Cupids Curse | MYG

Cupid’s Curse | MYG 

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Summary: You don’t even know him anymore, but he’s your first love then so be it.

Rating: 18+

Genre: smut, angst, exes!au? (not really), idiotstolovers!au?, gradschool!au, college sweethearts

Word Count: 6.3k

Warnings: explicit language, toxic relationship, pining?, teasing, alcohol consumption, nipple play, light exhibitionism, semi-clothed sex (y/n in a skirt ;) , breath play, body worship (he slipped a bit lol), fingering, edging, oral (f.receiving), unprotected sex (please use protection), light spanking, manhandling, angry and rough sex (he’s mad ok), crying, denied orgasms, creampie, asshole Yoongi just sayin’ 

a/n: late (as usual) but I finally have free time since I’m done with the school year! The warnings also kept increasing as I edited (dfkm) this gazillion times 😅. After holding back for so long and teasing lol here’s my very first smut fic and oh btw it’s inspired by my first love so 🤡

— part of ex’s & why’s series — moodboard 

A week of deadlines drained you to the point that you didn’t mind going to a get-together you got invited to, well the invitation is for all post-graduate students anyways. You don’t usually go to parties or any gatherings anymore since you started grad school but its fucking exhausting with all the meetings and papers to submit plus having to mark undergrad’s papers.

And instead of relaxing by letting go of all the things that have been wearing you down lately, you’re currently thinking of someone that has been bothering your mind these past few months.

Yoongi.

You’re not sure if he’ll be there despite the fact that the gathering’s for every department since he hated going to those during your earlier college days. Parties like this may look the same as the undergrad ones but the main difference is that this seems more cozy because everyone knows each other already rather than random strangers you meet on the latter.

You hate that you still think of him even in times when you’re supposed to chill. Walking into the house that you don’t even know who the owner is, you spotted some of his friends which made you nervous because he’ll appear for sure any seconds later.

Yoongi knows you’re here. Hell the only reason he came to this gathering is because he knows that you’ll finally come. Not that he’s waiting, okay, yeah he is, so? Maybe he’ll get a chance to finally talk to you.

Keep reading

Genre: Military AU, Romance, friends to lovers, love triangle, unrequited love, angst, fluff, smut

Pairing: Namjoon x female!reader, Jungkook x female!reader

Smut warnings: fingering, slight breeding kink, unprotected sex, homecoming sex

Warnings: Major character death (It’s Jungkook), Swearing. Special Ops / War. Grieving. Separation anxiety. Very very brief mention of physical child abuse (Jungkook’s dad a shit, no actual scene of abuse, mention of a restraining order in the context of a conversation). If you’re actually military field personnel, please do not read this.

Rating: Mature (Over 18s only)

WC: 16k

Notes: In this AU, JK and OC are the same age, which is one year younger than Namjoon. Just work with me here, okay? Also, I have deliberately kept the identity of their country ambiguous.

Big big thanks to @hobi-gif, @jinfizz for the huge editing work they did

Story collaborator: @httpnamjoonie94reads. Please contact her if you ever are stuck with a story idea. I swear to you, she will give you your breakthrough.

Professional Reassure-er who gives me courage: @bangtanmademedoit

Cheerleaders who give me strength: @xjoonchildx @lcksndkys @yeoldontknow @yournameyn

Two lovelies who hype me up: @shatzkrinslinzki and @vantxx95 Life is better with you.

***********************

“Olympus to Icarus 01. Where are you now? Need your ten digit map grid. Over.”

Namjoon checks the map. “Icarus 01 to Olympus. Ten digit grid 1406834822. Request for immediate air support and casualty assistance. Heavy enemy fire. Over.”

“Namjoon…” Jungkook is groaning.

“Roger that. 1406834822. Helos on the way. Casualty assistance and close air support. ETA 10 minutes. Over.”

The line crackles before it dies out as suddenly as it came alive.

“Fucking comms!” Namjoon shouts at the now useless satellite phone. Here in the mountains, the comms have been abysmal. His attention quickly moves to Jungkook, whose breathing has turned ragged. Blood seeps through the rough tourniquet on his thigh, and the young man is ashen-faced.

Namjoon grabs more dirt from the ground to pack it into the wound to staunch the bleeding.

“Hyung? I’m not going to make it.”

“Ten minutes, JK. You’ll fucking make it!” Namjoon shouts over the gunfire which has started up again. They’re lucky they fell into a rock cleft of sorts, temporarily shielding them from the volley of bullets above—but the real test will be during the heli rescue ops, when they’ll be at their most vulnerable.

“Hyung.” Every word is now slow and difficult. “You… you make it. Tell Y/N I love her. Promise me.”

“Fuck no!” Namjoon grabs him by the collar. He can see his own reflection in Jungkook’s dark irises. The fierce camo paint camouflages the features of his face but isn’t thick enough to hide the fear in his eyes. “Goddamnit JK! Tell her yourself!”

The sound of another explosion temporarily deafens them. Shit. Where’s that coming from? Seems like it’s getting nearer.

“It’s going to be okay.” His breaths are shallow now. “Take care of her.” There’s a faint smile on his face as he says this. “Bibimbaps Forever.”

“Don’t fuck around. I’m your commanding officer. Stay. The. Fuck. Alive. That’s an order.”

Jungkook is trying to keep his eyes open, but it’s so hard. “Promise m—”

“It’s an order!”

He’s tired now.

“This is an order! JK!”

The soft plop of the grenade makes it into their rock cleft like an embarrassed guest, late for the party. It rolls down the slope a little before choosing to settle near Petty Officer (First Class) Jeon Jungkook.

Both men see it at the same time.

Jungkook knows Namjoon well enough to predict exactly what his commanding officer, his friend, his hyung is going to do.

Greater love hath no man than this,

With one last ounce of strength,

that a man lay down his life

he rushes low to pommel Namjoon away

for his friend.

only to fling himself over the exploding grenade.

The blast throws Namjoon against the rock wall, and his head strikes the hard, unforgiving rock.

The last thing that should register in his brain is the whirl of the helicopters rumbling in the distance.

Instead, Commander Kim Namjoon’s (Special Ops, Indo-Pacific) last coherent thought was how he has never let you down.

Until today.

***********************

The Bibimbaps Forever was formed on a hot summer day, as all reputable childhood clubs are wont to do. Jungkook and Namjoon were playing cops and robbers, but neither wanted to be the bad guy.

“Let’s switch after five minutes,” ten-year old Namjoon, always diplomatic, suggests.

“I’ll go first,” interrupts Jungkook. He may be nine, but already he’s assertive as hell.

“Of course you’ll be first,” Namjoon assures the younger boy, before adding with a smirk, “You’ll be the robber first.”

Quick as lightning, Jeon Jungkook is just about to headbutt Namjoon in the stomach when a voice from the tree branches above stops him.

“Hey! May I play? I don’t mind being the robber.” Immediately, the two boys stare at you.

Hanging upside down now from the lowest branch, your pigtails are askew with mischief, your wide smile missing two front teeth. With well-practiced grace, you flip backwards and land in front of them, sassy hands on your hips.

“We don’t—we don’t play with girls…” Jungkook stammers. He never stammers, but god, that no-hands flip looked so cool.

“That’s okay. It’s your juvenile male insecurity that’s driving your motivation to avert emotional and mental anguish when you deny yourself an opportunity to access this thing called fun,” you say breezily. “Y/L/N, 2007.”

Jeon Jungkook is confused. All those big words he doesn’t understand. And what’s with the year at the end? All he can think of is how he wishes he could do that flip like you.

You pity him. Not everyone has a psychologist for a father and a mother. With a dramatic sigh, you look at him solemnly before explaining, “In other words, you’re scared I’m too fast for you.”

The boys look at each other. No way a girl is going to be too fast for them. Namjoon seizes the moment and throws down the gauntlet. “Fine! You’re IT! Five seconds to run before we get you. FIVE. FOUR—”

Before they could count any further, you’ve disappeared in the direction of the bushes. The boys scramble immediately after you, not counting down the remaining three seconds. Who cares about honesty at this point? There’s finally a proper robber now, and he’s—no, she’s fast.

And so the afternoon flies by with lots of games, even more laughter, and a step-by-step tutorial on how to do a no-hands flip from a tree branch.

Exhausted and hungry, the boys look enviously when you pull out a piece of candy from your pocket. It looks imported. You must be rich. They look away, Namjoon suddenly interested in the sky, Jungkook, in the hard, brown earth beneath his feet. The candy is obviously too small to share.

“Hey, wanna make bibimbap in my house? I bet my mom’s still too busy to notice if we raid the fridge,” you ask them, bright and cheerful, the offending candy already shoved deep into your pocket.

“Only if we each bring something,” Namjoon declares. There’s a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s only fair,” he says quickly. He never wants to be indebted to anyone, not even over a free snack.

“Only fair,” you agree, smiling at him.

Jungkook arrives at your house first bearing a little container of cold spinach from last night’s dinner, his big doe eyes shining with glee that he swiped it right from under his mother’s nose.

Namjoon arrives next, huffing and puffing from running in his hopes to beat Jungkook, one fist round with a hidden raw egg, while clasped in his other hand is a bag of chopped cucumber, looking slightly mushy.

They both gaze at you expectantly, waiting for some kind of affirmation. You put on your best chef’s voice and declare:

“Perfect!” (for the limp spinach)

“Very good!” (for the crumbling cucumber)

“Just what we need!” (for the egg, which, thankfully, does not show any signs of cracking under the crush of Namjoon’s palm)

And from your fridge, there is cold rice and mushrooms.

Honestly, the boys have never cooked before nor cared to observe what their mothers did in the kitchen. Watching you heat the rice and fry a sunny side-up egg, they’re rendered silent, as if watching you perform the most elaborate magic trick, turning day-old stuff into actual, appetizing food.

When three pairs of chopsticks finally dig into the little bowl of bibimbap, nothing ever tasted quite as delicious.

On that hot July afternoon, Kim Namjoon, Jeon Jungkook, and L/N, Y/N became the Bibimbaps Forever.

“Say: Bibimbaps Forever!

We’re always super clever!

Give up? No! We’ll never!

The three Bibimbaps Forever!”

***********************

“Where am I?” Namjoon wakes from surgery. Everything hurts. His eyes. His throat. His back. If he takes a piss right now, he’s sure that would hurt too.

Oh yeah. It hurts.

Ths soft touch of his mother’s hand is cool against the heat of his forehead. “At the hospital. The doctor said it’s going to be tough to move around for a while, but you’ll be fine.”

