr. Kim, that would be an extra twenty thousand won per hour,” you quip, a little smile peeking below your serious eyes. “But, honestly, I don’t know much about the accords and notes and...”

“Just use your instincts. Just feel.”

He holds out the testing strip to you, thinking himself a little stupid for asking for help.

He looks carefully at how your hand moves closer and closer to his. How the inches, then centimeters bring you nearer to him; fingers almost touching.

Shit, Namjoon sees a slight tremble in his hand. He’s sure you see it too. Why the hell is he so nervous?

He expects you to take the tester from him. But, eyes closed, you lean in to take a whiff. He wonders fleetingly if you look like this when you kiss. You’re quiet, nose hovering just above the tester, just over his fingers, the light touch of the in-and-out of your breathing feathering his skin.

Fighting to hold still, he focuses on you as the scent begins to hit you in different ways. A look of complete and utter longing flits across your features, and he sees you’ve surrendered completely to the heart of the fragrance. “What does it smell like?” He’s desperate to know.

For a long while, you can’t answer him.

“It smells like...” you murmur, “like my dad. My dad.”

Your father would twirl you round and round under the orange tree in the greenhouse at sunset when his day’s work was done; your nose buried in his plain cotton shirt, every warp and weft woven with the fragrance of the flowers he grew. The hands that lifted you and tossed you in the air were hands that carried the smell of the earth, rich with moss.

He was a gardener for the wealthy, and while he grew flowers, he raised you until… until you were not old enough.

“I miss him. He left too soon.”

Kim Namjoon doesn’t know what to say. Words like I’m sorry; words like I’m sure he’s proud of you; those words are not enough. He wishes he could touch you, pull you into him, shelter you with an umbrella against the grey sky of grief until light breaks through.

But he’s your boss. He can’t.

Wordlessly, he hands you a tissue.

“Thanks, I’m fine, really,” you sniff. “I’ll get back to work now, Mr. Kim.”

Namjoon hears the steely strength in your voice even though your breath is shaky. “The shelves don’t mean anything, Y/N. Not today. If you need time…”

“I’m okay. I miss him. That’s all.” Squaring your shoulders, you go back to wiping down the shelves.

But the sudden thought of the paper tester cradling the scent of your dad in its pores dumped unceremoniously in the trash stops you. “Mr, Kim, if you don’t want the testing strip anymore, could I have it please?”

“Of course.” Namjoon leaves the strip on the edge of the counter, careful not to contaminate the part holding the fragrance.

Back in his office, Kim Namjoon sits down and opens his leather-bound ledger. It’s where he records every perfume he has created for clients over the years. A new fragrance will be entered in its pages today. The sample vial sits quietly on his mirrored desk, waiting to be named.

When he’s done, he slips quietly into the backroom where you keep your bag and places the tiny bottle of perfume oil beside it.

Written on the label is his small neat script:

Dad. For Y/N.

Eau De Parfum No. 1072

By KNJ

No. 1072 will forever be yours now.

-------------------

You’re so embarrassed.

You’ve never been late before. Not for work. Not for school. Not even for your expected date of birth, arriving right on the dot at the stroke of midnight, quietly triumphant of your punctuality even as a little babe.

You shudder at the confluence of all the bad luck that happened today.

The one day you forget your umbrella is when a sudden burst of rain catches you unprepared. Traffic was snarling as the slippery roads caused a car accident along the way.

As the rain wreaks havoc on your dress, you scold yourself for wearing your glasses today instead of contacts. You can hardly see a thing as you hurry up the path to the shop from the bus-stop. And what a stupid choice of an outfit today. A fitted white linen dress? You might as well be wearing nothing at this rate that you’re getting wet. Even the flower seller by the corner knew better than to put out her bouquets at the shop front this morning. You better hurry. You’re so late.

Without warning, you find yourself lurching forward over the cobblestones, balance completely fucked as your last coherent thought mocks you: you should not have worn your stupid pair of wedges today with the shitty grip. Bracing your arms out in front of you for the impact to come, you’re surprised when you find yourself in the strong, safe grasp of… your boss.

“Easy there,” he murmurs. Kim Namjoon must be a leopard hybrid of the highest order. You neither heard nor saw him a second ago. And now, he’s steadying you with his arm around your waist, his umbrella over you.

God. He’s so close.

Namjoon knows he held you for a second longer than he probably should, but it’s a second that he will cherish and play over and over again in his mind later. “You should remember your umbrella next time,” he says, trying to distract himself from petrichor, the smell of rain, mingled with the scent of a woman— your scent.

“I should,” was all you can reply, too affected by how your shoulders and elbows are bumping against each other underneath the umbrella to say more. Were you imagining the reluctance in his fingers when he let go of your waist just now? You shiver at the thought. It can’t be.

Namjoon sees it and thinks you’re cold, the wind picking up speed now. He wonders if he should take off his suit jacket and drape it around you temporarily; at least until you get to the shelter of the shop. But then his jacket would smell like you and he’s not sure if he would be able to concentrate for the rest of the day after that.

