Moné

Kim Namjoon feels a little disconcerted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least, this is what he tells himself as he clenches his knuckles white to stop himself from reaching out to touch you.

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, hears you crying out with pleasure at the gentle scrape of his teeth on your breast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am... am I doing something wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re different from him.”

He is not his father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instinct says to feel.

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

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

“You getting there?”

“Y-yeah. Hold me. Hold me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instinct says to meet him.

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

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

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

“Every day,” you whimper back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re okay with it.

After all, your Dad had also said:

Rules are meant to be broken.

~The End~

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

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

Author's Note:

Dear reader,

How are you?

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

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

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

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

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

Truly,

Sam.

It wasn’t fair. You knew that. What had started as a casual conversation—with stolen kisses here and there—quickly escalated into a playful banter about who was more in charge in the relationship. You had been teasing him, confidently asserting that you were the one wearing the pants in the relationship because you couldn’t imagine him being in control.

The conversation naturally shifted to a more personal challenge, touching on the topic of dominance, a subject neither of you had seriously discussed before. You had laughed then, not out of mockery, but because the idea seemed so out of character for him.

“I just think you’re more comfortable with control in other areas,” you said, trying to stifle your giggle. “But in bed? I can’t picture it.”

He raised an eyebrow, “And what areas do you think I’m more comfortable with?”

“Well, teaching for one,” you replied, leaning closer. “I’ve sat in one of your seminars. You’re always so confident standing in front of a classroom.”

“So you think I’m good at teaching?” he replied, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. “But not at… other things?”

“Exactly,” you said, nodding. “I mean, you dominate the classroom with your knowledge. But that’s different from... you know, being dominant in bed.”

“Mhm.” His hands trailed up your legs before they settled on your waist. “Maybe those skills are more transferable than you think.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “You can’t possibly compare giving a lecture in front of your students to... this.”

“Why not? Both require confidence, understanding your audience, and knowing how to lead.”

“Nice try, but I’m still not convinced,” you teased. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

You leaned in to kiss him again, your lips barely brushing his, but he backed away, leaving you hanging. His eyes were serious, not amused by your skepticism. You laughed. It was clear he wasn’t satisfied with your perception of him.

“Baby, it’s okay. I don’t mind if this isn’t your strong suit.”

“Well I do.”

You tilted your head, giving him a curious look. “Since when do you care about my opinion?”

“Since you’re my girlfriend,” he replied. “And I can’t let you think less of me.”

“I never think any less of you.”

“But you’re doubting me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “Oh, come on, stop making that face.”

Spencer's response was swift. His hands moved to gently cup your face, drawing your attention fully to him. “Tell me why you think I can’t be dominant in bed.”

You paused, thinking for a moment. “Well, you have this… air about you. It's hard to imagine you letting go.”

"Maybe I don't need to let go. Maybe I just need to take control in a different way," he said, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “Maybe I can teach you a thing or two."

"You? Teach me?" You raised an eyebrow, mock disbelief coloring your tone. "This I have to see."

“I think you should be careful what you wish for,” He said under his breath, his lips now just a whisper away from yours.

“Oh, I’m not worried,” you shot back, smiling against his lips. “I just don’t think you have it in you.”

Without another word, he closed the distance between you.

His lips moved against yours softly yet deeply, carrying the usual sweetness you'd grown accustomed to, but there was a subtle edge this time. It wasn’t too harsh, but just enough to catch you off guard and make you part your lips. He took the invitation, his tongue tracing a deliberate path inside your mouth as his hand trailed up to hold the back of your neck.

Hot. You felt hot everywhere. Certain spots on your body felt as if they were on fire, the burn traveling through your veins before pooling between your thighs. You couldn’t believe a simple kiss could make you feel this way. The heat was intense, making you ache with a need that you instinctively started to move your hips, seeking more. But then he pulled away, breaking the kiss.

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re not allowed to move.”

You frowned at him. “Why not?”

"Because..." His fingers traced a path to the hem of his shirt that you wore, the one you claimed as your own. He slowly began to lift it, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin. “You need to earn it.”

You understood immediately what he was attempting. He wanted to make you wait. He wanted you desperate. You realized it was some kind of power play, and this was his way to dominate you, to keep you on the edge. Each careful, controlled movement was a clear message to you. He was in charge, and you were left craving whatever he chose to give.

"Yeah?" You whispered, noticing the way your voice trembled with anticipation. "And how do I do that?"

He lifted the shirt higher, his hands sliding up your sides, the cool air hitting your exposed skin. “By letting me lead,” he said. “Maybe I'll give you what you want then.”

The fabric slipped over your head, and you sat there, perched on his lap, momentarily vulnerable under his intense gaze. The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension palpable as you felt his hands rest lightly on your bare shoulders, his fingers tracing small circles before they trailed lower, stopping just above your breasts.

“Will you do that? Will you do what I say?”

You swallowed hard. This was new. You never thought you’d see him asking your permission to be in control, yet here he was, doing the exact thing you were skeptical about. And to your surprise, you liked this side of him.

“Will you?” He urged.

You felt your breathing grow heavy as his hands moved lower. “…yes.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples. “I can’t hear you.”

You felt the sensation hit right through you, and it took a lot of self-control for you not to arch into his touch, to keep your voice steady as you repeated louder, “Yes.”

A satisfied smile played at the corners of his lips. “Good,” he whispered, leaning in to press an open kiss on your neck. “I think I can get used to this.”

You tilted your head, exposing your neck to him. He wasted no time, licking and sucking on your pulse point, making sure to leave his mark. His hands continued their exploration, squeezing your breasts gently, feeling their full weight in his palms. When he tugged on your nipples, pulling them harder than he ever had before, a moan escaped your lips, surprising even yourself.

His lips curved into a smirk against your skin. "Sounds like someone's enjoying this more than they expected.”

Breathlessly, you replied, "You're... doing okay, I guess."

"Just okay?" His breath was hot on your already heated skin. "I'll have to try harder then."

His fingers traced a teasing path down to the hem of your panties, playing with the soft fabric, his fingertips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath. “Lift your hips.”

You complied, lifting your hips slightly, your breath catching as his fingers hooked around the fabric and slowly began to pull it down. You shifted on his lap, letting him slip off your panties completely. He discarded it onto the floor, his hands returning to your thighs, gently massaging the plumpness of it as he fixed his gaze on you.

There was something about you that captivated him at that moment. The way you trembled, the way your breathing quickened, the way your pupils dilated. Spencer had always loved the pure desire reflected in your eyes whenever he touched you, but this was different. It was raw, unfiltered desperation, and he wanted to savor it, to draw it out and see just how far it could go.

“See? Already doing better than just okay.”

Your breath hitched as his palm ran up your inner thigh. “You’re not done proving yourself yet.”

“You know,” he started, his voice low and teasing. “You shouldn’t really challenge me like this.”

“I’m not challenging you… you’re the one who started this.”

His fingers stopped just at the edge of the heat between your legs, teasingly close yet maddeningly far, but close enough to feel the dampness on your skin.

“No, you started this.” He moved his hand further, brushing against your outer lips. “You told me I wasn’t capable of being dominant.”

Your mouth fell open, a gasp escaping your lips. “I—I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think I could take control?” His fingers grazed your slick pussy, slowly brushing your arousal between your folds. “Or didn’t think you’d enjoy it this much?”

You could only moan in response, your body reacting despite your attempts to keep your composure. 

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice as soft as his touch. “Are you still not convinced?”

Your breath hitched as his fingers found your clit. You gasped, trying to form coherent thoughts. “I… I’m starting to see your point.”

“I need more than that,” he uttered, and to your disappointment, he pulled away. “Lay down on my lap.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

He smiled. “You heard me. Lay down on my lap.”

Hesitantly, you shifted, positioning yourself across his lap, your heart pounding in your chest. “Spencer, I don’t—” you started, uncertainty lacing your voice.

“Shh,” he cut you off, his hand softly patting your back. “Relax.”

He watched as you started to relax, the supple curve of your back arching slightly, highlighting the roundness of your ass as you settled into position. His hand rested lightly on your lower back while his other found your face, turning it towards him. His eyes met yours as he brushed a stray lock of hair away from your forehead.

"Look at me," he whispered. “You trust me, don’t you?”

You nodded, keeping your eyes steady on his soft brown orbs even though your heart was racing while his other hand trailed down the curve of your hips. Then, without warning, his hand lifted from your skin only to come down gently in a firm, open-handed spank on your ass that resounded through the quiet room.