“Where’s JK?”

His mother’s eyes already tell him all he needs to know.

“The rest of the unit made it. They’re all back. It’s Y/N that needs you now. Memorial service is soon.”

“I can’t face her, Ma. JK died because of me. I can’t just—”

His mother leans over and cradles his face, selfishly grateful that her son is alive. “Listen to yourself Kim Namjoon. I did not raise you to run away from hard things.”

“You don’t understand. If not for me, he might—”

“Namjoon.”

Kim Namjoon has never said no to his mother when she uses that tone. And he isn’t going to start now.

“Yes, Ma.”

Pressing a note and photograph into his hands, Namjoon’s mother gives her son an extra squeeze on his wrists. “Mrs. Jeon dropped this off. She found a photograph in his room she wanted you to have. And there’s a letter from JK.”

Blinking back tears from her own eyes, she stands up and kisses the head of her only son. “I’m glad you’re home. I’ll go talk to the doctors and tell them you woke up.”

It’s only when his mother leaves that Namjoon allows himself to look at what’s in his hands.

It’s a photo of him and Jungkook, when they were not yet Bibimbaps Forever, both of them sharing a huge slice of watermelon and grinning at each other, red juice running down their chins and arms.

“Hyung, we’re so lucky!”

“Lucky to have watermelon on a hot day?”

“Lucky to have each other to share this!”

Namjoon thought it was silly—if he didn’t have to share, there would be more watermelon for him to eat. He took a bigger bite, trying to prove his point.

“You can have my part too. It’s yours.” With wide innocent eyes, five-year-old Jungkook had held out his half and fed it to Namjoon, startling him.

Namjoon closes his eyes at the memory as he puts down the photograph.

Shit. JK! Why are you always so damn naive! Why are you always so damn giving!

He doesn’t want to read the letter, he’s honest-to-god afraid of what he’ll read in there. But it’s true, his mother did not raise him to run away from hard things. With trembling hands, he fingers the edges of the envelope, decorated with a sketch of three bowls of bibimbap dancing around the border.

Taking a deep breath, he tears open the envelope and reads the last words from the brother who shared everything with him except his last name.

Hyung,

If you’re reading this, I must have been a dumb shit.

You know, I’ve always looked up to you. It’s the way you care for people: the brothers in our unit, for me, for Y/N. It’s something I am always grateful for, something I always try to do myself—care for people like you do.

It was an honor to serve under your command, a privilege to be your friend, an absolute joy to be your brother.

I hope I made you proud.

JK

P.S. Please look after Y/N for me. I don’t trust anyone else. Scratch that. Look out for each other. And I will do the same from above. Because… Bibimbaps Forever!

***********************

The Bibimbaps Forever soon fall into the habit of meeting in your home every afternoon. Even when school started in the fall, even with baseball practice and violin lessons and debate club, it is de rigueur to hang out in your kitchen in the evenings before dinner if the three of you can’t do your homework together.

Safe from nosy parents or annoying siblings, Namjoon and Jungkook find the sturdy oak dining table in your home a safe harbor where they can be themselves, refuel with food and conversation before plunging back into being the eldest child in each of their families. Elementary school flies by with games galore of cops and robbers, backflips and frontflips, and of course, many, many bowls of bibimbap, always at your home.

Middle school is stressful, with a deluge of homework everyday. You and Namjoon are reading Manga comics at your dining table during a study break, laughing like hyenas when the creak of the kitchen back door announces the arrival of Jungkook.

On instinct, you holler before turning to him, “JK! You’re late! Come and take a look at this! It’s so funn—”

The yellowish blue bruise on his eye stops you. There’s a cut on his eyebrow too.

“You’re bleeding!” Running to get a first aid kit, you miss the knowing glance that passes between the two boys.

“I’ll kill him one day, JK. I swear,” whispers Namjoon. “He can’t keep doing this. Is your mom okay?”

Jungkook nods. “I made sure she’s safe. She and my lil bro are at your house with your mom.”

“What? Who’s safe? Who are you going to kill one day, Joon?” you prattle on, lugging the first aid kit onto the table.

“Nothing,” the boys chorus in unison.

Narrowing your eyes at them, you look them up and down suspiciously. With a dramatic sigh, you flip open the kit, before taking out the antiseptic cream, bandage, and your mother's arnica gel for bruises.

Punctuating your tirade as you plunk each item on the table, you launch into an Oscar-worthy performance. “Of course, I’m just a girl. So I wouldn’t know anything about domestic abuse and alcoholism. I wouldn’t be of any help at all even though my parents work with lawyers and judges and family courts. Courts—who, by the way, can get restraining orders and cops to drive by your house to make sure your family is safe. Yup. It’s nothing.”

The boys stare at you with mouths agape.

“You can do all that?” Namjoon is skeptical. His plan to protect Jungkok had always been to beat up Jungkook’s father one day. What you’re saying was something entirely new.

“No, silly. But if you tell my parents, they can.” Taking out the gauze, you prepare to dab it on his cut. “Now hold still.”

Jungkook looks at you through his remaining good eye as you take care of his wound gently. The tenderness in your fingers feels like heaven after the rough punches thrown by his father.

Finally done with dressing the cut with a clean bandage, you take his hand solemnly in yours and pull Namjoon’s in as well before murmuring quietly, “So what do you say, huh? Bibimbaps Forever?”

The answer is simple and unanimous. “Bibimbaps Forever.”

You didn’t know it then, but it was at this moment when Jeon Jungkook and Kim Namjoon, in their childhood innocence, thought at the same instant that they’d like to marry you when they grow up.

***********************

The memorial service was held in a little church. The entire town turned up to say goodbye to one of their own. But you don’t hear or see any of them.

All you see from the front pew is the black and white photo of him in full military dress, smiling that wide, proud smile of his, and behind, the casket draped in the flag of the republic.

On your finger, the single princess-cut diamond glitters modestly, as if it knows you’re not yet, officially, Mrs. Jeon. Will never be.

Sandwiched between Jungkook’s mother and Namjoon, you’re glad you aren’t here alone, instead, you’re standing with the most important people in Jungkook’s life.

You’ve told yourself you’re all cried out. That Jungkook deserves your dignity. But your body trembles as the voices in the chapel sing the familiar tune Jungkook always hums after he volunteers as a vocal coach with the inner city children’s choir.

“May the road rise to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

the rains fall soft on your fields.

Namjoon offers his arm to you, and you clasp it gratefully.

“May the sun make your days bright.

May the stars illuminate your night.

May the flowers bloom along your path,

Your house stand firm against the storm…”

As grief wracks your body, you find yourself unable to stand. Leaning against Namjoon, he shifts so he can support you with both arms.

“And until we meet again, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.”

When the flag of the republic is finally folded in its ceremonial triangular pattern, the honor guard signals for Namjoon to receive the flag for presentation to the Jeon family.

Namjoon whispers into your ear, “You okay?”

“I’m okay. Do what you have to do.”

Namjoon goes up to receive the flag to present it to the primary next of kin as dictated by the order of service.

“Mrs. Jeon?” Namjoon’s voice is soft and fragile.

You will yourself not to look up.

Mrs Jeon—it’s not who you are even though you’ve practiced your new signature a thousand times while he was gone; not who you are even though the honeymoon suite at the hotel was booked in this name and his, not who you will ever be even though that is exactly what he called you when you said yes to his proposal.

“Your son fought well.” Namjoon fights to choke back his tears as he presents the flag to Jungkook’s mother. “He was faithful to this flag all the way.”

You hear her take in a deep, shaky breath before she receives the flag. “You’re a good boy, Namjoon. Thank you for being with him until the very end.”

With nothing to hold in your empty hands, you hold yourself together, and hold back a wave of fresh tears.

Oh JK, where are you now?

***********************

In high school, Namjoon, despite being the eldest, is more focused on studying than on girls. He’s a late bloomer, and it takes a while before boobs and ass catch his attention. You matured around the same time as other girls your age, happier always when you’re goofing around with Namjoon and Jungkook until you discover the magic of make-up. As for Jungkook, well... Jungkook is always fast at everything.

While your schedules are more complicated and more varied now, it’s an unspoken rule to always make it for Jungkook’s swim meets as the Bibimbaps Forever. It’s times like these where you relish being kids again, screaming for Jungkook, celebrating his wins together, and eating bibimbap after the meet at your house with whatever is in your fridge.

As much as Namjoon loves this, he especially cherishes the conversations with you whenever you both have to wait for Jungkook to appear for his swim events.

It’s when you get to talk to him about your love for cartography, and it’s when he can drink you in, the lilt of your voice, the dance of your eyes. You talk a little faster, smile a little wider when you tell him all about old maps, ancient maps planted with fake towns to catch forgers, maps made of silk and gold thread, maps as big as a house, maps worth ten million dollars.

Kim Namjoon naturally falls in love with you, but he makes himself fall in love with maps because you love them.

He learns about the geographic north and the magnetic north (all the while thinking why he’s attracted only to you). He studies about terrain and contour lines (but dreams at night about the curves of your body). He memorizes the names of the ancient map makers: Shen Kuo, Johannes Werner, Urbano Monte, Nain Singh (although the name he sighs is yours).

In short, he’s utterly smitten.

When the high school senior prom rolls around, Namjoon has only one girl in mind to ask as his date.

To ask you to the dance, he'll give you a hand-drawn map of the town. Then he’ll write the coordinates of the prom venue and tell you he wants to meet you there on the night of the school dance. He’s sure you’ll love it.

Ever the perfectionist, Namjoon takes a month to finish the drawings for the elaborate map. A Map For Y/N emblazons the top in bold, and in small, neat letters next to the prom venue, he writes, Dance with me?

He’s just about to get out his battered set of color pencils when he thinks he should go over to Jungkook’s and ask for advice. Surely, Jungkook would know how to add depth and dimension through coloring.

The back gate of Jungkook’s home is held tight by a simple latch. No lock is needed when everything of value has long been sold to feed his father’s drinking habit years ago—at least the old man is out of the picture for good now.

With practiced ease, Namjoon flips it open and hops in quietly. Expecting to cross the backyard easily, he stops short when he sees you and Jungkook lying flat on the grass together staring up at the big night sky, heads comfortably propped next to each other.

Intuition tells him to get the fuck out of here. He’s about to turn when you spy his tall, strapping form in the corner of the yard.

“Namjoon?” You sit up, squinting in the darkness. “Is that you?”