His own instinct for survival kicks in and overtakes his heart. No, his jacket stays on.

“Glad I went out to get a coffee earlier or I wouldn’t have seen you.” He’s trying to explain why he’s here, beside you; trying to hide the fact that he saw your lithe figure struggling up the hill, and how he worried when he spied you without an umbrella.

He can’t believe he’s lying.

So he doesn’t say anymore, just gives you his arm to hold while you negotiate the slippery sidewalk. It’s wiser than holding you; letting go of you for the second time would prove to be difficult.

You’re quiet, rendered blind by your rapidly fogging up glasses, deaf by the drumming of raindrops, mute by the closeness of his presence, and crippled by your stupid, stupid shoes.

But you can smell, and you can feel.

And, dear reader, he smells amazing. Like strength and trust. And somehow, it makes you feel quite, quite safe.

-----------------------------------------

Inside the shop, he grabs a towel from the back and gives it to you. You murmur a word of thanks as you quickly fumble open your satchel to take out a sketchbook, groaning when you see that the rain has soaked through the pages of the book. You try to dab away the damp pages with the towel, but the water damage is already extensive.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kim, could I lay these out on the counter? I know they don’t look like much, just pencil sketches really, but I hope I could dry out each page before they stick to each other. It’s just—I spent so many hours on—"

“Go on.” It amuses him that you didn’t even bother to dry your dripping hair, nor the soaked dress wrapped around your body.

You carefully take out each sketch and lay it across the glossy surface, every art piece precious, every penciled stroke so intimately a part of you that you know its when, where, and why.

It feels like you’re laying bare yourself to a stranger. You wish he weren’t here, wish his prying eyes weren’t raking over the drawings.

But for the sake of your sketches, you soldier on, murmuring an apology to each naked sketch, unpainted and unfinished, as you thrust it on the cold glass of the counter.

Namjoon loses count of exactly how many drawings there are, every picture inviting him to see the world through your eyes.

The ladybird, quiet and brooding with the weight of the world on her shoulders as she considers a leaf.

The field of daffodils like a class of eager children waving their stretched hands to answer an easy question from the sun.

“When do you find time to draw?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the sketches, moving slowly along the counter to admire each one. He knows if he looks at you, he might do something fucking stupid after catching a glimpse of your body under the sheer, translucent dress.

“Here and there. Sometimes after I finish dusting here at the shop. Sometimes when I go home. Or even on the bus.”

He senses your apprehension with the last pages of your sketchbook that you’re clutching to your bosom. “Don’t hide them from me. They’re beautiful,” he says gesturing to the rest of your pictures. “Let me see, please.”

At his request, you offer the last two pieces to him. His gaze is intense as he zeroes in on the clever curve of the leopard’s tail on your paper. He stares at it, instantly recognizing his own steely gaze in the big cat, the signature scowl on the left side of his jaw drawn to perfection.

And then, there’s the picture of the fig tree—its trunk, leaf, and flower etched as if by the hand of god. Lost in his thoughts, he’s clutching on the two sketches a little too tightly than you like.

“Mr Kim. Mr. Kim. Um, could I have it back please?” Any moment now and he might tear it. It might be just a sketch but it’s still a piece of work that you treasure.

He snaps back to reality and finally notices his fingers are almost ready to crumple the flimsy paper bearing your sketch. “Shit. I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” he apologizes. “Here. Don’t stop drawing. They’re perfect. Just, uh… don’t stop. I’ll be in my office. Let me know when my ten o’clock arrives.”

You nod quietly, glad to have some time to clean up and get dry, but also a little puzzled as to what came over your boss.

————----------------------------

Namjoon bursts out into his office, glad to sink into his chair, comforted by the familiarity of his desk and surrounded by his array of pipettes, testing strips, glass bottles, and vials. They are uncomplicated things, precise and emotionless. Dependable. Predictable.

For a cat hybrid, he is more a lone wolf than anything, preferring the solace of his own company, the solitude of his thoughts. The memories of his dad had almost suffocated him out there on the shop floor. Emotions are not his forte.

The picture you drew ushered the smell of figs to him, bringing him back immediately to that fateful evening where a plate of freshly cut figs lay ignored on his father’s mahogany desk.

“Son, it’s time to stop the fucking around and take your place in the company.”

“I’m sorry, but my answer is still no. It’s just not me. I can’t report to a dozen board members, to thousands of shareholders.” And most of all, if he cared to admit it, he couldn’t report to his overbearing father.

When will his father ever understand he prefers the calm of sandalwood to the clamor of the boardroom? That he loves the complexities of jasmine, and fucking hates the backstabbing in the corporate world? Even with his fancy Sloan School MBA which his father had insisted on, his interests surely lie more in perfume than price projections for the quarterly report.