"Spencer!" you exclaimed, a flush spreading across your cheeks.

His hand rubbed the area soothingly. “Have I convinced you enough?”

You bit your lip, feeling the warmth of his touch both soothing and stimulating. “Maybe,” you replied breathlessly, your cheeks still flushed.

“Maybe?” He laughed. “Why do I feel like you’re doing this on purpose?”

You looked away, flustered, not wanting to admit the truth. “I’m not… I mean…” you stammered, your face heating up even more.

Seeing your reaction, he moved his hand between your thighs again, his fingers brushing against your slickness. “Interesting,” he hummed. “It seems you’re enjoying this more than you’re letting on.”

You couldn’t help but moan softly at his touch. “Spencer…”

“But you don’t deserve this yet,” he said, pulling his hand back teasingly. “Not until you’ve fully earned it.”

His hand suddenly came down on your ass again, the sharp sound echoing through the room. The burning sting made you gasp. 

“Count,” he instructed.

You could feel your eyes well up with unshed tears, the intensity of the slap overwhelming. You should feel ashamed and embarrassed by the situation, everything about this should send you into sheer mortification. Yet, there was also an undeniable pleasure threading through the pain, so intense that you could feel yourself getting aroused.

Another spank followed, slightly harder this time. “I told you to count.” “Two,” you gasped.

His hand came down again, firmer than before. “Start from the beginning.”

You blinked away the moisture in your eyes, trying to steady your voice. “One...”

“That’s better,” he murmured, his hand connecting with your skin, the sensation sharper than before.

“Two...”

His eyes stayed locked on you, gauging every reaction as he slapped you again.

“Three,” you cried out.

You continued to count, the numbers blending with your gasps and moans. By the time you reached seven, you were panting, the tears finally spilling over your face. His touch softened, his fingers gently caressing your reddened skin as he pressed his lips on your cheek, trying to kiss your tears away.

“Oh, baby, you know I hate to see you cry,” his voice was sweet, almost cooing, but the underlying taunt was unmistakable as his hand came down again sharply on your ass. You cried out, but he continued to trail soft kisses along your jawline, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re doing so well,” he breathed. “But I need you to count again.”

“Eight,” you whined as you tried to catch your breath. Before you could fully process the last slap, you felt another sharp smack on your ass, making you cry out again. 

“Spencer, please,” you whimpered, the mix of sensations overwhelming you. His kisses were gentle, almost tender, but his hand was anything but soft.

“Just a little more, I promise,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and comforting. “What number was that?”

“Nine,” you choked out, your voice trembling.

“One more,” he whispered. “Just one last time. Can you be a good girl and count it out for me?”

You nodded, bracing yourself. He slowly lifted his hand again and paused in the air for a moment before letting it down in a firm, final spank.

“Ten!”

“Very good,” he praised softly, his voice warm and approving. He rubbed the stinging area gently as his lips found yours in a tender, reassuring kiss, his hand cradling your face gently.

“There, all done,” he said, pulling away. “Do you think you deserve your reward now?”

You nodded slightly, your body still humming from the intense sensations. “Please.”

His smile was soft when you met his gaze. “Alright,” he hummed. “You’ve earned it.”

You closed your eyes, feeling a shiver of anticipation run through you as his fingers slipped between your legs again. The warmth of his fingers against your folds sent waves of pleasure through your body, and when he pressed gently against your clit, a gasp escaped your lips. You arched into his touch, every nerve ending tingling with the sensations he was creating. The pleasure built steadily, each stroke sending you higher, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Spencer,” you moaned, unable to hold back yourself as you arched your back, your hips grinding against his fingers, seeking more of the delicious friction.

“You’re so wet,” he sighed with a hint of surprise and satisfaction. “You like it when I go hard on you?” 

You could only nod in response, your mind barely able to form coherent thoughts with the way he was working on you.

“Do you think you can take it if I go harder?” he asked, his fingers stilling for a moment, waiting for your response.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but filled with desire. “I-I can take it.”

He answered you by slipping, not one, but two fingers into you without warning. The sound you let out was filthy, almost primal, a mix of a moan and a gasp that reverberated through the room. The unexpected intrusion drove you crazy, making it impossible to hold back your reactions as his fingers started to move inside you, stretching and filling you in a way that had your toes curling.

“God, you’re so tight,” Spencer sighed, his lips brushing against your ear. He could feel your walls clenching around him, contracting in response every time he thrust his fingers into you. It drove him wild. It consumed his mind. He couldn't believe he was the one making you feel this way.

If you were wet before, you were absolutely drenched now. Your arousal stained his skin, and it amazed him how it didn't seem to stop. The liquid seemed to intensify, becoming the only noise in the room—a slick, wet sound that echoed softly as he started a faster pace, curling his fingers inside you.

You felt the pressure building, a tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your lower stomach. Every curl of his fingers, every stroke against that perfect spot inside you, sent waves of pleasure crashing through your body.

“Spencer,” you whimpered, your voice a desperate plea. “I’m so close…”

He pulled your face closer to his, brushing his lips on your cheek. "Already?"

You nodded, unable to form words. Suddenly, he pulled his fingers out, leaving a void that made you whimper in protest. But before you could voice your frustration, his hand came down sharply on your ass. The sudden slap made you wail, your jaw slacking open.

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

You didn't know which surprised you more, his sudden withdrawal or the sharp sting of his slap. But both affected you like a storm suddenly breaking the calm, jolting your senses awake, heightening your senses.

With his hands still on you, he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Have I proved you wrong yet?"

You could barely speak. Instead, you opted for a nod, hoping he’d understand your silent affirmation. But Spencer wanted more, he wanted to hear it. When your voice failed to form the words, his hand came down sharply again, a firm smack that made you gasp and arch your back.

"Not good enough," he said firmly. He then gripped your chin, turning your face to meet his gaze, forcing you to look directly into his eyes in this position. His hold was firm, his eyes intense. "Say it."

You opened your mouth, trying to form the words, but they came out as a soft whimper when you felt his fingers suddenly slipping into your cunt again. The stretch was even more delicious this time, intensifying the pleasure already floating in your veins, scattering your thoughts.

"Focus," he commanded, but how could you when he thrust his fingers into you at a mind-blowing speed? Each thrust seemed to demand an answer, it was as if he was using your own body against you, pushing you to the edge until the only thing you could think of was the control he had over you.

And it was working, because all you could focus on was him—his fingers pumping in and out of your slick cunt, the intense gaze in his eyes, the warmth of his breath against your lips. Everything around you seemed to blur and only he remained clear.

"Say it," he urged again. "Say that you were wrong."

You struggled to form coherent thoughts, let alone speak, but his hard gaze and the relentless motion of his fingers forced the words from you. "I-I was... wrong."

"Louder," he demanded, his fingers never faltering. "I can't hear you, baby, need you to talk to me."

You moaned, your body trembling with the need for release. "I-I wanna cum."

"Hold it," he said firmly. His fingers didn't relent, maintaining that perfect rhythm, pushing you further, harder. "Say it louder."

You clenched around him, trying desperately to hold back the orgasm threatening to overwhelm you. "I-I was wrong."

"I think you can do better than that."

You groaned. The pressure was too much and you fought to find your voice through the haze of pleasure. You could feel every ridge and curve of his fingers as they moved inside you, the friction building an unbearable heat that pooled low in your abdomen.

"I still can't hear you."

"I was wrong!" you cried out pathetically, your voice breaking with desperation. Your walls clamped around him, trying to draw him deeper as the slick, wet sounds of his movements filled your ears. You were drowning in the sensations, the tension inside you winding tighter and tighter. The world narrowed down to the feeling of his fingers inside you, the relentless pressure, the intense heat pooling in your core.

“Spencer, please,” your voice cracked, tears prickling down your cheeks again. You could taste the saltiness as you took a sharp intake of breath. "Please, please, please, please—"

"Now."

With that single word, the tension inside you snapped. A powerful surge of pleasure tore through you, starting at your core and radiating outward like a shockwave. Your vision blurred, and your entire body convulsed as the orgasm overwhelmed your senses. You cried out his name, and your muscles contracted around his fingers, squeezing tightly as the sensations spiraled out of control. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful.