Namjoon swallows hard. “Uh, yeah.” It’s too late to run now. Quickly he stuffs his hand-drawn map into his satchel.

“Hey hyung! Come join us! I was just showing Y/N the Ophiuchus constellation. We’re going to the observatory in the next town over on the night of the prom. Figured I keep Y/N out of the way in case she pulls a prank on your special night…” Jungkook is too excited to notice the disappointment which flits across Namjoon’s face for a split second.

“Namjoon, apparently they have these ancient maps of the constellations too. JK and I will go check it out and I’ll tell you if it’s worth it. But yeah, you better promise us to give us all the details the next day. And we mean aaaaallllll the details. Because—” you give Jungkook a look and he gets it right away.

“—Bibimbaps Forever!” you chorus with him, before bursting into a fit of laughter together.

Namjoon doesn’t miss the adoring look Jungkook gives to you. It’s something deeper, something new.

“Bibimbaps Forever,” he replies, heartbroken, because he now sees the same in your eyes when you look at Jungkook.

It’s time for him to move on.

***********************

The memorial service is taking a long time.

He knew too many people, was too good to all of them. Everyone wanted to pay their final respects.

You’re standing, nodding stoically to all these other people who still have their husbands, their sons, their fathers and brothers. It’s getting tiring.

After a while, Namjoon notices you're looking wan. “Do you want to go home?”

You don’t need to say a thing. Years as the Bibimbaps Forever has attuned him to you. It’s a frequency the three of you can tune into with your own code words and hand signals, a shorthand of sorts to convey feelings with just a glance.

After a short word to Jungkook’s family and his own mom, he guides you into his car.

The ride is completely silent. Words are exhausting when tears are all you breathe.

The road back to the house your parents have left you while they retire in warmer climes is easy and familiar. Namjoon sees you safely to your door, and is just about to turn to leave when you stop him. The looming darkness of dusk is suddenly terrifying to you. “Joon?”

He gets it. He would rather be alone in his own grief, but he knows you well enough. He reads books, tons of them, but he has read you most. “Sure. I’ll stay.”

And so he settles in on the couch while you head to your room; him surrounded by photos of you and Jungkook, you surrounded by the big, empty bed.

***********************

On the surface, the Bibimbaps Forever are still as solid as ever when the three of you congregate one last time in your home the night before Namjoon leaves for the army. The usual suspects are there: rice, spinach, carrots, a bit of beef, and the obligatory egg. But there’s a palpable sadness. As the three of you laugh a little too forcefully, you know that the Namjoon who returns will be a very different one.

No one was surprised by his decision to join the military.

The Namjoon you know has always been attracted to living for something bigger than himself and there’s nothing bigger than serving his country. Duty and Honor beat in his very cells.

The truth, which you did not know, is a little more complicated. Yes, there’s Duty and Honor, but there’s also the one thing he kept from the Bibimbaps Forever: he needs to get out of town so that Jungkook and you can build a relationship without feeling guilty for not including him.

It’s been difficult for Namjoon to witness the way the younger man looks at you like you’re his whole world, harder still to see the way you lean into him like he’s all of your strength. Every damned time, he has forced himself to smile, forced himself to remember he’s truly happy for you both.

Jungkook had approached him after your visit to the observatory together, asked him if it was weird if you two started dating. “Course not. You guys are made for each other.” The words rolled off his tongue easily because Namjoon would rather die than come between his two best friends who love each other.

When yet another loving glance is exchanged between you and Jungkook over the dining table, Namjoon ruminates a little selfishly how this is one thing he will not miss when he’s finally in the military.

“We have something for you,” you say, after Jungkook gives you a little nod.

Namjoon’s chopsticks still dramatically in mid-air. “You guys getting sappy on me?”

Taking out a folder, you bring out a map and unfurl it on the dining table. Namjoon instantly recognizes your handwriting and Jungkook’s sure pencil strokes.

The hand-drawn map is filled with the most detailed illustrations of your town, filled with little stick figure comics on street corners of important moments shared among the Bibimbaps Forever.

There’s the tree where you first dangled upside down from a branch.

Near the bottom left, the burial place of Nana the Mosquito which tormented every human being in your living room for 17 days. (Jungkook finally put everyone out of their misery by shooting Nana with a rubberband in one flick.)

In the north corner by the junior high school was where you fretted about your French grammar test and Namjoon told you a joke to distract you (Past, Present, and Future walked into a room. It was tense.) while Jungkook gave you a piece of his prized purple bubblegum to calm you (he never shares his purple gum otherwise).

So many memories made together.

Namjoon swallows hard. This map is so much better, so much richer than the one he secretly drew for you.

“A map to show you the way home to us,” you say shyly, pointing to your home on the map illustrated with a Bibimbaps Forever flag flying proudly on the roof.

“Yeah, in case you forget,” teases Jungkook.

How could he ever forget?

“Promise me you’ll come back to visit,” you say more solemnly now, suddenly afraid that you might never see Namjoon again.

He searches your eyes and sees how serious you are. He wishes he could squeeze your hand to reassure you. But you’re Jungkook’s girl now. It’s not proper. Instead, he adopts the easy, breezy tone which has served him well to hide his feelings from you and Jungkook. “‘Course I’ll come back to visit. Come on, let’s finish this bibimbap. Who wants the egg yolk?”

***********************

Years of sleeping on concrete and on dirt, in desert and jungle has conditioned Namjoon to sleep anywhere. Your couch is a luxury compared to the places he’s been.

He should be exhausted from the day’s events too, but the soft sounds of your slippered feet padding enroute to the kitchen stirs him immediately. Instinctively, he reaches for his M4-A1 rifle, grabbing air, until he finally remembers he’s on leave now. Safe in your home, he drops his guard.

You probably just need some water, he thinks. He tries to settle back to sleep but he finds himself listening to you move quietly in the kitchen—first the clink of the mug, then the low hiss of steam from the kettle, and the lilt of the teaspoon when you stir your two sugars in. But there’s another sound. Soft sniffles.

You’re hurting.

His words to his mother brings him to his feet, and his promise to Jungkook brings him down the dark hallway and into the kitchen. It’s love, though, which brings him to you. In the dim light, the outline of your shoulders shaking with grief are unmistakable.

Wordlessly, Namjoon takes the chair beside you, careful not to take the one across from you that’s always been Jungkook’s, an empty mug marking his spot. Next to you, he observes the quiet plops of your tears into the cup of blissfully ignorant tea.

You try to explain that you had trouble sleeping so you came to make tea; try to explain how sheer habit led you to grab two mugs, one for you and one for Jungkook, try to explain how seeing the empty bed, the empty mug, the empty chair was suddenly too much.

But with Namjoon, there’s always been no need to dwell on explanations. Your face crumples as you turn to reach for him, needing someone to hold you. “He’s never going to come back, is he? He’s never going to come back… never... never...”

In the safety of his arms, you finally allow the grief to pour out after holding it in for so long.

Namjoon steels himself not to feel. Not your soft, warm body clinging to his; nor the jasmine scent of your shampoo filling his senses. Not the way his heart breaks at the loss of his best friend and the loss of your lover.

The one thing he allows himself to feel is your engagement ring from Jungkook, digging quietly into his skin.

No crying now. He has to be strong for you.

He promised.

***********************

You were right.

Namjoon is hardly recognizable when he returns for his first home leave from the military. His face is leaner, but everywhere else is more muscled. It’s his demeanour, though, which has changed the most. There’s a calm presence about him and a dignity in his bearing. His speech is quieter, more deliberate, more authoritative.

Jungkook is most affected by this. Suddenly his hyung is now a man and he wants the same for himself. Over bowls of bibimbap in your kitchen, he peppers Namjoon with tons of questions.

“So what will you specialize in after Officers School? Sniper school? Hospital Corps? Intel, I bet!”

“Probably comms and surveillance. Dealing with boring stuff like radios and satellites. Maps, even.” Namjoon shoots you a smile when he says this.

You blush, a little shy, flustered by this new, manly Namjoon. You find it easier to busy yourself with getting the food ready. The first Bibimbaps Forever meal after a nine-month hiatus should be memorable.

Around the familiar oak table, the conversation flutters from what Hell Week in the military was like, to the classes you’re taking in college, to Jungkook’s interest in volunteering as a vocal coach in an inner-city children’s choir. All too soon, Namjoon has to leave.

“Gotta go home for a second dinner. Mom’s cooking and she expects me to eat everything.”

“Is this another of her match-making dinners?” you ask.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he says, swinging his giant military-issue duffel bag over his shoulder. “Wish I didn’t have to go, though. Miss you guys.”

“If it works out, she’s a lucky girl!” you call out to him as he heads across the yard.

Namjoon turns around and tips his hat at you, shoots you a dimpled grin, before going his way into the evening dusk.

“I’m the lucky one,” Jungkook murmurs as he pulls you into him. “I got you, baby.”

“I’m the lucky one too,” you whisper as you tilt your head up for a kiss.

Leaning against each other, you both watch Namjoon’s disappearing silhouette. Even the way he walks has changed. There’s purpose and pride.

Jungkook looks wistful.

You’ve not seen him quite like this before. “Now don’t you join the military too. What’s going to happen to me if you go? What if—” you chide, jabbing him lightly in the ribs.

“Shh. No what-ifs. Nothing will happen, babe. We’re the lucky ones.” He’s tickling you now, all seriousness gone, because he’s just so happy you’ve found him and he’s found you in this great, big world.

Tomorrow, he tells himself, tomorrow he will talk to a recruiter for the military.

Not today.

***********************

The throwing up starts the day after the memorial.

Namjoon is sleeping on the couch when the sound of retching wakes him up. Concerned, he hurries to the door of your bedroom and knocks.

“Y/N, are you okay?”

You can barely pause for a breath to answer him as wave after wave of nausea hits you. Namjoon, forced to make judgement calls large and small in his military career, barges in without hesitation when you retch again.

Pale and shaking, you’re kneeling over the toilet, exhausted by the spasms ricocheting through your worn body. There’s nothing much, just some bitter, bitter bile, but it feels like your entire stomach wants to empty its contents.

Namjoon sees the hair hanging over you, as you bend over to retch again. Kneeling next to your trembling form, he gently gathers your hair and holds it at the nape of your neck, waiting patiently while you try to get the nausea out of your system.

The bitter saliva trails down the corner of your mouth to your chin. You wish he didn’t have to see you like this, but you remind yourself that this is your Bibimbaps Forever Joon. He’d seen you when you threw up in the school bus in sixth grade. He’s the same Joon who gave you his sweater when your period came early to tie around your waist to hide the stain on your light jeans. There’s not much you need to conceal from him.