“Namjoon, walk out of here and you will amount to nothing. You hear? Nothing. Your duty is here. Your legacy is here. Your future is here. I’ve planned it out for you. It’s yours for the taking. Stay here. Stay home.”

He remembers how he took the house key out of his pocket and placed it next to the plate of figs. How he felt free when he turned and started for the doors. His dad did not follow him nor call after him, but it was the scent of fig which pursued him, saturating his pores, tempting him to walk out of paradise with shame and regret like the first sinner in the family.

But no, he had stalked out of there, head held high, finally a master of his own destiny.

Namjoon wishes he didn’t have to revisit these memories brought on by your drawings. But oh god—your drawings.

Who knew his pretty little assistant could draw so well?

Your style is a little raw, a little wild; unrestrained yes, but also, lively. He’s intrigued. He wants to find out more—because, he tells himself, because, he’s an art collector. His interests are purely business.

Really.

----------------------------------

The next day you arrive at the store to set up for the day’s clients when you notice a stack of Strathmore sketch pads of thick, heavy paper and Caran D'ache sketch pencils wrapped in satin blue ribbon. Written simply on the card, were the words Don’t stop.

It looks expensive as hell and you know it’s meant for you, but there’s no way you can accept it. Better your one-dollar pencil on recycled paper than a debt owed to a hybrid family you cannot repay.

And so you leave it at the corner of the glass counter, its shiny mirrored surface mocking you for your prudishness for not accepting his gift every time you glance in that direction.

Oh but fuck, how your hands itch to test the glide of smooth graphite on the cream of the paper. You know you cannot. You know you must not. Your mama has taught you never to be indebted to anyone or anything. There’s danger written all over that gift. The sample vial of perfume was different. That was something he would have thrown away. But this—this is different.

With a sigh, you take out the polishing cloth, determined to finally deep-clean his desk and office chair before he comes in. He’s usually in by this time, already hard at work in his private office. It’s a good thing you can give it a go today.

Mixed in the grain of the dark, rich leather chair, you catch a whiff of his scent. It smells of power, tempered with a softness you’re surprised to detect. You can’t help but press your nose into its plush cushioned back a little more.

It reminds you a little of the sweetness of hay mixed with the musk of the stable horses on your grandparents’ farm. You rub the polishing cloth all over the leather chair, dreaming of those carefree days. How good it felt to go barefoot in the soft earth, dandelions spread across the carpet of grass like rich, yellow butter.

Next, his black mirrored desk.

You use the special glass polish for this, making sure not to smudge the desk with your fingers.

The mirrored surface is unforgiving, and you see the tiny scar above your lip, the one the bully gave you at the playground (for which you returned a black eye) when you were six.

And there there’s your non-hybrid eyes, looking entirely plain, and completely uninteresting. You sigh. If only to be born a hybrid. Imagine the riches, the privilege, the—

you catch his eyes in the mirror of the desk.

“Mr. Kim!” you gasp, “Shit, you scared me!”

“Sorry. Didn’t expect you here. You’re usually out at the front,” he says.

“I—I just wanted to give it a clean,” you say. “I apologize—”

“No, it's fine. I’ll just head out and come back later—” he says.

“I’m actually done here,” you offer.

“Great. Thanks.” He watches as you gather the cleaning supplies and leave, his gaze never intrusive, but never leaving your retreating form.

“About the pencils and paper—” he begins.

“I’m sorry, I can’t accept such a gift,” you apologize.

“Well, what if I say, I want you to draw whatever inspires you in the shop and we can consider which ones to put around the shop or use as graphics for new labels for the perfumes?”

He senses your hesitation, so he ploughs on, “I’ll put it in your job description so it’s not like you’ll have a choice.”

Draw? As part of your job?

“Mr. Kim. I may be a poor employee, but I always have a choice,” you say quietly.

He takes a moment to savor the shape of your words and their quiet dignity. “Well damn. I apologize for being out of line. I hope by now, you know you are anything but a poor employee to me.”

He doesn’t know what the hell he means by that. It just slipped out. “Just… do whatever you wish. You should know by now that I trust you. If the daily duties are done, you’re free to use the time as you see fit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kim. I appreciate it.”

“For the hundredth time, it’s Namjoon.”

“Certainly, Mr. Kim,” you say, the corners of your mouth lifting into a wry smile. You’ve never called him Namjoon and never will. He should know that by now.

He smiles back, genuinely, dimples winking as he breaks into a little laugh.

The tension subsides between the both of you and somehow the air in the shop feels a little lighter than before.

———————————————-

Soon after, you begin to realize that you have less to do in the day. The perfume oils for sampling by each day’s clients are already decanted into the little vials when you arrive for work. And then, the black marble floors seem to look effortlessly clean. Plus little corners of the shop shelves seem to have had a dusting before you could get to it.

All of a sudden, you have so much more time to spend on your drawings (though you’re still not using any of the art materials he bought).

What the hell is going on?