Your skin felt electric. Your heart pounded in your chest. Your breath came in ragged gasps as you rode out the peak of your climax, hips bucked against his hand while his fingers continued their relentless pace, drawing out your orgasm, making it last longer than you thought possible. The intensity left you trembling, your body spent and your mind unable to process anything other than the overwhelming pleasure.

You finally collapsed against him moments later, your body limp and your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. The intensity of your orgasm left you feeling both weightless and heavy as if all the strength had been drawn out of you. He gently pulled you onto his lap, your smaller frame draping effortlessly over his.

And this time, Spencer shouldn't be laughing, but he couldn't help himself. His chuckle was soft and warm, a sound that seemed to vibrate through his chest and into your body as you lay against him. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but you could sense his amusement.

"If I had any strength," you muttered, sinking into him. "I'd hit you so hard right now."

He laughed again, this time a bit louder. "Well, it's a good thing you're too worn out to try.”

"Don't get used to it," you warned, though there was no real threat in your tone.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "But I do enjoy seeing you like this."

You nuzzled closer to him, feeling the exhaustion beginning to set in. Your eyelids grew heavy as you muttered, "Just don't forget who’s really in charge in this relationship."

"I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m—“ you stopped as a yawn suddenly hit you. “I’m… the dominant one here.”

"Sure, you are," he teased gently, stroking your hair as you settled comfortably against him, a smile playing on his lips.

“I… mean it.”

“Of course. You’re always in charge.”

You nodded sleepily. “And I’m… still going... to… hit you… later…”

He rested his head on top of yours, letting your body fully relax into his. “I look forward to it.”

The firm booked a three room suite for the trip, for strategizing purposes, apparently. You suspect it was just cheaper, but at this point, you would take anything that has a bed. 

Namjoon sags against the wall of the elevator. Jungkook, the traitor, can fall asleep anywhere and managed to get some rest on the plane, but even he’s clutching the handle of his luggage for dear life. A headache that started at the beginning of your last flight pounds behind your eyes. You’re ready to wash the smell of airplane out of your hair and you desperately need to brush your teeth. Sweet, crisp hotel linen is in your future and it’s the only thing keeping you going. 

Before you left for the trip, you had the idea to sneak into Jungkook's room if the opportunity presented itself. Things have been going well with your maybe-boyfriend. You're still not sure what you are, and you're not in any hurry to define anything, especially since you blush like an idiot schoolgirl with a crush every time you see Namjoon. Namjoon, whom you have seen more in the past thirty six hours than you have in the last month. Endless meetings have kept him out of the office. Still, every time you see him, you can't help but notice Jungkook's eyes tracking him too. Things felt a little awkward at the airport as you waited for your flight, the conversation stilted, hesitant.

The elevator dings, and the door opens. Not that can spare more than a passing thought to all of that now. Your legs feel like lead, and you send up a quick prayer that the room isn’t in the furthest corner of the hotel, and that the keycard works once you get there. If the keycard doesn’t work, you may just curl up in a ball on the hallway carpet. 

Namjoon waves the keycard in front of the reader a few doors down from the elevator. It beeps green and you sigh in relief as the door opens to a kitchenette and a small living area. 

At first, you think you’re seeing things, that you’re just too tired to see the other bedroom doors branching off from the living room. That if you rub your eyes enough, two more rooms will materialize. Because this can’t be right. You get closer to the door to investigate, Namjoon and Jungkook behind you. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Yeah, no. When all you wished for was a bed, you didn’t mean one singular bed. 

You’re the first to take action, locating the room phone and dialing reception. It doesn’t take long to confirm your worst fears. There was a mistake in your booking and thanks to conventions and concerts in town, the hotel has no other available rooms for the night. 

“So you’re saying there’s nowhere else for us to stay.” 

“The couch in the living room should be a pull-out couch?” At least the receptionist sounds appropriately apologetic on the other end of the line. 

You gesture to the couch, but as Jungkook tries to remove the cushions, they stay firmly attached to the base. 

You sigh into the receiver. “It’s not a pull out couch.” 

“All our couches are supposed to be pull-out couches,” she says in dismay. 

“Maybe this one sprouted legs and switched places with a regular couch.” You wince as the words come out of your mouth. It’s not her fault, you try to remind yourself. Don’t shoot the messenger.

“I do apologize ma’am. Normally, I would be able to resolve this issue but we don’t have any other rooms available…”

The poor girl sounds like she’s about to burst into tears. You can’t help sighing once more into the receiver. “I understand, but I expect this issue will be resolved in the morning? A three bedroom suite for the duration of our stay.” 

“Yes, ma’am. Understood, ma’am.”

The click of the phone into the receiver echoes through the quiet room. When you look up at Jungkook and Namjoon, they look back at you with dumbfounded expressions. 

“You’re mean when you’re cranky,” says Jungkook. 

You don’t have the energy to send a glare his way. 

“So, what do we do?” asks Namjoon. 

It’s clear none of you can think straight, not after all the regional airports and middle seat economy seats. No one moves. Your headache goes from pounding to piercing, and you pinch your nose to help you think. 

The clock on the bedside table ticks over to three a.m. You have had enough.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We have—shit—five hours before we have to be out the door. We’re all exhausted, we all need sleep. This is king size bed. There’s plenty of space for all three of us.” 

A look of panic comes over Namjoon’s face. “I’m sleeping on the couch.” 

You let out a bark of a laugh. “I can’t even stretch my legs out on that thing.” 

“I have to, it’s—“ 

“Go sit on the couch Namjoon, see if you can stretch your legs out.” 

He does. It’s almost comical how hard he tries to stuff himself into a comfortable position.

“See? We’re only getting a few hours of sleep, so we’re all gonna do this on a comfy bed. You know how important this meeting is tomorrow. If it doesn’t go well, all our prep will be for nothing.”

They still look dubious. You feel delirious with exhaustion. 

“Look, we’ll do this. It’ll be me, then Jungkook, then Namjoon.” You gesture to the bed, indicating where each person will sleep. “There’s plenty of room, we don’t even have to touch each other.” 

Jungkook nods along, but Namjoon makes a choked sound. “But you guys are dating.”

You and Jungkook share a look. Even thinking about doing anything remotely intimate is exhausting. Jungkook looks like he can barely keep his eyes open.

“That is the furthest thing from my mind, but if you’re worried, you can be in the middle.” 

He opens his mouth to protest again, but you put up a hand. “I don’t care what order we sleep in. I’m taking this edge, but I’m gonna shower first.” 

Showering is a sweet relief, and the warmth of the water eases your tired muscles. As you come out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, you don’t even have it in you to be self-conscious about being in your pajamas around Namjoon, or to get all swoony about sleeping next to him. You start dozing off as soon as you tuck yourself between the covers, eyes heavy and mind tired. The sounds of the guys getting ready for bed sound distant to your ears. You don’t feel the dip in the bed as Namjoon gets in next to you, your dreams already swirling with depositions and settlements. 

“I had to share a bed with my colleagues. This is unacceptable.” 

The receptionist, a different one from the one you talked to on the phone, glances over to Namjoon and Jungkook and fails to cover a smirk. Infuriatingly, they look refreshed and handsome as ever. You tried your best to look presentable, but it’s like you can feel the lack of sleep hanging in bags under your eyes. No amount of concealer could hide that. 

“I am so sorry. That must have been an awkward night.” 

“Don’t give me that look. I barely got any sleep.” 

She lets out a strangled giggle.

“And not because of that either. They both snore like grandpas who need CPAP machines. Will the suite be ready for us by this afternoon, or not?” 

There’s a slow heartbeat beneath your ear, and it’s dragging you up to consciousness. 

Your mouth feels like cotton and just thinking that thought feels like someone reached into your head and squeezed your brain. How much did you drink last night? 

You don’t want to be awake right now. You don’t even know if it’s worth it to be alive right now.

Maybe if you close your eyes even tighter, you can convince yourself you’re not awake. You snuggle in closer and try to will yourself back to sleep.

A thought floats slowly to the surface. Your arm is wrapped around a waist, but it is not the enviably tiny waist you're used to.

You don’t panic, not at first. 

You crack open an eye only to squeeze it shut again. Morning sunlight streams in from the open window, sending a piercing pain through your head.

But… was that…? 

You look again, squinting against the brightness. Yes, confirmed. That is Jungkook’s tattooed arm draped across the same torso you’re clinging onto. You lift your head, blearily seeing that the has his head tucked into a neck. And that neck is attached to… 

Now you’re wide awake, your stomach flipping in surprise. 