“All puked out?” he asks after a while.

You try to stand quickly to show him that you’re absolutely fine but the sudden movement after kneeling for so long and the lack of blood sugar in the morning causes you to sway unsteadily on your feet.

“Whoa. I got you. Easy there, lean on me.” Namjoon catches you immediately and carries you to your bed. With one arm under your knees and one arm behind your back to draw you into him, he can’t speak; all effort is focused on reining his eyes from straying to the open v of your thin nightgown

He lays you down on your bed gently. Making sure the pillows are fluffed around you, he draws up the duvet to tuck you in. When he comes back with a glass of water, he waits till you’ve taken a few sips before he asks carefully, “Should I call the doctor? Or do you know if…”

He’s quiet, doesn’t want to ask more than what you’re comfortable with.

“I think I might be,” you whisper, afraid to meet his eyes. “It was before he shipped out with the team. Before—” The tears are overwhelming you now. How will this baby grow up without a father?

“Shhh…” Namjoon sits by the side of the bed. Facing you, he holds you as fear and grief overwhelm you again. “It’s going to be alright. I got you. I got you,” he murmurs. “Whatever you decide. I’ll go with you.” Over and over, like a mantra, he repeats it to you, willing his words to fortify your bones, to strengthen the little life within you. “I’m right here.”

You can’t answer him. All you can do is to hold him tighter as your tears wet his shoulder, then his sleeves.

Namjoon thinks of how his field uniform was stained with Jungkook’s blood all over him; but now, your tears are soaking through his shirt. He knows he was never worthy of the former, and will never be worthy of the latter.

But still, he holds you—because he is a man of his word.

***********************

Team 613 has always been the most elite unit in the republic’s military. Trained at the highest levels in all manner of close-quarter combat, reconnaissance, hostage rescue, intelligence and cryptology, the men of 613 are always acknowledged with reverence and awe in the hallways of government.

Namjoon knows better. He knows his men are made of flesh and blood; flesh that can tear, and blood that can spill. The only difference between the men of 613 and all other units is perhaps their willingness to stay loyal to flag and country at all cost. He’s thankful he has never lost a man in his unit and intends to keep it that way.

And so, the selection process has come around again. The six geographical commanders are choosing men from a pool of approved candidates who will be awarded the 613 colors to join each of their unit commands. The scene, very much like a round of playground captains picking teams for a game of dodgeball, is rather comical if one forgets that joining the wrong unit at the wrong time could mean death on a failed mission.

For Namjoon, there’s only one name he’s most interested in and his eyes and ears are on alert. As the most junior commander (Special Ops, Indo-Pacific) in the history of 613, he knows he has to defer to the more senior ranked officers. But he’s hoping that he can poach sniper specialist Petty Officer First Class Jeon Jungkook to come under his wing.

Your desperate words to him in the latest Bibimbaps Forever dinner still ring fresh in his mind. When Jungkook had gone to the basement freezer for more ice, you told Namjoon the very words which would upset your boyfriend if he heard them.

JK has his mind set on 613. Joon, promise me you’ll try to get him into your unit. There’s no one else I trust with him. Promise me?

I promise.

After a slew of protracted negotiations, Commander Kim Namjoon has given up his top two picks for advanced demolitions, traded one specialist in advanced ammunitions and the top guy from close-quarters combat—all for just one member of the Bibimbaps Forever.

With a smile of satisfaction, his heart swells with quiet pride that he has kept his promise to you.

***********************

You’re grateful for Namjoon’s presence at the doctor’s office. Everywhere in the waiting room, couples are seated quietly, some holding hands, some cuddled together as close as humanly possible across tight angular chairs that look zen as hell but feel far from it.

You and Namjoon, however, are not a couple.

And so you sit awkwardly next to each other. You’re scrolling mindlessly through your phone while Namjoon brings a stack of books from the display shelf to browse in his seat. Curiously, you spy the titles on his lap. The Art of Water-birthing. Hypnobirthing at its Best. The Orgasmic Birth: No Pain, All Pleasure. What the hell?

“Joon. Why are you reading these? Don’t you have your own magazines or books? Like on rifles or tanks or parachute jumping? You shouldn’t be reading these!”

Namjoon is glad to see you mad. You look cute and it brings a little color to your cheeks. The last two weeks have been spent at home as you retched morning, noon, and night. Even plain water became your enemy. For a few days, you could only subsist on sparkling water (with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice) and some plain crackers.

Just for the hell of it, he decides to push this further.

“Why not? It’s good to be prepared. Listen to this… ‘The orgasmic birth is a way of looking at birth as an extended part of the euphoria of lovemaking, the premise being, during active labor, increased blood flow to the clitoris can heighten feelings of intense pleasure and mimic an orgasm during sexual intercourse. Anecdotal evidence—’”

“Kim. Nam. Joon. Shut the fuck up. Don’t… don’t say those words. There are babies in this place. Innocent little ears!” you hiss angrily.

“Which words? The O-word like orgaaasm, or the L word like lovemaaaking? Or do you mean the c-word? Cli-to-ris?” He is teasing now. He can’t help it. “Don’t you think babies know how they’re fucked into the world?”

“Shh! Do. Not. Use. The. F-word. It can hear you!” you insist, pointing to your belly. You know you are surely above whispering level now, but goddamn it, you’re keeping this baby’s ears untainted as much as possible before it comes into the world. And if that means using an outside voice inside, so be it.

“What f-word? Oh you mean fuuck? You said it before I did!” Namjoon feigns indignation.

“Why you little piece of shit! You—”

“You said shit. You said shit!” The motherfucker is straight up laughing at your mental anguish, and you—oh no—you can’t help but start to giggle too. Soon enough, the quiet giggles turn into something of truly epic proportions until both of you are shaking uncontrollably with laughter, gasping for large gulps of air between bouts of more laughing.

“Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N?” a nurse calls out. “The doctor will see you now.”

“Oh, uh, we’re not…” he begins.

“He’s not my…” you say at the same time.

But the busy nurse is already ushering you into the doctor’s office, leaving you with no choice except to keep quiet.

In this little room, only Namjoon, the doctor, and you are present. You do not know this, but you’re not the only one who stops breathing with anticipation when the cold jelly is plopped on your belly for the ultrasound probe.

This huge, ten-thousand dollar medical machine which can see your womb, but not the hole in your heart, hear the flutter of an infant heartbeat but not your crying at midnight—this modern miracle of ultrasound broadcasts the sure and steady heartbeat of Jeon Jungkook’s child, heard in the world for the very first time.

It sounds strangely to your ears like… like an echo of: Bibimbaps Forever. Bibimbaps Forever. Bibimbaps Forever.

Instinctively, you reach out for Namjoon’s hand to hold, eager to share your quiet wonder of this little miracle of life.

His grip is strong and sure, and immensely comforting.

***********************

Home leave with Jungkook is a luxury. He takes time to savour your body, to worship each curve, each dip, each slant and slope of your skin.

“You’re so beautiful for me,” he breathes each word into your skin as he tracks his tongue down your sternum, stopping to lave at one nipple and then the other. As your nipple peaks and tightens in his mouth, you moan desperately for more, clutching at his hair to anchor your hands on something, anything really, as he eases a finger inside you. “Goddamn, you’re so wet.”

“Jungkook,” you gasp, “Jungkook, that feels so good baby.” He’s doing the usual thing now, where he curls his finger inside and rubs gently. He loves how only he can make you sound like that. Loves how your walls flutter tight against his one finger, then two, coating them with the slick of your arousal.

“Come on. Come for me, Mrs. Jeon.”

You blush. It seems like a dream, but the ring on your finger he put on just a few hours ago doesn’t lie. He had proposed at the college observatory which you’ve visited together many times after that first night during Namjoon’s prom night. Stars that look so small, so faint, so far away are brought close, brought near, brought real to you through the lens of the telescope.

And at the very same spot, Jungkook brought a far-away girlish childhood dream of yours to be his and only his—brought it to you tonight, made it big, made it real with his ring and his promise. Amidst all the beautiful stars in the night sky, he called you his lucky star, the only one in his sky.

“Oh god. So close.” You’re gasping for breath now as he keeps up his rhythm, tongue and fingers working expertly together, with unerring accuracy. “Come inside me, Kook. Don’t wanna come on your fingers.”

“What Mrs. Jeon wants, Mrs. Jeon gets. Lemme grab a condom real quick.” Jungkook loves to see you come with him, your tight wells squeezing around his cock, your moans filling his ears begging more, pleading please, panting that’s it baby over and over while your hands press urgently on his ass to go deeper, fuck you harder. He’ll never tire of that.

“Kook, no. Come inside me. Please baby. Please.” There’s something different in your voice tonight, a desperation in your voice that’s not been there before.

He forces himself to still.

“What’s going on? Why’s my girl crying?” He’s concerned as he sees the glint of a watery reflection in your eyes. You look away from him at first, embarrassed that you’re getting so emotional.

“N-nothing.” It’s everything. “Just wanna be yours.” You have a fiancé now. He’s calling you his and you want to be, utterly, completely his.

“I wanna be yours too,” he says, pressing his lips on the little teardrops streaking your cheeks. “You sure?” Jungkook’s cock aches to fuck into you. Every time he’s deployed for a mission, he could be gone for weeks, and when he comes home, he just wants you, in every way, in every place. Stopping halfway now for conversation when he’s positively leaking with arousal is not part of the plan, but this is new from you. “What if—”

“Shh. No what-ifs. Just come. Inside me,” you implore him as you reach for his throbbing flesh, and then guide him into you.

The moment your fingers wrap around his cock is the moment Jungkook can no longer say no to you. The tight way you squeeze him, the way he feels so vulnerable, yet so strong with you, in your hands like that, god, he almost comes too soon.

With your soft limbs around his muscled thighs; skin on skin; flesh into flesh, breath for breath, you move with him as he thrusts deep into you, the curve of his cock so familiar to you by now, yet strangely new and exciting without any barrier between you both. A soft sigh escapes from you. “Want you so bad, Kook.”

“Me too, baby. Want you too.” He’s groaning from the sheer hardness of his cock surrounded by your hot, wet depths. It feels too good to know that he can cum right inside you like this. Might even fuck a baby into you. “Hold my hand. Hold tight.”