You have a theory, and to test it, you decide to deliberately leave your scarf behind when you head out of the shop after work.

Twenty minutes later, you return to the shop. Through the glass windows, you spy the back outline of his form, mopping the floor as elegantly as a leopard hybrid would.

You hurry to unlock the door with your key and step onto the shop floor.

“Mr. Kim. What are you doing?” you ask, voice trembling. “Did I not do a good job?”

He turns to face you and actually looks guilty.

“No. No. I, uh, I just wasn’t hungry for dinner yet, so I thought I’d work on the floor,” he says. For all the confidence he exudes, he looks like a little schoolboy right now, hand caught in the cookie jar.

“You’re not very good at lying,” you say quietly. “Are you doing this so I have time to draw?”

Kim Namjoon wishes he doesn’t have to answer this but you’re staring at him and staring at him and suddenly he feels a little weak. “So, why are you back?” he asks, hoping to gain back some control over the rapid unravelling of the evening.

“I—I, ah, forgot my scarf.” God, that sounded pathetic.

“You’re not that convincing either,” he muses.

And then you’re looking at him and he’s gazing at you, and you wait for words that always come so easily to you but none arrive.

“Listen. It’s getting late. I know this little cafe two streets over. Do you...”

“Mr. Kim.” God. Why do you sound so needy? With great difficulty, you pluck the words one by one from your mind instead of letting them flow from your heart. “You’re right. It’s late. I—I better go.”

You turn quickly to go before you stop yourself. Any moment longer and you might actually say something stupid.

As you step out into the cold, you remind yourself that he’s part of the hybrid ruling class. Hybrids that look at you scornfully when they walk in. Hybrids that speak to you like you’re stupid. Hybrids that use a sanitizing wipe for their hands after you hand them their bottle of bespoke fragrance.

And lest you forget: you’re not his type.

He’d said so himself.

Didn’t he?

—————————————

After a while you get used to sketching and slowly move on to watercolors when it gets quiet at the shop, drawing inspiration from the scents around. The oud smells of longing, the geranium of innocence and wonder, ambergris reminds you of regret, while the coriander reminds you of mayhem and mischief.

Namjoon sees how the lines on your sketches are bolder, stronger. Your play with the color palette has become more adventurous, brushstrokes surer than before.

Just earlier today, he complimented you on the color blending, said your little painting reminded him of Sargent’s work. You blushed, proud that the wet washes and sponging you used caught his attention in the best way possible.

When you return to the shop, you’re surprised to hear an unfamiliar male voice coming from his office, the door uncharacteristically open.

“Namjoon, don’t you think it’s time to end this charade of yours? You are our only son. Come home and do the right thing.”

“Come home to marry someone I haven’t even met? For the sake of the family company? Like I’m part of a business deal? I’m done with that shit.”

“Is there someone else?”

“I’m not going to even answer that question.”

“So there is someone. She better be a hybrid. You’re going to regret this. What will this shop amount to? Nothing. What will you, on your own, amount to? Nothing. But come home and I guarantee you will have everything you want.”

“Everything I want? You can’t even give me the one thing I need.”

You know you should not eavesdrop. That this is a private matter between your boss and his father. You’re just about to turn around to leave when the elder Mr. Kim steps out of the office and saunters to the front doors, pointedly ignoring you.

When he finally reaches the entrance, he turns and gives you a disdainful once-over which makes you feel uncomfortable as hell. You feel like a piece of meat he’s inspecting, one he finds terribly lacking. But, still he waits. Then you understand he’s not going to open the doors himself to exit the shop.

In an exaggerated show of duty, you rush there and hold the door open, bowing deeply as he makes his departure.

“Asshole,” you mutter under your breath, making sure he hears you before you quickly close and lock the door behind him. The elder Kim looks back and glares through the glass panel. You return the glare with an indifferent shrug only to turn around and bump right into your boss.

“I heard that.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kim, I couldn’t resist.” You’re not sure if you’re truly sorry, but it just felt like the polite thing to say to your boss after he catches you swearing at his own father.

“I was never good enough for him, you know,” he says quietly. “I went to the best schools, topped the class, graduated with summas, but still, he was never satisfied. And when I took over operations and turned it around, it was still not good enough. I had to walk away.”

There’s a glimmer of hurt in his eyes, a little catch in his throat. You wonder if you could comfort him with a hug. Whether his chin might press on the top of your head. Would you pull away first or would he?

He, surely. He’ll never see anything in you.

“Sometimes, walking away is the best thing we can do ourselves.” You’re about to reach for his arm to give a short, comforting squeeze but you decide against it at the last second, bringing your hand up awkwardly to smooth your hair.

Namjoon noticed how your hand lingered for a split second over his and swallows hard, not knowing why he even held his breath.

“You share the same name, Mr. Kim. But—but your heart is different. You’re not him.” It’s hard for you to walk away, yet you must.

As he watches the back of your silhouette disappear into the stockroom, he wishes he had the courage to ask you to stay to talk, just for a while. He wants you to reassure him again.