How the hell did you end up sleeping on top of Namjoon? 

You poke Jungkook’s arm and you want to strangle him when he makes a bothered, mumbled noise and burrows his head deeper into Namjoon’s neck. The movement makes him stir, a deep grumble going through his chest. You feel it more than hear it. Your stomach does a funny flop again. 

Several things happen at once: 

1) Jungkook opens his eyes and freezes when he sees it’s not you he’s cuddling. 

2) Namjoon wakes up and clocks that you and Jungkook are sprawled on top of him. “This has to be a dream,” he mutters, the sound vibrating through his chest. 

3) You realize the funny feeling in your stomach isn’t because of Namjoon’s morning voice. 

No, your stomach feels funny because you had one too many cocktails the night before. And several glasses of champagne. Stumbling back to the hotel room with Namjoon and Jungkook, who were just as shitfaced as you. You all tumbled in through the door together and — 

Fuck. 

You’re about to puke up the contents of your stomach. You bolt upright, pushing past the tight embrace of Namjoon’s arms around you. The only thing more mortifying than waking up as one of the slices of bread in a Namjoon sandwich would be to throw up all over the glorious sandwich. You make it to the bathroom, barely.

As you’re decanting the contents of your stomach, flashes of the day before come back to you. The claimants settling before noon on Tuesday. Celebratory cocktails for happy hour. Ordering too much sushi. A second round at a karaoke bar. Pulling Jungkook and Namjoon by their ties to your bedroom. 

The rumble of deep voices comes from your bedroom as you hug the porcelain bowl. You’re never having alcohol again, you decide. 

Once your stomach settles, you pull yourself to your feet. Your reflection in the mirror startles you. You look like shit, your hair knotted and tangled, mascara smudged under your eyes. The thought of Jungkook—let alone Namjoon—seeing you like this makes you want to heave again. 

Wait, no. You do have to heave again. 

It takes twenty minutes for you to be sure that your stomach won’t rebel again, and for you to wash your face and brush your teeth. Your hair, you decide, is a lost cause. You pull on a robe before leaving the bathroom, because even if you made a mistake and slept on your boss in your undies, you sure as hell don’t want to parade around without pants. 

Namjoon and Jungkook sit on opposite sides of the bed when you come out of the bathroom, two feet of space between them. Jungkook looks like a dream, because life is unfair, and he always looks like a dream. Namjoon, mere mortal, looks like someone that just woke up after a night of drinking, face a little puffy, and hair sleep-mussed. They’re in similar states of undress as you, in undershirts and boxers. 

Namjoon notices you first, but Jungkook speaks first.

”Are you okay?” 

His voice is hoarse. He always goes too hard at karaoke. 

“I’ve been worse,” you say, voice croaky from all the karaoke and all the puking. You clear your throat and try again. “I can’t remember when, but this is surely not the worst. Um, how are you guys doing?” 

Jungkook looks down at his hands, his gaze flitting to Namjoon. 

Namjoon scrubs his hands over his face and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, his deep morning voice sending shivers down your spine. “I don’t know what happened.” 

“We drank too much is what happened,” says Jungkook under his breath. 

Namjoon shakes his head. “Drinking is never an excuse. It wasn’t appropriate.”

You sink into an armchair in the corner of the room. “I’m pretty sure it was me who dragged both of you in here.”

“‘A win calls for a cuddle.’” Jungkook imitates you in a high voice. 

If you had a pillow and the energy, you would chuck it at him. 

A little crease appears between Namjoon’s brows as he frowns. “Still…” 

“I need an aspirin if we’re going to keep talking about this,” you say. Your gut is a jumble of embarrassment, satisfaction, and yearning, and combined with the queasiness, you want to hit pause on this conversation. It takes you a second to muster up the energy to heave yourself off the armchair, but you get up, somehow, and go to your suitcase to take out the bottle of painkillers you always carry with you. “Want one?” 

They both nod, looking as miserable as you feel. 

You make your way to the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water. They follow you like little ducklings, copying you as you swallow down the medicine and several gulps of water. It brings sweet relief to your scratchy throat. You want to chug the entire glass, but the water sloshes around in your empty stomach, making you feel a little sick. The clink of the glass on the counter shoots through your brain. You climb onto the barstools by the kitchen counter and rest your head on the counter, the cool marble soothing. Your headache starts to fade a little, but not by much. 

“I’m sorry,” says Namjoon into the silence.

“Stop apologizing,” you say into the counter, words muffled. “If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.” You hope the words sound sincere coming out of your mouth, but a voice inside of you keeps repeating that you don’t regret it at all. Not when you can still feel the warmth of him beneath you, the tight squeeze of his arms around you, too. 

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t appropriate. I’ll report myself to HR when we return to the office.” 

You sit up, room swaying a bit. Jungkook stands against the counter, worrying his lip ring with his teeth. Namjoon grips his water glass so tightly you fear he’s going to break it. 

“Did something beyond sleeping happen, and I’m not remembering?”

A look of panic comes over Namjoon’s face. “I don’t think so.” 

Jungkook shakes his head. “No.” 

“Okay, then. We’re all adults here. I wasn’t touched in a way I didn’t want to be touched.” You try not to cringe as the half-confession slips from your lips. “Did you feel uncomfortable Namjoon?” 

“No, but that’s not the point.” Your stomach does a funny flip and this time it is because of him. He doesn’t regret last night. “I’m your boss, and there’s a power im—“

“Jungkook,” you say, turning to him. “Were you touched in a way that you didn’t want to be touched?” He shakes his head. “Were you in a situation you didn’t want to be in?” He shakes his head again. 

Something shifts in the silence that follows. Everything has been all but said, and you’re left feeling unbalanced. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol still talking. The throbbing behind your eyes makes it hard to think straight. 

“There you go.” You put your head back on the countertop, unable to look at either of them directly. 

“Still—“ Namjoon starts. 

You hold up a hand without raising you read. “Stop beating yourself up about it. The worst thing we did was sleep in the same bed together. It’s not like this is the first time, anyway.” 

Someone chokes on water. You keep your eyes closed, waiting for the painkillers to kick in. 

No one says anything for a while. 

Just as you’re about to fall asleep hunched over the counter, Jungkook’s quiet voice jars you back to reality. 

“What’s the plan now?” 

“What do you mean?” comes Namjoon’s response. 

“We’re supposed to be here all week for these depositions, but now that they’ve settled…” 

“I’ll check with the firm.” 

You hear movement in the kitchen, clothes rustling, glasses being placed down. When you muster the energy to sit up, only Jungkook remains. He looks lost in thought, staring into space. 

“I’m gonna shower.” 

He only gives you a grunt in response, eyes focused on another plane of existence.

You stand under the spray until your skin is red and wrinkly. When you come out, the sight of the rumpled bed reminds you of how warm and tight Namjoon’s embrace as around you, how right it felt to be with the two of them in the same space. You want to wail, because you got a taste of the impossibilities you’ve been dreaming of. It would have been best to leave it to your imagination. Why did you have to give in to your drunk impulses? 

You pull on the closest comfy clothes that look clean and go to sit in the living room. Jungkook, also freshly showered, sits on the sofa, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. The way he’s looking through his feed, you can tell he’s not processing what he’s seeing. You slump down next to him and rest your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes. He takes his hand in yours, thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand. The repetitive motion almost puts you to sleep. 

“Oh.” 

You open your eyes to see Namjoon in the doorway, looking at you two on the couch as if he walked in on something forbidden. He starts to back out of the living room. You sit up, and take your hand back. Or maybe Jungkook takes his hand away; you’re not really sure.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt—“

“No, you aren’t. We were waiting for you,” says Jungkook. 

You feel like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Namjoon looks like a deer caught in the headlights, not knowing whether to run away or come closer. The three of you are standing on a knife’s edge, waiting for something to tip you to one side or the other.

“Did you get in touch with the firm?” clarifies Jungkook. 

Air fills the room again, and you slump back into the couch, winded. Back to pretending like everything is okay, then. Like nothing has changed between the three of you.

Namjoon clears his throat. “Yeah, we’re staying as planned.” 

It’s Friday night, and the three of you are outside of the hotel waiting for a cab. Namjoon made a reservation on Yoongi’s recommendation for a trendy new restaurant that just opened. The cold, February air has a bite to it, and you pull your coat tighter around you. 