Blindly, you grope for his fingers, curling yours into his. Jungkook sees the diamond he picked out for you with Namjoon’s help, shining brightly and proudly on your ring finger. He grasps that hand a little more tightly, so happy that he’s got you. “Gonna cum,” he pants, “gonna cum so fucking hard.”

You twine your feet a little tighter behind his back to urge him deeper. “Kook.”

It’s all he needs for his hips to stutter wildly into you and you know he’s cumming right this moment. Clinging desperately to him, you press your body up into his, wishing you could melt into each other.

He comes with a guttural cry, releasing hot, thick cum into you, chest heaving from the intensity of his orgasm. He groans with pleasure, but never forgets you. Still buried inside you, his fingers rub your clit, just the way you like it. He can’t help staring at you as your mouth gapes at the building tension coiling in your body.

“Don’t stop,” you moan. “C-close.” With patience and perseverance, Jungkook works his fingers until you cum around him, shaking and trembling, your own arousal slicking his cock, dripping out from where you’re joined together and down his balls.

Shit. He’s getting hard again.

“Can you take me again, baby?”

“Yeah,” you nod, hands clasping the side of his face now, mapping out his eyebrows, those cheekbones, the soft curve of his ears, tracing his lips that kiss you everywhere so well. You hope your fingers remember everything because he’s going to ship out again tomorrow. “Want you again, too.”

Jeon Jungkook’s heart sings at your words.

I’m the luckiest man in the world, he thinks.

***********************

The nondescript package arrives without warning or fanfare. Puzzled, you open it to find a note from Mrs. Jeon. She tells you she’s not well and is moving to where she can receive round-the-clock care for her ailing health. Attached is a letter with your name among Jungkook’s personal effects sent to her by the military.

Scrawled in a weak, spidery script, the note causes fresh tears to spring to your eyes. This should have been given to you. I’m sorry for holding on to it so selfishly. I would have loved you as my daughter-in-law. Take care.

Unwrapping the package, you suck in a deep breath when you see she has sent you the flag of the republic still in its triangular fold.

You clutch it to your chest, breathing in the fabric, wondering if it smells like Jungkook. It doesn’t. It smells like new clothes from the store that haven’t been washed. It smells like sacrifice.

You hug it once more, bringing it close to your belly. Can the baby feel this? The beat of daddy’s heart for his country?

With trembling hands, you take out the letter from Jungkook.

Baby,

If you get this, then it means I didn’t make it back. I’m so sorry.

I’ve always wanted you ever since we were kids. Wanted to marry you, share life with you, build a family, make babies with you. I guess some lucky bastard will do that now instead of me.

Move on, my love. You were the lucky star in my sky. Let me be yours now.

Watching over you with love,

Jungkook

P.S. Take care of hyung for me. He’s probably taking this worse than you are. You’ve always been the strongest among the three of us.

Bibimbaps Forever.

Little teardrops fall from your face, smudging the ink on the letter. You let yourself cry, and then you wipe the tears away. Jungkook’s right, Namjoon is taking this worse than you. Everytime you mention Jungkook’s name to him, there’s only anguish and guilt in his eyes.

It’s time to make sure he’s okay.

***********************

The briefing Commander Kim Namjoon received from his higher-ups was like none he had ever attended. The more he listened, the more he was uncomfortable with the whole thing. Too many factors were out of his control and he has never liked to relinquish control to weather or to warlords—both, in this case. The night parachute jump is bad enough, but the terrain will be mountainous and his background in special ops comms tells him that those Iridium satellite phones might not work.

Team 613 (Special Ops, Indo-Pacific) is supposed to get in, get the bad guy, get out. The problem is that the satellite photos are grainy, the maps might be a little unreliable, and there isn’t confirmed intel on exactly how many militiamen are in the area, no info about whether they’re armed with the dangerous shit like rocket-propelled grenades.

Sounds fucked up as hell.

“With all due respect sirs, this mission seems to have highly unpredictable variables. We need more time to see through the details before I put my men’s lives on the line.” Namjoon keeps his tone low and respectful even though all he wants to do is yell at his superiors for coming up with this shit.

“Commander Kim. This is the best we can get. We have intel that if we don’t strike now, this man will strike our country in a way that we have not seen before.” The two older men then launch into the invincibility of 613, how this unit has always been the most dependable, the most decorated, the most desired in the republic’s hour of need throughout history. In short, there is no one else who can try this.

“I see,” says Namjoon. “So this is an order?” His eyes implore his superiors to consider his men. Their wives, their kids. Their mothers and fathers.

Rear Admiral Choi and General Lee look him in the eye. “It always is. And always will be, soldier.”

Namjoon nods like he’s expected to do, salutes like he’s been trained to do, says the Yes sir like he’s been told to do.

The military is a demanding spouse. It commands all of him, consumes him. But year after year, he signs on the dotted line because he can serve no other mistress, nor any other master.

Kim Namjoon is hard pressed to serve even himself.

He has promises to keep though, and he hopes to god to keep Jungkook out of it. That boy just bought an engagement ring worth four months of salary for fuck’s sake.

He calls his next-in-line and gives him his picks for the mission. “Get me Lee and Eun on Combat, Park on Entry. Demolitions, I want Kang and Yoon on it. Prepare the intel file for me. I’ll lead this personally.”

“And sniper, sir?”

“Get me the Cho boy.”

“Not Jeon, sir?”

“No. Keep Jeon as back-up only.”

Truth be told, Kim Namjoon doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.

All he knows he has too many fucking promises to keep.

***********************

He’s downstairs, putting groceries away in your pantry, insisting a pregnant lady should not be carrying anything heavy. You watch him as he fills your cupboards with prenatal vitamins, sparkling water, and three different kinds of crackers: one fortified with calcium, another made with wholegrain (which you’re sure you’re gonna hate), and the last made of some organic voodoo shit.

He takes such good care of you.

“Why are you here, Joon?” you ask, popping a blueberry (organic, which he washed) into your mouth.

“Well someone has to put away the groceries, and I’m not going to let it be you,” he smiles at you while he says this.

“I mean, why are you here, hanging out with a pregnant woman, a soon-to-be single-mom?” you ask quietly.

“I have no one else to hang out with.”

“That’s bull. You’re telling me out of all the women your mom has tried to match you with, there’s not even a single one?”

“Nope.”

“I’m surprised your mother still has to arrange these dinners for you. You’re smart, the youngest commander in the republic’s history. You’re always kind, always taking care of people—” you pause, “—always taking care of me.”

Your eyes meet when you say this, and suddenly your heart is thudding with an ache at how truly good and kind and honorable he is.

Quickly, you change your tone. “And you’re good-looking! They should be lining up by the dozens! Why, one day, I might even—”

“Y/N.” He’s solemn and serious when he calls you like that. “Not everyone can understand the life of a military man.”

It’s true. The long deployments. The worrying. The wondering. You’ve tasted the bitter pill, yet you know this is who Jungkook is. Was—who Jungkook was—you remind yourself. It’s the same with Namjoon. You can’t imagine any other career for him.

“One day, Joon,” you say softly, “you’ll find someone, someone who can understand this is just part of who you are. She’s out there—”

She’s right here.

“—and she’ll know you’re the one for her—”

You’re the one for me.

“—and—”

Nothing is going to change that.

“—nothing is going to change that,” you finish with a wistful smile. “Joon.”

He turns to you, his gaze flitting too quickly from yours, unable to meet your eyes fully, like he’s embarrassed.

“I don’t know what JK told you out there, but I’m okay. I have savings. I have this house my parents left me. I have my freelance job. I can take care of myself and the baby. And I will. You don’t have to do all this,” you say, pointing to the neat rows of groceries.

“I know. But maybe it’s just something I want to do for you—” Namjoon cannot believe he said this. So he quickly adds, “—as Bibimbaps Forever,” he says, turning away to start checking that all the windows and doors downstairs are locked.

“Joon. It wasn’t your fault. You know that right?” you say, following him around.

He stills for a moment. And you see him flinch in the slightest.

Before you could stop yourself, you reach up to cup his cheeks so he can meet your gaze. You want him to hear it again. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut at your words and holds back at the choking sensation which threatens to overwhelm him. There’s so much he wants to tell you. So much that he just can’t. Not yet.

“I’m late for another dinner mom set up. I better go.”

You want to hug him, tell him it’s okay to cry, but you know Namjoon. When he’s not ready, he’s not ready. As you watch his tall, sinewy frame disappear from the doorway, you hope the girl he meets tonight at dinner will know how lucky she is.

Because, he is such a good man.

***********************

“One hour late. One hour late! How have I raised you to be One. Hour. Late.” Namjoon’s mother is so embarrassed. She wishes she could twist Namjoon’s ears mid-reprimand like she did when he was younger. But he’s too tall now, and she’s too… Well, she’s too tired of all his antics at these dinners. The lateness. The perfunctory politeness. The boy doesn’t even give those girls a smile. What on god’s earth are those dimples for when he doesn’t put them to good use at these dinners?

“Just tell me where you were, that you’re one hour late for dinner with our special guest? Studying your handbooks? Cycling? Going to museums?” She draws out that last word like a dirty word. It’s not that she hates these beloved hobbies of his. It’s just that if he pulls another one like this, no other parent would allow their daughters to her home for these dinners anymore. And then how? Just how is she going to hold a grandchild in her arms? The boy is practically married to the military.

Namjoon sighs. “It’s Y/N. I was making sure she’s okay.”

Mrs. Kim quiets immediately. She had told Namjoon to take care of you.

“How is she?” she murmurs.

“She’s pregnant, Ma.”

It shocks her into silence. Poor girl, she thinks. “I’m glad you’re taking care of her,” she says softly. Truly, her son has always had a soft spot for you. He’s doing the right thing by the Jeon boy. Tomorrow, she’ll make sure to send a soup to you for the morning sickness.

Shaking herself back to reality, she urges him into the dining area. “Go on, then. This Younha has been politely waiting at the table for an hour. Beautiful manners, I tell you. And her patience… like a saint’s!” And with a slap on his back, she sends him stumbling into the formal dining room, all the while praying to the gods of her ancestors that she will hold a grandchild next year, this time.

“Um, hi. I’m so sorry. I was held up.” Namjoon barely glances at her, but when he meets her eyes, he realizes she’s breathtakingly beautiful.

“That’s okay. I was prepared. You kind of have a reputation,” she says, as a knowing smirk flirts across her face.

“What reputation?” he asks, a little worried. Namjoon has always tried to maintain a spotless name for himself. After all, he has a military career.

“Oh nothing,” she says airily. “It’s just that there were rumors.”