But he’s been a loner for so long that those words can’t come to him anymore.

At night, in the darkness of his shop, he sits alone in his office chair and weeps.

----------------------------------------------

It’s 8 p.m., closing time, and you’re rearranging the last row of crystal flasks of perfume when the door flings open violently, a gust of cold air blowing into the warmth of the darkened shop.

“Where is he?” the icy voice demands.

You recognize the face. A newish client, she’s absurdly beautiful, golden eyes, long-limbed, and perky in all the right places except in her demeanor. You remember how she was late for her own appointment and was extra demanding. Bitch would be completely inappropriate since she is a cat hybrid.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We’re closed now. Could I pencil you for an appointment with Mr. Kim tomorrow?” You keep your voice low, respectful.

“I want to see him. Now.” She strides towards his office at the back of the shop. You hurry to keep her from barging into his office.

“I’m so sorry. He’s not available at the moment. Perhaps I could offer some assistance?”

She looks you up and down with disdain. “And what do you think you can offer me?” quiet scorn dripping over each word.

“I am his assistant. Mr. Kim has deemed me fit to assist you,” you say, just as quiet, just as lethal. She backs you into the door of his office, eyes flashing with anger. Like hell you’ll give in to this self-entitled hybrid trash.

“I know what people like you want.” She reaches into her bag and pinches out a crisp fifty thousand won note between her delicate fingers, perfectly manicured. “You’re all the same.” Sliding the corner of the note to your cheek, she snaps it, each lightning quick thwack eager to remind you of your poverty. “I want. your. boss.”

“That’s enough,” his voice, dark and thick, slices in. The heat of his body is suddenly behind you, and you feel a measure of comfort that he’s now here.

“Namjoon—” she purrs, a smile, sweet and sickening, consumes her entire face.

“It’s Mr. Kim,” he says.

“Namjoon, this… this thing—" she points at you “—said you weren’t available. But you prrromised I can come to you anytime.”

“It’s Mr. Kim, and yes, anytime within office hours. Unfortunately, office hours are over, as are my services for you from now on.”

“My, my. So prrrrrotective over a little staff?”

“Out. Now.”

The tight clench of his jaw is unmistakable.

“Jooooonieeee, you know I didn’t mean it. I can play nice,” she purrs, suddenly playful.

“Out,” he says, resolute.

“It’s true then,” she smirks with a triumphant smile. “Daddy says your father told everyone this shop won’t amount to anything. That you won’t amount to anything. That you never know a good deal even if it were right in front of you.” She sighs airily, “Pity. I did like those samples.”

“I’m glad you did. You sure took enough,” you retort.

She turns to you, glaring. “Pity about the face.” With lighting reflexes, she raises her hand and scratches the side of your cheek with a single, freshly manicured nail.

The sting of her nail barely registers as you start to throw a punch back at her, but suddenly remembering your own dignity, you thought better of it, lowering your fist as fast as you raised it. It’s not worth it. She’s not worth it.

“OUT.” The snarl he emits reverberates within the shop and she flinches. Actually flinches.

Slinking off, she saunters toward the door, swaying her hips, pert nose in the air, sure that he’s watching her. “Get her trained prrrroperly,” she announces before slamming the door behind.

Namjoon turns to look at you.

You’re burning with anger, shame, disgusted with her and with yourself. You’ve never raised your hand against someone after the playground incident so many years ago. Today, you'd almost lost control.

A single drop of crimson slides down your cheek.

“Fuck. She hurt you,” he murmurs as he cups your cheek.

“I’m okay. Really.” You’re flustered by his tenderness, suddenly so close to him.

With something that can only be blamed on animal instinct, he leans into you, and licks up the side of your cheek, catching the bead of blood on the tip of his tongue.

He feels warm, wet, and just the tiniest bit rough and you moan on reflex, tilting your head back, not knowing why or how as you bare the smooth expanse of your neck to him.

“Mr. K—Kim.”

Namjoon does not hesitate often. But he does for a split second. “It’s Namjoon. It’s always Namjoon with you.” He’s breathing so hard, nostrils flaring from effort to not devour you completely. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Oh shit. This is just like in a fanfic.

You take a deep breath and say the word which dances across your dreams at night, the name which you forbid yourself to say in the day. “Namjoon.”

He’s no longer Mr. Kim. He’s Namjoon to your Y/N. Everything in him is fully awake, completely alert. He leans in and licks the little cut on your cheek again, but this time, he doesn’t just stop there. This time, he continues to trail his tongue down the curve of your jaw, and up the other side. “Need you,” he whispers by your ear, arms curling lightly around your shoulder to anchor his hands that want to run all over your body.

You tell yourself you don’t need him; no, not the way he needs you. You only want him. And wants come and go. Wants don’t always get fulfilled. You of all people should know that by now. Today, you’ll have your fill. And that’s enough.