The world felt askew all of Wednesday and Thursday, as if you were on a ship permanently tilted by waves.  Work kept your mind off things, for the most part. As soon as Namjoon made the call Wednesday morning, Jimin and Hoseok got to work and scheduled a full afternoons of meetings for the remainder of your time on your trip. When you weren’t in meetings, you were in your room, sitting cross-legged on your bed as you answered emails and drafted briefs. 

During your free time, you had to remind yourself to act normally around Namjoon, as if acting normal was the only thing keeping everything from careening out of control. Every time you looked at Namjoon, he was either turning his gaze away from you, or looking at Jungkook with a sad expression on his face. Jungkook, on the other hand... you were worried he would chew off his lip piercing with how much he fiddled with it as he worked. 

Though by Friday morning, things felt like they settled down, with normal, easy banter between the three of you. It felt like a relief to laugh, and not feel on edge. You’re looking forward to going back home, to settling back into your normal routine. 

“Oh hey,” says Jungkook as he checks his phone, “it’s Valentine’s Day.” 

“Is it?” Your breath puffs out in a small cloud and you try to suppress a shiver. The longer the car takes to arrive, the more you’re regretting sacrificing warmth for fashion. You’re wearing your warm winter coat, but your legs are bare under your dress. 

Jungkook wraps an arm around your shoulders and rubs your arms to warm you up. He whispers into your ear, “Will you be my Valentine?”

Even though he whispered it, you see Namjoon stiffen out of the corner of your eye. 

You scoff and push Jungkook away, rolling your eyes, in an attempt to clear the tension. “It’s a stupid capitalist construct.” 

“C’mon, I’ll buy you discount chocolate tomorrow.” He pouts and gives you puppy dog eyes. 

Had you been alone, you would have made him beg for it. With Namjoon present, though, you want to kill Jungkook for acting like this.

Thankfully, the cab pulls up before he can do anything else. 

“Okay, but only because no one else is going to put up with your annoying ass.”

Luckily, there’s no more talk of Valentines on the way to the restaurant. You worry a bit if you’re going to be surrounded by lovey-dovey couples and if that will make the whole evening even more awkward, but unlike other places, there’s no red hearts plastered everywhere, no romantic candlelit tables with pink confetti. 

You get distracted by the good food in front of you and by the end of the main course, you forget about the tense atmosphere of the beginning of the night. A couple of drinks and everything gets right back to normal, the alcohol softening the edges of all the emotions you’ve been feeling. It finally feels like you’re at ease, like the three of you can go without blushing every time you make eye contact. It feels normal, instead of illicit, when Jungkook slips his hand onto your thigh under the table.

You’re laughing at a story Namjoon is telling about his first trial out of school, embarrassing in the moment, but hilarious in hindsight.

“Hey, hey, if it isn’t Rap Monster!” 

“Oh no.” Namjoon cringes as he twists to see who called out. 

Rap Monster? You try not to laugh as you exchange confused looks with Jungkook. 

“Who’s that?” asks Jungkook. 

“My past,” says Namjoon with a rueful smile. He gets up to greet the newcomer, a lean brunette with all the attitude of a carefree frat boy. 

“Hey man, how’s it going?” The man extends a hand out in a handshake.

“Hey Jackson. All good man.” Namjoon takes it and pulls him into a one-armed hug. “These are my colleagues.” He introduces you and Jungkook. “This guy was my freshman year roommate in college and we went to law school together.” 

“Oh, the stories I could tell…”

“Please tell us about Rap Monster,” you say. 

Jackson lets out a loud laugh. “Believe it or not, Namjoon was an underground rapper back in the day.” 

“No way.” 

“You never mentioned that!” says Jungkook. 

“With a name like Rap Monster, I’d like to leave that in my past.” 

“I’ll send you a link on YouTube,” says Jackson in a stage whisper, winking dramatically. He turns to Namjoon. “You should have told me you were in town for work! We haven’t caught up in ages.” 

“Big case. Took up all my spare brainpower, you know?” 

“Last big case, then? Rumor mill says you’re moving on.” 

You go cold. Namjoon’s eyes go wide, and he tries to get Jackson to stop talking, but Jackson keeps talking, unaware. You and Jungkook look at each other, then back at Namjoon, who looks like he’s watching a train wreck in slow motion. 

“What’s that all about, bro? Jumping ship just as we all thought you were about to make partner at Bang & Associates.” 

“You’re leaving?” 

A/N 2: Sorry for the cliffhanger 😘 Next installment coming soon, I promise! I'd love to hear from you if you have any comments!

©sowoozoo-7 2024

Min Yoongi knows loneliness. He knows the unrelenting ache of it, the way it permeates every aspect of one’s psyche.

He knows what it feels like to look for a connection that isn’t there.

When he was ten his father took him into work for the first time, and it was then, amongst the smells of engine oil and new paint and pinewood air freshener, that Yoongi discovered his first true love.

He pored over engine diagrams, admired the easy simplicity of every tool falling into its destined purpose, got used to his clothes being stained from tuning up cars all day long.

He’d loved every minute of it, and the truth is, he still does.

Then his cousin Yijin had given him a lift down Mount Samo one day, and 14 year old Yoongi had learned that there was more than one way to soar.

He learned to drive navigating the hairpin bends of Mount Samo, and although he’s perfected the art of drifting up and down it, could do it blindfolded a hundred times over, the thrill of it has never really faded.

He’s picked up a collection of friends over the years, all of whom love the adrenaline of street racing – not knowing what’s round the corner, trusting your own reflexes and instincts to save you when you can barely see for the blood rushing in your veins. 

Kim Seokjin, his oldest and closest friend, the chaebol prince who can put together a Supra’s turbo-2JZ engine almost as quickly as Yoongi himself. His sister, a corporate princess who makes Yoongi’s heart soften and the opposite happen to his cock. They’re the two people Yoongi would do anything for, not that he’d ever tell them that. 

Jung Hoseok, the gifted mechanic with a heart of gold and the sunniest demeanour Yoongi’s ever been able to tolerate, creature of the night that he is. 

Jeon Jungkook, the baby fuckboi of the group, a man with the looks of a god and the persona of a baby deer. Yoongi finds it hard to be anything but endeared by his earnest good nature and anything but amused by his swaggering. Maybe one day the kid will grow into the bad man he so badly wants to be, but Yoongi hopes not. He’s great the way he is. 

It’s been a while since Yoongi felt lonely, in fact his life’s pretty good right about now. 

And at this exact moment? It’s perfect. 

Yoongi’s senses are on overdrive as he swings into a hairpin bend on Mount Samo, tires gripping tarmac sideways. His foot taps the throttle, his hand on the handbrake just in case but he doesn’t need it, he knows the terrain so well his body’s reacting on instinct. 

Sideways on he can see Seokjin to his right, composed, barely breaking a sweat as his rear wheels scrape the very edge of the path, inches from the steep drop. 

Yoongi catches sight of himself in his own rearview mirror, teeth bared in a feral grin as he shoots out onto the final stretch, so fast there’s nothing to see but black. 

He’d normally stop, celebrate his win with a cigarette, but he’s got somewhere to be tonight. 

Behind him now, Seokjin’s headlamps flicker in lieu of a goodbye. 

Yoongi depresses the horn, a sharp short blast, and then he’s gone. 

***

Kang Yubin’s been supplying Yoongi’s father’s garage for years, and Yoongi’s been going to him for car parts since before he knew a spark plug from a catalytic converter. 

The Kang warehouse has an unassuming front in an industrial estate on the outskirts of Seoul. Yoongi parks outside the familiar glass door, can see the dim lighting filtering through the tinted glass as he approaches. 

He pushes open the door, stops, nonplussed. 

Instead of Kang Yubin’s steel-rimmed glasses and grey hair, he’s greeted by you. 

Half your face is obscured by a black face mask, your hair up under a baseball cap, but you’re definitely not who he expected to see. 

He blinks. 

Your eyebrows rise. 

‘Are you lost?’ you inquire, an edge to your voice that pulls him out of his surprised reaction and reminds him why he’s here. 

‘I was expecting Mr Kang,’ Yoongi replies. 

Coming closer to the counter he picks up on a guardedness to your posture, a weariness that you don’t bother to hide. 

‘I’m his granddaughter,’ you say, brief. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t just come here to stare at me, what do you want?’ 

‘Spark plugs – I have a —’ Yoongi breaks off as you get up. 