“Rumors?” He’s truly worried now. What the hell?

“Rumors that you’re spoken for. I can see it too, you know. The moment you walked in,” she continues mischievously. “Your eyes. Complete disinterest. There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

Guilty as charged. Called out, Namjoon looks sheepish. “Yes. There is,” he admits quietly.

Younha gets her bag and starts to leave. “Knew it. No hard feelings. But at least tell your mom, okay? Or you’re just wasting our time.” Wait till the girls hear this.

“I’m so sorr—”

She waves off his apology. Truth to be told, she came to see if the Kim Namjoon was really as tall, as dark, as handsome, and as untouchable as all the previous girls have said. They’re right, after all.

“No worries. For what it’s worth, she’s a lucky one.”

Before Kim Namjoon could see her out the door properly, Younha-with-the-patience-of-a-saint has slipped out the door and into her car.

Namjoon is left standing alone in the empty dining room wondering who the hell is the lucky one.

It’s certainly not him, and not you.

And it’s definitely not Jungkook.

***********************

The Cho boy, who’s not a bad shot himself (50 confirmed kills over two tours of duty), slipped on the wet bathroom tile at home and fractured his tailbone.

Jeon Jungkook was called up immediately by Namjoon’s second-in command, and makes it for the briefing just in time. Namjoon, surprised to see him enter the briefing room, stops for a split second before starting his briefing as planned.

After he presents the plan for the mission, the men look uneasy. “Chief... it looks like everything could turn to shit real quick,” says Park.

“That’s why we gotta keep tabs on each other. Remember, communicate! I’ll be the spotter for the sniper. If I go down, Lee, you take my place. Let’s make sure we bring Jeon where he needs to be so he can take the shot. Quick Reaction Force will lift us out of the village once he makes the kill. But this is the hour guys. Write your letters.”

Of course, as 613, they always have their letters ready. But the boys know it’s rare that their chief says this.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Jeon?”

“What if I go down? Cho’s out. Who’s taking my place?”

The room is suddenly silent. This is jinx talk. Legendary snipers don’t speak of that.

Namjoon looks at childhood friend. His brother. The lover of the love of his life. He then scans the rest of the room. He knows each of their marksmanship scores by heart. None of theirs comes even close to Jungkook’s.

“You can’t go down Jeon. I’ll make sure of it. None of us are cleared to take that shot. Rules of Engagement say we cannot take unnecessary risks with civilian life.”

Jungkook nods. “But what if—”

“If you go down, we’re back to close combat. We know where he's hiding. So secure each floor, room by room, till we get the bad guy.” Namjoon hopes he’s saying this with neutral professionalism. God knows, this scenario will happen only over his dead body. The intel on the exact building where the target is hiding isn’t the most reliable.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Park?”

“You didn’t give us the name of this Operation. What are they calling this shitshow?”

Namjoon scans every face in the room. These are his brothers. They will die for him and he for them. “This,” he takes a deep breath, “is Operation Icarus.”

“Goddamn!” Master Chief Petty Officer Park slams his fist in his thigh in frustration.

“Park!” Namjoon barks. “Is there some fresh insight you want to share about the Operation?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. If we stay low, we should be fine. Get your gear.” With a deep sigh, he ends the meeting. “We leave at 2200 hours.”

Jungkook is the last to leave the meeting room. He goes up to Namjoon and slaps him on the back.

“She loved it! She fucking loved Ring Number Two. Just like you said she would!”

Namjoon smiles weakly. “How did the whole proposal go?”

“She loved everything. I’m just happy we found each other, you know?” Jungkook looks starry-eyed now and Namjoon cannot help but be truly happy for his brother and his friend.

“Well. Make sure you get back, JK.”

“You’ve got my back. Nothing’s gonna happen. Bibimbaps Forever.”

“Shit, how many times have I told you not to mention that here. The guys will lose all respect for me if they hear about the name.”

“Bi-bim-baaaaaaaps foreeeeeeveeeer!” Jungkook sings in his falsetto as he sails out the room, confident that nothing bad is going to happen because he has you now as his soon-to-be-wife. And he has Joon on this mission. Maybe even a baby waiting for him when he gets back!

How lucky can a guy get?

***********************

You’re feeling better week by week under Namjoon’s watchful eye. He makes sure you’re eating and sleeping well, careful to bring over bland, but nutritious food from his mom to you. Jungkook’s mom has also heard about your pregnancy, but she’s too weak in her current health to come to see you.

As the nausea subsides slowly, you begin taking on commissions again, sourcing hard-to-find antique maps for wealthy clients. You even feel well enough one weekend to ask Namjoon to go to an estate sale with you to hunt for old maps in the lot of vintage junk.

The trip to the Yang estate is a full eight hour drive. But it promises to yield a treasure trove of goodies. The elderly Mr. Yang was an eclectic antiques collector and you can feel it in your bones that he has a rare copy of the Kangnido, a world map created in Korea, possibly as old as six hundred years.

Namjoon decides on renting an overnight cottage near the sprawling Yang estate in the rural countryside. He doesn’t want to tire you out in your pregnancy, and such a long drive back-to-back would be decidedly uncomfortable for you.

Halfway along the drive, Namjoon stops the car for a stretch break at a little countryside park.

You walk around the park, marveling at the glowing colors of early spring. He points out names of trees to you, little bugs and critters, and you laugh. It feels good to be outside and see this part of Namjoon you miss so much from your childhood days. He’ll make such a good father. You’re just about to head back to the car when suddenly your hands fly to your belly.

“Hang on. Oh my god—” Furrowing your eyebrows in concentration, you try to concentrate on that feeling again, not sure if you imagined it the first time. It was like a little flutter of butterfly wings in your belly.

“Are you okay?” Namjoon is tense, ready to take you to the hospital right now.

Shushing him, you grab his hand and place it on your belly. “Feel that?”

Namjoon shakes his head. You move his hand around your little bump, wanting him to share your delight in the baby moving. “Wait, here. Did you feel it?”

He cannot lie to you. “No?”

“It’s there! Right there!” You press his hand harder into your belly.

Namjoon closes his eyes, partly to focus, but also, partly because he wants to remember this: his hand low on your belly, your hand clasped on top of his, the sun warm on his back.

And he feels it. It feels like the lightest of touches from inside you, a brush of fingertip to fingertip between the veil of your skin connecting the two worlds of the living. “Wow.”

“Pretty cool, huh?”

He can't answer, can’t even look you in the eye. JK should be here. Not me.

You know what he’s thinking. “I miss him too. But you’re here, Joon. You’re alive. It wasn’t your fault. You know what a bullet in the femoral artery means.” You give his hand a long squeeze before letting it go.

Namjoon can only look down as your hand leaves his.

Walking in silence, you let him grapple with his thoughts. Grief counselling has helped you to realize that Namjoon has yet to mourn properly.

Instead, Kim Namjoon pushes down the words that long to come out. Instead, he forces himself to say words that don't need too much feelings. “Come on, let’s go to the rental place. We don’t have much time left.”

Turning into the driveway of the cottage, Namjoon is surprised to see how small it really is. The key he found in the lockbox by the flowerbeds opens the door into a clean but tiny living space. Cottage would be an exaggeration. The kitchenette has a singular heating pod and a small sink. The living room which was supposed to have a couch holds instead an armchair. Off to the side is the queen bed which was advertised. And the bathroom, the bathroom is just laughable. You’d have to practically sit over the toilet to shower.

“Maybe we should go to the nearest town and look for a hotel. This does not look comfortable.”

“And waste another hour driving there? I’m tired, Joon. Let’s just make do. Tomorrow, I want to be the first buyer at the Yang’s.” You send him your most pitiful look hoping to win him over. “Plus, your girl’s starving.”

Your girl? You meant it as an innocent remark. But when the words flew out of you, you pause. How can you be Namjoon’s girl when you’ve always been Jungkook’s? You shake the thought away. It’s just because Namjoon has been around an awful lot, you tell yourself. He’s always making sure you’re okay, going with you to doctors’ appointments, hauling ass to flea markets to help you carry stuff, traipsing from estate sale to estate sale with you. Surely, it’s nothing more.

“I’ll get the food then. Mom made some soup for you.” He makes no indication that he thought your words were out of the ordinary. Meticulously, Namjoon unpacks the food and lays it on the table, careful not to spill a single drop of the seaweed soup from the thermos that’s supposed to be extra nutritious.

Since you’re hungry, he urges you to eat and not wait for him while he takes his turn to shower first in the teeny, tiny bathroom. He hopes to god he doesn’t break anything in there. A quick shower later, he sits with you to eat. Here, in the cozy kitchen, there’s a peaceful glow about you that he’s wordlessly attracted to. “Still starving?” he teases.

“Nope,” you sigh contentedly. “Your mom. Her food. Amazing.”

Namjoon sees you’re getting sleepy. “I’ll clean up. Just go to bed.”

In the shower, the woodsy soothing smell of Namjoon’s shampoo lingers in the steamy air. It smells familiar and safe. But today, smelling it makes your skin tingle involuntarily. It must be your hormones.

Dressing quickly in a large sweatshirt and shorts, you have just slipped under the covers when you remember there’s only an armchair in the living room.

“Uh, Joon? You’re not thinking of sleeping on the armchair tonight, are you?”

“Well, yeah, it’s either that, or sleep in the car. Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’ve slept in worse places before. Go to sleep.”

“Joon,” you say as matter-of-factly as possible, “just share the bed with me. You’re driving tomorrow, you need the rest.”

“You need your own space. I—I don’t want to hurt the baby accidentally if I bump into your belly.”

“You won’t. My stomach feels like a basketball, it’s really hardy and tough. Don’t worry your handsome little head.”

He can’t help but smile at your little chide. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Okay. Promise you’ll really think about it?”

“I promise.”

And knowing Namjoon will keep his promise to think about it, you snuggle deeper into the covers and drift off to sleep, wondering when you’ll feel the baby fluttering inside you again.

Meanwhile, Namjoon is washing the food containers as softly as he can in order not to disturb you. And true to his promise, he thinks about it. He thinks. And thinks. And thinks.

It’s a bad idea. He doesn’t know what the hell his subconscious will do if he falls asleep next to you. The past few weeks find him always so hard when he gets home and crawls into his own bed after a day spent with you. It takes all his willpower not to touch himself to relieve the ache you put him in each night.