“Just for today,” you whisper. “Only today.” You repeat it again, for yourself, because there won’t be a tomorrow of this anymore. There’s no way he would need you again.

“Only today,” he echoes, lying to you and to himself.

He licks your earlobe, sending thrills across your spine, teeth nipping lightly against your skin. He’s eager to mark you, the leopard instincts from his hybrid heritage returning in full force. He noses your clothed shoulder, fingers deftly working off the buttons on the front of your prim, starched shirt.

Feeling shy, you're sure that you can’t compete with the models he must have dated. Clutching tightly to the two open halves of your shirt, you’re afraid to disappoint him.

“Don’t hide from me. You’re beautiful. Let me see, please.”

With shaky fingers you let the halves of your shirt part, revealing the curves of your breasts to him.

Beautiful. Slowly, he lifts your chin with a finger. “Look at me.”

You’ve always shied away from meeting his gaze straight on, always wary that you hunger for more than just the touch of his eyes.

But now, at the command of his voice, you can only obey.

“You're beautiful. And you're strong, stronger than anyone I know. You’re strong for me. And—" Namjoon swallows. Growing up, his father had always stressed the Kim motto: Always First. Always Strong. Always Right.

“—and I’m weak for you,” he finishes, the realization finally out in the open.

“Just for today,” you remind him, trying to blink back tears. “Be weak for me. Only today.” It’s better this way, with no hope of tomorrow to disappoint.

Namjoon knows he will be weak for you today and tomorrow and every day after. He takes you to his desk, the place he finds himself daily, because he knows he’s going to want to remember this every fucking day for the rest of his life.

Gently, he sits you on the mirrored surface, marking the curve of your shoulder with his kisses as he eases off your shirt. Laving at your skin, he nips against your collarbone, trailing his tongue lower and lower to your covered breasts, easing the cup of your bra to the side as he licks the soft, full flesh there. “Can’t stop tasting you,” he murmurs against your skin.

He inhales the scent between the valley of your breasts, trapping his nose between the smooth curves of silky skin as he draws a low moan from you. Fingers roaming your back, he unhooks your bra to tongue gently at your nipples. You press his head closer, arching your back towards him, wanting more of his mouth on the tight, tender flesh. He complies, and angles you back a little more, crying out with pleasure each time you feel the gentle scrape of his teeth on your breast.

“Feels so good. Oh god.” Panting with want and lust, you plead, “Let me touch you too.”

“Go on then. Touch me.” Namjoon steels himself not to move as you explore him, fingers outlining the sides of his face, his jawline that’s so familiar by sight, yet strangely unfamiliar by touch. You’re wondering if he feels this hard, this strong everywhere.

Seared by the heat of your hand cradling his face, Namjoon noses the inside of your wrist immediately. He wants to breathe this in too. Wants the scent from your wrist all over his body, your fingers everywhere on his skin.

But your fingers are already going over each button, helping him shrug off his shirt, tracing the faintest of leopard markings under the skin of his torso. It’s a mesmerizing pattern. You brush your fingers over his pecs, around the dusky disc of his nipples, down the line of his abs.

Your artist’s eye sees his beautiful, sleek proportions, heavy with muscle and sinew.

Uncertainly, your fingers hover over his belt, the dark bulge of his pants a strangely erotic sight. There’s no turning back once you go there.

“Don’t you stop now,” he whispers. “Don’t give up on me.”

His words give you the confidence to continue. When you finally undress him, pants and boxers pooling around his feet, you’re overwhelmed at his naked vulnerability. “Should I—Can I?” you ask.

Namjoon almost chokes at the way you stare at him with innocent wonder. “Just use your instincts. Just feel.” All other words are impossible the moment you wrap your fingers around his flesh. He braces his hands against the desk on either side of you lest he comes apart too soon, allowing you full access to explore him. He grunts tightly as you stroke him, circling the sensitive opening at the tip.

Instinct says taste. You drop down to your knees. Palming his throbbing length, you lick the liquid beading around the head of his flesh.

“What are you doing?” His fingernails are digging desperately into the unforgiving surface of the glass desk, but there is no relief to be found. “Oh god. Please. Please, take me in.” He remembers how he’d found you kneeling before his chair, putting your nose in the leather as you cleaned it, how for a fleeting moment, he’d pictured you just like this, rosebud lips wrapped around his cock.

On your knees, you feel powerful, making this man speechless and wordless; your tongue, throat, and hollowed cheeks rendering him breathless with desire.

His large hand is warm and soft against your face as you slide his length into your mouth again and again. “No more,” he gasps, “not for our first time.”

Supporting you in his arms, he pulls you up to meet his gaze and you swear his hooded eyes flash a brighter yellow for just a second.

“Am... am I doing something wrong?”

Bringing his lips right against yours, he confesses quietly, “I am. I’m doing everything wrong.” With slow brushes of his lower lip between yours, he urges yours apart. “I shouldn’t kiss you,” he whispers as he traces the curve of your lips with his tongue. “But I am.” The kiss is long and languorous. He takes his time, lets you explore him, noses bumping as you taste him and he drinks you.