‘I know who you are, and I know what car you drive. Stay here and I’ll get you your stuff.’

You disappear behind a door, return in minutes with a cardboard box. 

You pull a box-cutter out of a desk drawer, slit the masking tape, pull the flaps up. 

‘Feel free to take a look,’ you say, looking at him. 

It doesn’t take long for Yoongi to verify that they’re what he needs. 

‘How do you know who I am?’ he asks, as he pays. 

There’s a faint spark in your eyes, a flicker so quick he wonders if he’s mis-read it. 

‘My grandfather said you were due around this time.’ 

You nudge your shoulder vaguely in the direction of the screen to your left, a view from the camera overlooking the front of the warehouse. ‘Not many people drive a car like that.’ 

You take his money, nudge the box in his direction. 

‘Pleasure doing business, Min Yoongi. I’ll give my grandfather your regards.’ 

You’re already looking back down at your phone like you’ve dismissed him. 

Yoongi picks up the box, casts another glance at you, and leaves. 

He’s still thinking about you when he reaches home. 

***

Yoongi’s concentrating so hard on the engine in front of him that he barely hears Seokjin approach. 

‘Dinner?’ asks Seokjin, eyes flicking over the V configuration of the 8 chrome cylinders in the custom Nissan with interest. 

Yoongi leans back, massages the crick in his neck from leaning over. 

‘Yeah. Quick though, the client wants a rush on this.’ 

They exchange a look. 

‘More money than sense,’ Seokjin says, critical. 

‘Pays the bills,’ Yoongi counters. 

They have similar opinions about rich clients who want their supercars tuned up. It’s rare that a client’s got the ability to do justice to the horsepower under the bonnet of the flashy exteriors. 

Yoongi shrugs, goes to wash his hands. 

‘Is your sister coming?’ he asks. 

Seokjin’s still admiring the engine. ‘Not tonight. Jimin’s in town,’ he says. ‘There’s a race later, if you change your mind. I’m meeting Jungkook after dinner.’ 

‘Is he still sulking over Mijin?’ Yoongi asks, falling into step beside Seokjin. 

There’s no need to confirm where they’re going, they always stop at a tiny restaurant run by an elderly woman who seems utterly unimpressed by their good manners but makes the best broth in town. 

Seokjin rolls his eyes, but his tone is sympathetic. ‘You know how it is. People never expect him to be as soft as he really is.’ 

Yoongi nods. ‘Tell him if she can’t appreciate him she’s the one missing out.’ 

Seokjin snorts. ‘Tell him yourself, he’ll love it. Are you coming to Seulgi’s party?’ 

It’s rare that Yoongi goes out at night, he’s busy and he does his best work at night time, both in the workshop and on the streets, but he’d promised Seokjin he’d go. 

‘Next week?’ he asks. 

Seokjin nods, pushes open the door to the restaurant. 

‘Yeah, don’t forget.’ 

***

Seulgi is a friend of Seokjin’s, they’d dated briefly, years back, but it hadn’t worked out. 

She greets Seokjin enthusiastically at the door, the pink flush on her cheeks deepening as Seokjin gives her an affectionate hug. 

She beams at Yoongi, and he smiles back because he’s not proof against her cheerful nature. 

It’s how he became friends with Hoseok, after all. 

‘Drinks, let me get you drinks,’ Seulgi cheers, leading them into her kitchen. 

Seokjin’s swept away by Seulgi and her friends, he’s always been a popular guy. He shoots Yoongi a look as he’s pulled into the lounge, which Yoongi pretends not to see. 

He lifts his cup to his lips, decides to go outside for a bit. 

The deck outside has a few scattered people, mostly couples, some groups. 

Yoongi leans against the wall, looks around idly. The throbbing bass of the music feels like a heartbeat. The night is cold and crisp, the skies clear, but there aren’t any stars visible in Seulgi’s backyard. 

He lets his mind wander to his next project, restoring a classic Toyota for a friend from the circuit. He’ll need parts. 

He wonders if you’ll be behind the counter when he next goes to the Kang warehouse. Then he’s straightening up, unsure if he’s manifested you into reality. 

He’s never seen your full face, but he’d know your eyes anywhere. 

You’re standing across the deck, looking straight at him, coat open over a dress that shows a hell of a lot more than the hoodie and sweats you had on the last time he saw you. 

For the first time tonight, Yoongi feels a prickle of interest. 

He’d known you’d be beautiful, there’d been something about the way you carried yourself.

You’re still looking at him. 

Yoongi walks over. 

‘Who’s manning the warehouse?’ he asks, when he gets close enough. 

You tilt your head. ‘Are you really so concerned about my family business, Min Yoongi?’ 

There’s a mocking note in your voice, Yoongi finds he likes it. 

‘You have the best quality parts,’ he says. 

Your smile blooms over your face, making your eyes bright. ‘I knew there was a reason my grandfather liked you.’ 

Yoongi nods to your dress. ‘You look pretty.’ 

‘Thank you,’ you say. ‘You look pretty too.’

Yoongi can feel his lips curving. Are you flirting with him? Seems like you are.

He’s all for it.

You’re raising your cup now, taking a sip.

In the night time lighting, your lips glisten with moisture and whatever lipstick you’ve got on, making him wonder what they’d look like around his cock.

You eye him like you know exactly what he’s thinking.

Yoongi says, ‘Do you like cars? Want to see mine?’

***

You’ve got your legs either side of his torso, your ass bouncing in his lap, and Yoongi’s front seat’s reclined all the way to make room for you to ride him.

The lines of your beautiful body are reminiscent of a triumph of masters of Italian design. Long smooth thighs, tightening around him with every rhythmic thrust. 

The curves of your breasts, bouncing right in his face.

The long line of your neck, head thrown back, the pulse in your throat fluttering as he holds your hips so he can fuck you back, fuck up into your sweet warmth.

His cock fits inside you like he was made for you, and god fucking damn, you feel so good around him he’s on a hair trigger.

Yoongi cups the back of your head, tugs you down so you’re close. Goosebumps prickle your flesh as he tells you how good you are.

Your eyes close as he kisses your bare neck, flicks his tongue against your skin.

You had been whimpering steadily as your arousal dripped down onto him, soaking his balls, pooling at the base of his cock, and as Yoongi picks up the pace he’s gratified by the hitch in your breathing.

Yoongi’s always been damn good at helping his partners find their pleasure, and he’s sure as hell not going to stop now.

Your breasts are still in his face, half out the low neck of your dress, chest heaving.

Yoongi rubs his thumb over the outline of your hardened nipple, and you cry out, muffled with your mouth against his skin but still loud enough to make his ears ring.

His balls tighten up even more as your walls flutter around him, and Yoongi would know you were coming even if you hadn’t gasped it.

God, you’re so sweet and sexy he’s lost.

He can feel your panting breaths against his neck, the weight of your warm body as it goes lax after your peak, the sweet grip of your cunt taking in everything he has to give you as he releases, a pulse of pleasure so intense it sends shockwaves through his skin.

Yoongi’s floating, and like reaching the summit of Mount Samo, he immediately wants to do it again.

You’re looking at him, lips still so swollen and pretty his spent cock gives a residual throb inside you.

‘Like my car?’ Yoongi asks. It’s stupid, but it makes you laugh and he’ll be as stupid as you like if it makes you sound like that.

Your chin lifts, and you say, ‘It’s all right.’

The flash of merriment in your eyes gives you away.

Yoongi laughs. ‘Maybe next time we can get the car started and I can actually take you somewhere.’

‘I don’t know,’ you tease. ‘Are you a good driver?’

Yoongi reaches out, tucks the lock of hair that’s fallen over your eye behind your ear.

‘Let’s find out,’ he says. ‘Where do you want to go?’

***

Yoongi’s thinking about you the next morning when he wakes up. He’d ended up taking you back to your place, where you’d kissed him sweetly at the door and bid him goodbye like a promise to see him again. 

His phone rings and he’s still got you on his mind, so it takes a second for him to regroup. 

‘The maknae needs help,’ Seokjin says, no preamble. ‘I’m going to swing by yours, be there in ten.’ 

Yoongi hangs up, wonders what the hell Jungkook’s got himself into this time. 

By the time Seokjin arrives, Yoongi’s had time to bolt coffee and change, but Seokjin still raises a brow as he swings into the passenger seat. 