Plus, he’s a light sleeper. Any little sound you make is going to make him hyper alert. And then he won’t be able to sleep. And when he can’t sleep, he’d be tempted to reach out to hold you. He would touch you, and urge you to touch him, would kiss you, and want you to kiss him back. He would caress you everywhere in every way and beg you to do the same to him.

It’s a bad idea.

And so, Kim Namjoon folds his six-foot frame into the armchair and falls asleep.

***********************

Thirty to fifty percent of pregnant women suffer from leg cramps in their pregnancy. Tonight, you happen to be one of them. It has never happened before, and the pain that shoots through your toes, up your shin and around your calf has you gasping in pain. Moaning, you clutch at the leg, the cramping so intense that you’re crying.

“Namjoon,” you moan weakly. “Help.”

He’s awake in an instant, body bolting off the armchair to your side. “What’s wrong? Tell me where it hurts.” He’s scared. You have never sounded so wrecked with pain before. Miles away from the nearest hospital, he’s frightened that something serious is happening to you or the baby.

“Calf muscle,” you gasp. “Cramp. Hurts.”

Immediately, he pulls back the covers to see your left leg, rigid with pain. Lifting your leg, he rubs gentle circles on the tightness.

The pain is atrocious, clawing into your nerves, and your back arches off the bed. Biting your lip from crying out, you try to bear it while painful tears roll down your cheeks.

“Easy there. Breathe, love. It’s better if you breathe. It’ll help the blood flow.”

Love?

He has never called you love before. It’s always been Y/N.

Despite the sharp pain that has your calf in a vise-like grip, you shiver at the sudden slip of his tongue. It must be because he’s so tired.

Slowly, as he rubs and massages your calves, then your shin, and then your toes, the tightening ebbs and the pain subsides. You’re breathing easier.

“Better?” he asks.

You don’t want him to stop. His fingers feel so good against your skin, the touch strong and tender at the same time. “J-Joon?”

“Yeah?” His voice is all hoarse. Now that he knows there’s no imminent danger to you or the baby, he notices how your thin sleep shorts have pooled by your hip as he lifted your bare leg, exposing the length of your thigh to him.

You don’t know what you want to say, maybe you do. But it’s too soon, too forward. So you reach for a safety word. “Thanks.”

“‘Night, Y/N.”

You must have heard wrongly just now. He didn’t just call you love, did he?

***********************

The mission is going well, surprisingly. Entry into enemy territory went smoothly, and now they’re where they’re supposed to be.

The team operates with quiet clockwork efficiency. Namjoon is scanning the area, making sure there’s no chance of a surprise attack.

“Icarus 01 to Olympus. We’re in position, over.”

The silence from the comms phone is deafening. Namjoon tries it again. Still nothing. Well, there’s still time for the satellite phone to work. It might still be a couple of hours before they see the target.

Through the scope of his sniper rifle, Jungkook spots him. “Contact. Eyes on target. Two o’clock. 1200 yards.”

Namjoon immediately trains binoculars to the spot at two o’clock. The kid always gets it. It’s the target alright. Immediately he reaches for the satellite phone. “This is Icarus 01. We have visual confirm of target. Initiate Quick Reaction Force to escort us out once we make the shot.”

No answer.

Namjoon tries again. “Icarus 01 to Olympus. We have visual on target. 1200 yards. Nice, clear shot. Requesting for clearance. Initiate QRF, we need cover to get out. Over.”

The transmission back is garbled.

“Hyung, I need to take it. He’s going back inside.”

“Stand down JK. We need clearance.”

“Hyung, I’m going to take it. I can make it. I know I can.”

Namjoon hesitates.

“Remember Nana? I can make this.” Jungkook’s voice is sure and quiet. Nana—that damn mosquito which eluded them for 17 days in your living room was killed by Jungkook’s singular rubberband shot.

Namjoon gives Jungkook the go sign. He switches to radio the team. “Team Icarus. Standby. Jungkook has a clear shot. Comms to base are down. No QRF. We’ll have to fight our way out. Head to rendezvous point A for extraction. Fly low, guys. Over.”

“Roger, chief. Point A. Icarus 02 on standby Over.”

“Copy that. Heading to A. Icarus 03 standing by.”

Thank god the team radio is working.

Namjoon takes a deep breath. All hell will break loose once Jungkook makes the shot. But this is a high-value target and this is their mission. This is for their country.

“Take it, JK.”

Petty Officer (first class) Jeon Jungkook breathes slow, adjusts the rifle just right.

One shot, one kill.

He fires.

Namjoon spots the shot. The sonofabitch drops dead. “You got it, JK.” Namjoon allows himself a split second to exhale. There’s no time to crow. He raises the alarm for the team, “We got him. Icarus FLY NOW and FLY LOW. GO GO GO!”

It takes two seconds before the quiet morning in the mountain valley erupts like a hornet’s nest. Namjoon and Jungkook are heading out from their sniper’s hideout as gunfire begins to explode all around. The entire fucking village is suddenly alive.

They need to make it to the treeline on the side of the mountain. The cover of the trees would buy them some time to get the satellite phone working again to call for an exfiltration of the team. QRF needs to get the fuck here.

“JK! Run for the tree line! I got you covered!” Namjoon shouts as he crouches behind the shelter of a village well to fire his machine gun, holding off the enemy so Jungkook can make it to safety first. It is not in Kim Namjoon to leave before his men. “Go! Go!”

Jungkook’s split second hesitation costs him his leg. The bullet flies swift and sure, piercing the eight layers of skin, penetrating the sartorius muscle, pumps through his femoral vein before diving greedily into the femoral artery.

“Hyung.”

Namjoon knows that Jungkook’s hurt in a bad way before he even turns to see him.

Jungkook’s pants are drenched in red. But he’s still standing, still shooting.

Shit.

Spraying a rain of bullets to hold back the enemy, he dashes towards Jungkook who is furiously firing to give Namjoon some cover.

“Just like we practiced, okay?” Namjoon stoops down, puts an arm between Jungkook’s legs and hoists him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, keeping his one arm free to shoot. Together, they can make it out alive. They just have to. “JK! Fire at will!”

Namjoon stumbles towards the tree line while Jungkook dangles over his shoulder, firing at the bastards coming from behind. There’s no time to think about the weight around his shoulders. The burden of his promise to you weighs heavier on his heart. Determined to bring Jungkook back to you, he propels his legs agonizing step by agonizing step towards safety.

“Almost there!”

“Shit, Hyung, I’m out of ammo. Hurry.”

Namjoon spies a gap between two rocks and hurtles towards it, tumbling down into a rock cleft with Jungkook on his back.

And then… silence.

The gunfire stops.

They must be looking for us now.

“Icarus 01 to Icarus 02. We are not making it to rendezvous point A. Jeon got hit in the leg. Looks like the Femoral Artery. Proceed as planned. I’m calling MEDEVAC if I can get the fucking SAT phone to work. See you back at the base. Over and out.”

***********************

Namjoon hears the gunfire. The cling clang of emptied bullet casings as machine guns fire a torrent of ammunition. He sees Jungkook. The wound. The grenade. Explosions ringing in his ears. The coppery smell of blood everywhere. The windy beat of the rotors from the helicopters.

“JK! JK!”

The low moans wake you, and you hurry to the armchair. He’s broken in a cold sweat, trembling feverishly in the clutches of a nightmare. You know the signs. It happened to Jungkook too when he returned from a tour of duty that was just terrible.

Quickly, you hurry to wet a face towel in warm water. Tucking the towel at the back of his neck, you hope the light pressure from the heated towel will help to calm him like it did for Jungkook. It’s no use to try to wake him when this happens. You must let it run its course.

“Stay the fuck alive! JK! Y/N needs you! Come back. Come back you sonofabitch!” With his face, twisting in anguish, Namjoon continues to sob in his delirium. “I love her, love her so much, it fucking hurts. But she’s yours. I can’t take care of her like you do. You gotta make it JK. She’s waiting for you. Take my place. Take my fucking place!”

The revelation shakes you.

Namjoon loves me.

The little signs. The little signs were true after all.

You don’t know what to think except how vulnerable he looks now, curled in the armchair, crying quietly, still locked in the trauma of his mind.

You wish you could kiss him and make all the bad dreams go away. To rock in his arms and comfort the hurt away.

All you know is you want to protect this man who has spent his whole life protecting others, including you and Jungkook.

But he’s returning to the base after the drive home tomorrow.

Duty calls.

***********************

Namjoon is back at the base. On duty, he’s always professional, training with his men, planning ops, talking strategy for high-risk hostage situations. At night, he calls you, asks you about your day, asks about the baby, asks if you remembered your vitamins for the day.

You realize you look forward to these calls. Even after a day of business meetings, even after your daily evening walks, you find that you can’t sleep until you speak to Namjoon.

He doesn’t say much about his work, he can’t. But he does tell you he’s seeing the psychologist at the base. That slowly but surely, he’s learning to let go of his survivor’s guilt.

One night, his call comes late. It’s muffled, like he’s somewhere far away where the connection is terrible. “Have to make it short tonight. Just want to hear your voice one more time Y/N.”

“Joon. What’s going on? Where are you?”

“You know I can’t say. But it’s good to hear you. Don’t forget your vitamins!”

“You’re scaring me Joon. Promise me you’ll make it back. Promise m—”

There’s a long pause.

Kim Namjoon doesn’t make a promise lightly.

“I’m sorry. I can’t. But I promise I’m gonna try. So damn hard. I—I love you.”

The line clicks off before you can reply.

Please make it back. Please. Because I think I love you too.

***********************

The elder Mrs. Kim just got off the phone with another failed prospective match. This is the fourth one in as many days who has refused to come for dinner.

Is something wrong with her kimchi jigae? Was the tofu not fresh enough?

Or maybe it’s her kalguksu? She has always been praised for her thin, hand-sliced noodles. Perhaps it’s a trend to have thick noodles these days? Damn these foodie trends. How on earth is she going to keep up at this rate!

Whatever it is, she needs to get to the bottom of the matter. Something is very wrong. Her son is returning from the base tomorrow, and there are no confirmed dinner dates lined up yet. Usually she would have arranged at least six or seven dinner dates by now.

Sighing, she wonders how she’s going to hold a grandchild if this keeps up.

As she bends low to dust the area under Namjoon’s bed, a sliver of paper dangles between the wooden slats of the bed, catching her attention. What in tarnation could that be? Besides her thin kalguksu, she prides herself in keeping a neat house. No stray piece of paper under a bed is going to survive on her watch.

Giving it a hard tug, she manages to wrestle the paper free. It’s larger than she expected. Studying the fully unfolded paper before her, it suddenly becomes clear why her son has never liked any one of her prospective matches.