“Shouldn’t undress you.” He reaches for the back button of your skirt, and unzips you, easing the material down. Unhooking the bra to let it fall off softly, he fingers the waistband of your panties, eyes questioning if it’s okay. Silently, you place your hand over his to slide it down your thighs. “But I am,” he says, eyes trailing down your entire naked expanse.

“Most of all, I shouldn’t fuck you here at my desk. But—”

“But I want you to.” Pressing your naked flesh against his, you curl your arms around his neck, face hiding in his chest in your desperation. “I want you to.”

This time, there’s no more rain to give him an excuse to hold you, no more umbrella to pretend he wants you close. He pulls you into him; moulding you to him, melding him into you. With flesh against flesh, there’s no denying now the liquid heat between your legs. “You’re so wet. How is it you want me? A man who will not amount to anything?”

It’s there again. The hurt. Unlike the cut on your face, his wound is much, much deeper. “That’s him. That’s not you.” Still pulled flushed against him, you place your palm over his pounding heart. “You’re different. Here.”

Namjoon shuts his eyes at your words. “Say that again.”

“You’re different from him.”

He is not his father.

A great relief washes over him. It’s something he couldn't say to himself until you said it. He is not his father. He is not his father. He is not his father!

He kisses the top of your head, grateful for the day you stumbled into his shop, grateful that you want him like this. The fragrance he cannot have enough of fills his senses. There’s ylang ylang. There’s jasmine. A hint of bergamot. He inhales deeply, sighing, “How are you so good for me?” Sliding one hand down your thigh, he lifts it up to his hip so that you feel the hardness of his cock against you. “Let me be good for you.”

“Please. Please don’t let me wait anymore.” A dull ache throbs within you, and the searing of his skin against yours has steadily pooled arousal in the apex of your thighs.

“I won’t let you wait. I’ve waited long enough. Turn around.” Reluctantly, he unhooks your leg from him and stands behind you. “We are going to do this the proper way.”

Bracing a strong arm around your waist, he bends you over his mirrored desk, your nipples hardening even more when they brush across the cool surface of his desk. “So sensitive,” he whispers against the back of your neck, “I saw that.”

A shower of sparks shoot down your spine as he kisses the back of your neck, the other hand fondling over your breasts; the front of your body on full display in your reflection. You lean your head into him, writhing at every slow lick and hot breath and soft kiss on your neck.

His hands dip between your legs, easing them apart. “Let me prep you. I bet you’re so tight, bet I can’t even put in a finger.” He’s probably right. You know you’re wet, embarrassingly so, but it’s been so long since you’d been with someone else.

“N-Namjoon, please go slow. It’s—it’s been a while.”

“I’m not going to hurt you. Never. Can you trust me?”

You nod, too overtaken by the sensations of his fingers playing along your folds to speak.

“Just use your instincts,” he murmurs again into the shell of your ear.

Instinct says to feel.

With teasing fingers, he continues to draw low whimpers from you, before he goes on to circle your clit gently. Sliding a finger in, he feels you shudder. “Easy there. Breathe for me.” He feels your legs clamping around his fingers like a vise, the tremors beneath your skin as your breath gets shorter and harder.

You’re dripping a little now, making a mess between your legs. It’s getting harder to stand as he hooks two fingers into you, rubbing softly. “Oh my god.”

“You getting there?”

“Y-yeah. Hold me. Hold me.”

Namjoon feels a surge of pride that he gets to hear you like this, gets to feel you come apart just from his fingers. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

The orgasm blooms through you—shakes you at your core, curls your toes—as you arch back into him. He’s as good as his promise, lending you his strength, supporting you completely as you fall into him.

He takes the opportunity to nuzzle into your hair again, alternating with kissing you along the nape of your neck, and catching a whiff of your scent behind your ear. “Can’t stop smelling you.”

Flushed and euphoric from your high, you don’t stop yourself from asking, “Tell me… tell me what do I smell like?” Your gaze shyly meets his in the reflection of the mirrored surface.

With his nose pressed behind your ear, the answer is clear to him. “Home,” he breathes, “You smell like home.”

His answer shouldn’t make you cry. But it does. “Then make your home in me,” you whisper. “Just today.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” He nudges your legs apart with a muscled thigh, groaning with satisfaction as he feels you wet arousal on him. “Coming in,” he murmurs, angling you lower so he can help you adjust to the intrusion of his cock into your core. You gasp at how thick and hot he is, how just a little bit of him inside you already feels so good.

“Goddamn. You’re tight.” He groans as he tells himself to slow down. He’s not going to rush this if he can help it. Breathing hard, he waits for you to accommodate him, stroking your back lightly and then your hips to reassure you.