As always, Seokjin’s impeccably dressed, dark hair swept back from his forehead like he’s going to his own fucking wedding instead of about to deal with some shit that’s going down. 

Yoongi suppresses a yawn, tugs his beanie down over his brow. 

‘What’s going down with JK?’ he asks. 

Seokjin cuts off another car so smoothly they’re halfway down the intersection before the irritated horn blares. 

‘Remember that race the other day? Jungkook beat Seungho fair and square, I was there.’ 

Yoongi groans. ‘The fuck. I thought we weren’t going to race that fragile asshole anymore.’ 

Seokjin glances in the rearview. ‘The maknae was still hurting over Mijin, I thought an easy win might make him feel better.’ 

‘So what’s Seungho done?’ 

‘Brought in the big guns,’ Seokjin says grimly. ‘Called in some guys from Hongkong. JK’s with them now.’ 

Now Yoongi’s fully awake. ‘Should’ve taken my car instead of this piece of shit,’ he says. 

Seokjin just laughs. ‘Don’t worry about my car, Yoongi. Maybe think of a way to hide that big–ass hickey on your neck.’ 

‘Suck my dick,’ Yoongi says, like they’re 16 again. 

‘Looks like someone already did,’ Seokjin returns. 

***

Yoongi parks up outside the Kang warehouse, pushes open the door. 

You look up from your phone. Your face mask is off, so Yoongi has the privilege of seeing the way your lips curve in a smile. 

‘There’s been a shipment of fuel injectors,’ you say. ‘Want to take a look?’ 

Yoongi stops just in front of the wooden half-panel that separates you from him. 

He tilts his head. 

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Also, I took my friend’s Honda for a spin today, I’ve got a list.’ 

He smooths out the piece of paper he’s got folded in his pocket, places it on the counter. 

You pick it up, get up. ‘I’ve got you.’ 

Yoongi runs a hand over the hickey over his neck. ‘I’ve been taking shit all day, about this,’ he adds. 

‘Yeah?’ you ask, but you don’t seem the least bit contrite. ‘You did your share of marking, Min Yoongi.’ 

Yoongi asks, ‘What time do you get off?’ 

You’re about to answer when the door opens. 

Yoongi turns and tenses immediately. 

Fucking Shin Seungho. 

‘You following me?’ he asks mildly. 

Seungho scoffs, doesn’t deign to reply. 

‘I’m collecting an order,’ he says to you. 

Your face mask is back on, your face carefully blank. ‘Sure, what’s the name?’ 

When you go into the back to collect it Seungho turns to Yoongi. 

Yoongi concentrates on the silkscreen of a cat on the wall behind the counter. 

He can feel Seungho’s eyes on his face. 

Just try it, fucker. 

The fact was, he’d pushed Seokjin’s Honda to its limits beating Seungho’s friends today, and although the adrenaline’s ebbed, there’s a thin streak still running through his bloodstream, and he’s a spark away from igniting. 

Seungho takes a step closer, and Yoongi turns to face him like he’s got all the time in the world. 

You return just as Seungho opens his filthy mouth. 

‘Looks like you’ve paid,’ you say, passing the box across the counter to Seungho. 

You pull out the box cutter, slit the package, open it up for him to check, but don’t put it down. 

‘Am I going to have trouble here, boys?’ you ask. 

Seungho barely looks your way, Yoongi’s always known the man lacks vision. 

‘Nah,’ Seungho says finally. He picks up the box, sneers at Yoongi. 

Yoongi blanks his expression. There’s no way he’s going to start shit with Seungho in front of you. 

The asshole’s not worth it. 

As soon as the door closes behind Seungho you put down the box cutter. 

The next words out of your mouth surprise him. 

‘Shit, you’re hot when you’re mad, Yoongi.’ 

Yoongi stares at you, flummoxed, then he laughs. 

‘Just when I’m mad?’ he asks. 

You shrug. ‘Take me out on a date and I’ll tell you more.’ 

‘How about right now?’ Yoongi asks. 

‘Yeah,’ you say. ‘Let’s go.’ 

***

As your grip on his hair loosens, Yoongi lifts his mouth from your cunt, swipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Helps you tug your panties back up, smooths your skirt back down over your thighs. 

He notices you’ve still got his cum in the corner of your lips. As he watches, you flick your tongue out, lick delicately. 

His cock stirs with interest, and you act like you know it. 

‘More later?’ you ask. 

‘Yeah. After I win.’ 

Yoongi reaches over to help you with your seatbelt, arranging it across your chest, between your breasts, securing it. 

You lean forward and kiss him as the belt clicks into place. 

Yoongi starts the engine, turns the heating back on because he’s noticed your hands get cold easily. 

‘I can drop you off at home before the race,’ he offers. ‘Come see you after.’ 

‘I want to see you drive,’ you say.

Yoongi wouldn’t say it, but he’s pleased. He knows he’ll keep you safe, it’s a circuit through the city outskirts he’s done a million times, and he’s looking forward to you meeting Seokjin and Hoseok and Jungkook. 

He flicks on the lights, rolls into oncoming traffic. Heads North. 

By the time he pulls up to the starting line there’s the usual crowd gathered. He parks up next to Seokjin and Hoseok.  

In his rearview he can see JK surrounded by people. He’s lost the sad puppy air he had for a few weeks whilst he was pining after Mijin. The kid’s going to be all right, not that Yoongi’s ever had any doubt about that. 

Engines all around him are starting up, a deafening series of rumbles. 

Beside him, Seokjin waves, and Hoseok smiles so brightly it’s blinding. 

The flag waves, and Yoongi accelerates. 

Checks on you in the rearview, and you’re as pretty as he remembers. 

Min Yoongi’s spent a lot of his life looking for connection, and by his reckoning, he’s doing pretty well right about now. 

Lights flash by in a blur. 

Yoongi drives. 

Author note: And that's a wrap! Thank you for reading, hope you've enjoyed, here's to a brighter 2024. This time last year we were saying goodbye to Kim Seokjin, I can't wait to start welcoming the boys back again. Happy holidays to you all!

“Do I look like a seven year old to you? Of course I know what a gangster is, Eul!” You emphasize your point as much as you can. But you know your ‘idea’ would sound absurd to anyone. 

“Then why are you even doing this? What if he gets offended and he just… he just kills you?” No eul’s eyes are full of fear but you know it’s pointless. Rumors have it that Min Yoongi doesn’t kill women and children unless there is a very good reason. 

And killing you just because you asked him to fuck you? Seems like a far fetched thought. But you are not going to explain that to your friend, not right now, standing in the middle of a dingy nightclub. 

When you place your eyes on Yoongi again, his meeting has already ended and he is walking towards the bar island. 

“Omg omg! He is finally free. I am gonna go. Eul, just take a cab home and make sure Mr. Go doesn’t see you.” you speak hastily, already trying to beeline to Yoongi. 

“But Y/N..”

“Eul.. Go! Don’t just stand here. This is not the place for people like us. Just go home.. I will call you as soon as I am free.”  waving Eul off, you start walking towards Yoongi. 

He looks karismatic as he sips on his drink, eyes focusing on nothing in particular. His dark long hair reaches to his nape, his pale skin glistening under the dim light of the bar counter, veins pop out on his arms and you wonder how those hands would feel on your body. 

Your heels click on the floor as you walk towards the man but you can’t hear the sound because of the loud music in the background. 

What you can hear is the loud beating of your heart, which gradually increases as you reach close to him. 

“Is that seat taken?” you voice, making sure you sound confident enough. 

And then he looks at you with those dark eyes, you feel your soul leaving your body slowly. Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He only regards you for a few moments and you wait patiently for his answer. 

“What are you doing here?” His voice is sharp but you don’t understand if he is upset with you for being at this place. 

“You know me?” placing your question, you take a step towards him. 

Yoongi scoffs at your dumb question. 

“Do you think I went to threaten your father without doing any research on your familyline?” he cocks one of his eyebrows. 

You don’t say anything, rather you sit down on the empty seat beside him. There is no point in waiting for his answer anymore. 

But your mind briefly goes back to the day when he broke into your mansion, injuring all of the guards on duty and threatening your father by taking him aside. You were enamored by this mysterious, scary man and all you wanted was to be under his authority for once. 

“Did your daddy send his little daughter to deal with me? So that a bigshot businessman like him doesn’t have to be seen with a thug like me, huh?”  Man! Yoongi really hates your dad for whatever reason you are not aware of. 