It’s the map he’d drawn to ask you to the high school prom.

After all these years, he still kept it.

Mrs. Kim ponders the situation.

And then she makes a call to a new prospective match—one she’s never considered before, whose circumstances are a little unconventional, but it’s one who has the best chance among all the women so far in winning her son’s heart.

She calls you to come over for dinner tomorrow night.

Because one thing Mrs Kim is known for, besides her thin, thin kalguksu noodles, is for her complete lack of patience.

***********************

Namjoon is exhausted. The post-ops debriefing took longer than expected. The higher-ups wanted a complete breakdown of all the factors that led to the success of one of the most covert, and most dangerous multi-stage missions in the history of Team 613.

He'd received an immediate promotion with the success of this mission and would be given longer home leave before taking up his new position as Captain, he can even make it for the baby’s birth! You got a quick call about it but he had to dash off for the next debrief. The sooner he got through these meetings, the earlier he could come home. He wants to see you. Badly.

Captain Kim Namjoon was supposed to be back by seven-thirty for the first matchmaking dinner of his home leave, but it’s almost eight. He’d rather pop over to your place to say hi than sit through another silent dinner with a stranger. “Ma, I had a really rough day. Must we really do this tonight?”

“You must, not we must. Go shower, you stink like Mrs. Choi’s rotten oyster kimchi.”

“Ma, I’ve been meaning to tell y—”

“Shush, whatever you want to say can wait. This one’s different.”

“But Ma—”

“Namjoon.”

With a defeated sigh, Namjoon says the two words that have kept him out of trouble all his life: “Yes, Ma.”

Shower done, he has barely time to dry off his wet hair when his mother raps on the bathroom door. “Joon, hurry up!”

“Coming, Ma.”

He hurries out of the bathroom to appease his mother, only to be hustled into the dining room. For such a small, wiry woman, Mrs. Kim is surprisingly strong when it comes to pushing her son to find a wife.

“Hey—” you say, when he appears in the dining room.

“Wait. What are you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were coming over for dinner?”

“Well, your mom said she’s making kalguksu. I can’t say no to that.”

Namjoon turns around to his mother. “Ma, what’s Y/N doing here? I thought you said it was another of those matchmaking dinners?”

Mrs. Kim knows when to make an exit. “Enjoy your dinner!” she beams. “Remember to eat for two, Y/N!” are her last words before disappearing in a huff of grandmother-to-be excitement.

“Wow. Wait. Did you know about this?” Namjoon is confused as fuck. What the hell is going on?

Slowly, you walk over to him. “I didn’t know about this.” Reaching into your bag, you take out the map from all those years ago he made.

He’s slack-jawed. “Where did you—how did you?”

“Your mom. She found it and gave it to me. It’s sweet, Namjoon. I didn’t know that you wanted to ask me out then. All this time, you loved Jungkook and loved… me.” You now realize the depth of Namjoon’s selflessness. His loyalty to Jungkook, his dedication to you. “We don’t deserve you—”

“Shh… none of that now.” He places a finger on your lips before he can stop himself. Oh god. Why are your lips so soft against the pad of his fingers? He wants to trace their bend and curve, wants to part them with his own. “I’ve always loved you. If you’re willing to give me a chance, well, you probably need time to think it over, but if you’re willing, I promise I’d—”

“I want to. So, so much,” you look at him solemnly. With a deep breath, you add, “But I also think I need time. Will you be willing to wait for me?”

Namjoon gulps. This is it. This is it.

“I am. I’m willing to wait.”

Behind the door of the dining room, the stealthy Mrs. Kim allows herself a big grin, barely able to contain the huge celebratory whoop which threatens to bust out of her lungs. She can feel the grandbaby in her arms already. It might take time, but for this, she’ll wait too.

***********************

Nobody tells you how grief can be a friend as well as an enemy.

Some days, as you waddle, round with child, looking for maps in flea markets and estate sales, a painting you think Jungkook would love catches your eye.

You’ll take a closer look, admire the blend of colors, the brush strokes, and enjoy the painting even more just because Jungkook would have loved that.

Or you might be passing by a church and a piece of choral music would float onto the street and you can almost hear the way he would hum the melody. You’ll stop. Listen. Imagine.

Those days, you would smile, giggle even, in childish delight because knowing and loving Jungkook has helped you to enjoy more of life.

Other days, grief comes stealthily like a thief. You might be doing the laundry, and the smell of the detergent which you’ve used everyday, which he loves so much, would overwhelm you with such longing that you’re brought to your knees, weeping on the floor in a pile of dirty clothes, wishing he would just come back.

But in the good days and bad days of grieving, there’s Namjoon quietly offering comfort. He comes around to sit with you in your grief. Holds you when you want to be held. He’ll murmur words to strengthen the bones of your soul so you can stand and not be crippled by sadness, walk and not be crushed by the weight of loss.

And little by little, Namjoon’s words, Namjoon’s presence, Namjoon’s acts of service build you a map of sorts to navigate your journey through grief. He’s the compass, always pointing you to living a life that Jungkook would want you to live.

And so, like a map you always have with you, Namjoon’s next to you when you want to go for a walk under the stars because the baby’s somersaulting so hard in your belly you can’t sleep. You teach him the constellations Jungkook has shown you, and he holds you close as you lean into him.

He’s next to you when your waters break, when the contractions are so painful, you can’t breathe, let alone stand. He’s here—quietly giving you the strength in his arms, praying courage into your heart.

He’s next to you when you’re pushing long and hard, when you’re exhausted from twenty hours of labor and nine months of carrying precious cargo in your belly. He’s here, holding your hand, urging you not to give up.

And when you hold the precious one, your little star, your Byeol, in your arms, he’s next to you, crying with you because of the miracle of Byeol’s life and the pain of Jungkook’s death.

He’s next to you, when the baby has her first fever from cutting a tooth. He’s here rocking her and jiggling her in that special way that always calms her after she has wailed all night.

He’s next to you when you clap your hands at Byeol’s first crawl, her first step, her first word.

Always, in the moments that count for you and Byeol, he’s here, next to you.

And after a while, you realize you don’t want to spend life with anyone else but Namjoon next to you.

You needed time to realize this, and he didn’t mind it one bit.

Because you’ve found your own map to him. You’re here. You’re next to him. And he’s next to you.

And that’s all that matters in this great, big world.

~The End~

Ref: Greater love quote taken from Holy Bible John15:13

Song during memorial service: An Irish Blessing by James E. Moore Jr.

Posted on July 11, 2021 by sahmfanficbts. All Rights Reserved © 2021 @sahmfanficbts. Please do not translate, post or upload this content onto any platform including YouTube without permission. This is a work of fiction.

Dear Reader,

Grief is like a lover and like an enemy, it pursues us through our lives. I have grieved for grandparents whom I’ve lost, the collapse of a relationship, grieved for friends near and far, for seasons of life gone wrong and innocence that I’ve lost. Wherever we may be in our grieving, let us not give up hope in the better days to come.

Give yourself time. Give grief time. And give hope a chance.

Love, Sam

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oh brother... (m)

→ Pairing: Jungkook x Female Reader

→ Summary: Things are bound to get messy when you fuck your brother’s best friend repeatedly. Better not get caught, for both of your sakes.

→ Genres: Smut

→ AU: Brother’s best friend | college/uni

→ Word Count: 1.5k

→ Rating: 18+

→ Warnings: Explicit and unprotected sex | dirty bathroom quickie | handjob | fingering | strong language | nothing too major!

→ Other: A lil something that came to me while stuck on a scene for another fic!

Keep reading

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In a World Full of Roses —(m) 18+

⤏ pairing: hoseok x reader

⤏ rating: 18+

⤏ word count: 1.3k

⤏ genre/warnings: friends to lovers au, established relationships, hurt/ comfort, implied/mentions of sex & trauma, therapy session, fluff, happy ending

I’m lost in heaven. His body taking me to places I never knew existed. We explore each other, our hands and mouths discovering every inch of our skin. I let out a moan as he enters me, slowly, stretching me out so deliciously.

He’s gentle with me at first. He knows I haven’t been with anyone in such a long time, but once I feel him inside of me, I need more. I need to feel all of him.

He hooks my leg over his arm as his pace quickens, his eyes never leaving mine as he does this. I’m scared of what I see in them.

Love.

I see love in his eyes and that terrifies me, but the pleasure he makes me feel in this moment, keeps those thoughts at bay as my abdomen feels that pull.

He’s always looked at me like I’m his Sun, when in reality, I’m just like a young sunflower; facing the Sun as it moves across the sky.

He’s my light in the darkness, and I’m terrified that my darkness is so great, that it’ll eventually snuff out his light.

His eyes shut as I watch an orgasm rip through him. Moans ring out as I, too, gush all around his length. I feel dizzy, but so amazing. My body tingles, the haze in my mind dissipating when I feel his velvet lips on my jaw, kissing me tenderly.

I can still feel his heart beating erratically against my chest, something I could never get used to but find so mesmerizing.

I whimper when I feel the loss of his girth inside me. He caresses my cheek to sooth me and when I look up at him, he gifts me with that beautiful smile I love.

Love.

There’s that word again. I can tell he wants to say it but he restrains himself because he knows I’m not ready to hear it yet. He knows me like no other. He knows me better than I know myself sometimes and I still can’t give myself to him fully.

Keep reading

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All the things I hate about you

↠ PAIRING: JHS x reader (f)

↠ WORDS: 1.6K

↠ GENRE: smut, office AU, E2L

↠ RATING: explicit (18+)

↠ SYNOPSIS: There are a lot of things you hate about Hoseok, but he’s determined to change that.

↠ WARNINGS: pwp, sex in a public work bathroom, Hoseok has platinum hair (yes that should come with a warning), oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dirty talk, snarky banter during sex, they’re bad at feelings

↠ A/N: This is a drabble for the BTS Summer Bingo Event @bangtanwritingbingo with the prompt ‘Jung Hoseok’. A big shoutout to my fellow Hobi’s Hoes: the lovely Hope @hobi-gif for challenging me and beta reading this piece, and Ana @xjoonchildx for always being such a wonderful supporter. Love you ladies, this one’s for you!

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

It’s there, somewhere at the back of your mind—fuzzy, out-of-focus, the letters bleeding out like ink on paper: a list of all the things you hate about Jung Hoseok.

Keep reading

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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). 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 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 it 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, and you trace it 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 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 of course, 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

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