You want more, and you push back tentatively, longing to feel completely full of him, but a little fearful if you can take a hybrid without falling apart. Grimacing at the inviting way you slide your ass backward into him, he thrusts shallowly, a gentle finger on your clit, coaxing you to take more of him.

Instinct says to meet him.

This time, you slide back to meet his thrusts, delighting in his thick girth filling you. “Feels good. So good,” you sigh.

Namjoon sees you’re ready and doesn’t hold back anymore. “You’re wrong. Nobody goes home for just one day,” he says with ragged breath against your ear as he surges fully into you. “They go home every day.” He pulls himself back a little, feeling the tightness of your slick walls squeezing around him to stop him from pulling out completely.

Shielding your entire back with his own body, he thrusts in once more, eager to bury himself inside your warmth. Bringing his face next to yours from behind, he says it again, “Every day.”

“Every day,” you whimper back.

He loves seeing your face in the mirrored reflection, how it twists with yearning when he’s all the way inside you. He relishes the arch of your neck into him, sweet mouth open and moaning for him at every thrust, eyes squeezed shut with pleasure.

“Don’t stop,” you cry. “Don’t stop, don’t stop dontstopdontstop.”

The words from him are now echoed back into his ears. Namjoon doesn’t stop. He won’t. He can’t. Thrusting into you, he feels a surge of power ripping through him. He wants to give you all his strength, wants to take all your softness for himself.

In the quiet of his office, your combined moans reverberate around the stark walls, the rhythmic push and pull of your bodies are the only other sounds that fill your senses as you focus on offering yourself to him.

“Look at me when I come,” he commands, his chin pressing on your shoulder. “Open your eyes, and see what you do to me.”

You open your eyes, and can hardly recognize yourself in the reflection on his desk. The little scar on your lip, the wound from just now, the plain face that you’ve always wished were more exotic are all inconsequential. There’s tenderness in the way he looks at you, a softness and desperation no one has ever looked at you with.

“Namjoon.” You feel a little pathetic at how much you want him, at how good his name feels on your tongue. You whisper it again because tomorrow, he’ll be Mr. Kim once more.

“I’m close. So close,” he moans now, dying to hold on this feeling as long as he can. He pants with effort as he fights to keep his thrusts slow and long and hard, before his instincts take over and he loses control. When you clench harder around him, meeting his eyes in your combined reflection, Namjoon feels a last surge of raw need rip through him, and he comes with a low roar, hips stuttering wildly into you.

You feel the hot spurt of his seed inside you, his deep groan of satisfaction thrilling you immensely. He’s kissing the back of your neck, across your shoulders, hands lazily playing with the globes of your breasts. He’s quiet as he pulls out, enjoying the sight of his cum and yours leaking down the inside of your thighs.

“You’re wonderful. Want you again,” he teases your earlobe, nuzzling the plump flesh there.

“Now?”

“Not now,” he laughs. “Give me a few minutes. But only if you do. Are you sore?”

How can I, when I’m wrapped under you? No, not today. Tomorrow, my heart will be.

“No. Not at all.” You’re strong. And greedy. You want him as much as he will want you today.

“Let’s go back to my place. I want to wake up next to you tomorrow.”

You feel vulnerable because god, you want it too. But if he wants tomorrow with you, you have to ask. “When your father asked you… if there’s someone else, and you didn’t answer him…”

“It’s none of his business,” he replies curtly. “But it is yours.” Taking a deep breath, he tells you the truth, “Because there’s been no one else. Not for a long while. And when you walked in that day with those flowers, there couldn’t be anyone else.”

And so, dear reader, there was tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after the day after tomorrow.

And of course, you broke all your rules about hybrids because you still worked with him after you were made partner. And you went on many, many dates with him. And you fucked him many, many, many times.

But you’re okay with it.

After all, your Dad had also said:

Rules are meant to be broken.

~The End~

-----------------------------------

Posted on June 30, 2021 by sahmfanficbts. All Rights Reserved © 2021 @sahmfanficbts. Please do not translate, post or upload this content on to any platform including YouTube without permission. This is a work of fiction.

Author's Note:

Dear reader,

How are you?

According to my therapist, one important thing fathers and parents can do for their children is to help them believe a) You are loved and are worthy of love. b) You are capable - you have what it takes!

My own father was too busy to help me with these things. I grew up constantly insecure, seeking affirmation and love with many different people and relationships, in many different avenues and endeavors, made many, many stupid decisions in the process just because I was craving and craving and craving.

Today, I've found genuine friends who, every day, in various ways, affirm these truths for me, as I also try to do for them.

And while some days, I can only see the broken, needy parts inside; more and more, I see parts of me which are healing and mending slowly but surely with these friends.

This Father's Day, whether you grew up with a father or parent who was good and kind and true, or someone entirely different, I hope you believe that you are worthy of love, and you have what it takes.

Truly,

Sam.

P/S if you haven't, pls check out the samsung parfumerie ad. Jimin and Namjoon are.... chef's kiss