“No. I came here alone, all by myself” you reply, sucking in a deep breath. 

“Alone?” Yoongi mocks you, as if he knows you are lying. 

“I mean alone with Mr. Go, my driver.” you answer and Yoongi scoffs. 

“And why did you do that? Why did you come here?” the fine hairs of your neck stand up at the low, husky voice of the man. Especially because he has scooted closer to your body without your knowledge. 

“I came here to see you.” 

“The reason?” 

“I want you to fuck me.” 

Yoongi’s eyes turn darker at your proposal. And your heart starts beating even faster. 

“Do you know what you are asking for?” 

“I do. We don’t have to be in love or something. Just make me one of your girls for the night.” 

Yoongi’s tongue darts out of his mouth and wets his lips but he doesn’t say a thing. 

Your cries get muffled on the pillow, your wrists sting due to the tight hold of Yoongi’s rough calloused hand. But you feel euphoric. 

Yoongi’s fat cock hits your g-spot each time he thrusts into you. The lewd sound of wet squelching and skin slapping fill your ears. 

“Your rich cock-hungry whore! You really got the nerves of asking me for a fuck huh? You brat!” Yoongi’s voice is breathless and you want to admire it but before you could, a sharp slap lands on your bare ass. You scream on the pillow. 

“Fuck! So tight! Your pretty little rich boyfriends never really fucked you this good, huh?” he pulls his dick out of your entrance, leaves on the tip inside and then enters you again with full force. Your world starts swinging because of the sensession. 

“N-no- Nobody ever fucked me this good, yoo-Yonngi.”

Nother slap lands on your ass. 

“Did I give you the permission to call me by my name?” Yoongi pinches your clit with his free hand. 

“No-fuck- I am so-ahhh” before you could apologize, he starts rubbing rough circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“G-gonna cum.” you inform him while drooling messily on the pillow. 

“Cum.” Yoongi commands. And you let yourself go. 

Honestly you thought he was going to deny your orgasm and you were a little shocked when he permitted you. 

But your confusions soon go away, when he flips you, lays you on your back all while still being inside you and starts thrusting into you again. 

Your mind goes numb due to overstimulation. You barely can make out what’s happening. 

Your senses finally start coming out of the clouds when you feel hotness flood in your hole. 

Fuck! Yoongi just came inside you! 

“Get your clothes and leave.” he says as he pulls out his dick. 

Even though his harshness hurts you a bit, you know he is right. You should leave as soon as possible. 

So you sit up, grab your panty from the floor, slip into it and walk towards Yoongi for one last time. 

Yoongi has lit up a cigarette and the smoke makes it tough to make out his expression under the fluorescent lights of the motel. But you know he is staring at you.  

Reaching on your tiptoes, you place a kiss on his cheek and maybe that catches him off guard. 

“It was nice knowing you, Yoongi.” you say in his ears before taking your heels and walking out of the door. 

Taglist:

⭐Locked in Love 💯 by @parkmuse

// pjm x f.reader // brothers best friend!jimin, Christmas!au // 🥵🥰

📝 Getting locked in the mall on Christmas eve isn’t ideal, but getting locked in the mall with your brothers best friend that you haven’t seen in a while? Well, it might have been alright if you didn’t have feelings for him.

🗨️ This is one of my absolute favorites, and I re-read this around every Christmas 🥰

⭐Snow, Don’t Tell 💯 by @stutterfly

// pjm x f.reader // neighbors!au, f2l // 🥵🥰😂

📝 Jimin is the sweetest boy around, no comparison. Always ready to listen to my stories, visits me regularly and tells me all sorts of tales about those friends of his. Might as well adopt them all, I know so much about them! Jiminie’s the best grandson anyone could ask for, really, a little angel, and his little gang of friends is quite the hoot. He’s been a little quiet about himself lately, though. Kept going on and on about that neighbor of his, how cute she always looks and how he likes to help her with her groceries, but I think maybe I teased him just a little too much about that crush of his. Maybe he’ll figure out a way to get closer to her this holiday season, because who knows how much longer he’ll pine over the girl if he doesn’t. 

🗨️ This is one of my absolute favorites, and I re-read this around every Christmas 🥰

⭐What you Deserve by @jiminniethemarshmallow

// pjm x f.reader // bf2l // 🥵

📝 (no summary, sorry).

⭐About Last Night by @sehunpeachy

// pjm x f.reader // e2l // 🥵🥰🌩️

📝 You had promised yourself; if you were to ever hook up with that asshole park jimin, it would be just a one night stand.

💜Taehyung💜

⭐Upstream Colour by @honeymoonjin

// kth x f.reader // s2l // 🥰🥵🌩️

📝 Escaping to Venice for a break from your strenuous job was meant to be simple. Go there, decompress for two weeks, and return feeling invigorated. But the soulful gondolier you meet on the docks in Saint Mark’s Square has you wanting to never leave at all.

💜Jungkook💜

⭐Bulls Eye by @gguksgalaxy

// jjk x f.reader // f2l // 🥰🥵🌩️

📝 A summer weekend isn’t complete without Jungkook coming to seek you out at your job at the beach club to bless you wish his smile. A smile that quickly fades to anger one night, when he catches your ex trying to get your attention.

⭐In the Dark 💯 by @jksangelic

// pjm x jjk x f.reader // threesome, f2l, mxm  // 🥵😂

📝 “I can’t get a signal on my phone, the car is dead, and I’m fairly certain we are out of matches.”

⭐The CEO’s Son by @honiboyyoon

// jjk x f.reader // office!au  // 🥵

📝 Your relationship with your boss’ son was never one HR would approve of…

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

AN: I am posting this in august 2023, but dating the post back to some time in 2019 😆

Namjoon turned you over, and you sat up, kissing him as his hands grabbed onto your hips. He groaned, pushing you onto your back, holding onto your thighs and spreading your legs wide.

He began to pound inside of you again, hard and rough. His thumb began to rub circles around your clit, and your hands shot up to grip onto his wrist. You began to cry out as he began to pick up the pace. He fucked you so deep and fast, it made you feel so good.

Your moans were muffled as his hand wrapped around your throat. He wasn't squeezing it too hard, but the pressure against your windpipe made you feel so good.

"I love you fucking me like this." You panted.

"I love it too. Your pussy is so good, baby," Namjoon groaned, and you whimpered at his words. “I want to fuck you endlessly, but she will be home soon.”

You knew that his daughter was coming home from work in an hour, and that she had the day off tomorrow. She had no idea that you were sleeping with her father, or rather… that her best friend and her dad were banging — it wasn’t like you did this on purpose, it just happened.

“I will get us a hotel room next time, so we don’t have to worry about anyone disturbing us, how bout that? Do you want me to make love to you for hours?” Namjoon asked.

He continued to pump inside of you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he kissed you deeply.

“Yes, sir.” You answered him.

He growled, kissing you again and he began to fuck you even faster. His cock hit so deep inside of you, it made you cry out.

"Are you going to cum for me, baby girl?" He asked, biting your neck and he fucked you harder.

"Y-yes." You whined, tears beginning to fall down your cheeks.

You could feel yourself tighten around his cock. You were so close.

"Are you going to cum for your best friend's dad?" Namjoon smirked.

All of this was so wrong, but you couldn’t help it. The things he said to you, the way he talked, it turned you on so much.

You nodded, and he smiled. He brought his lips back to your ear, whispering to you.

"Then do it for me. Cum on my cock," he growled.

Your whole body shook as you began to orgasm. You arched your back, whimpering and moaning as your pussy tightened around his cock.

"Oh god," you cried, biting onto his shoulder as his cock continued to fuck you. You whimpered as he continued to thrust, your legs tightening around him as you came all over him.

You let out a breathy moan as he came inside of you. He grunted, moaning and groaning as he spilled his hot cum inside of your tight pussy. He panted, slowing his thrusts as he thrusted shallowly inside of you, watching you.

He smirked, leaning down to kiss you softly as his hand caressed your cheek.

And in hindsight, she probably had taken pity on your poor soul for all the stories that follow this one.

From the day you could produce a coherent thought, you’d known everything. 

There was no life-changing realisation that you’d had with Jimin, no obliviousness to what your life had once been or everything you’ve ever lost. 

You’re pretty sure your whole world would have been different had you not been aware of your previous life, the butterfly effect is a real bitch when the knowledge you never asked for is thrust into your hands and you aren’t exactly sure what to do with it. 

At eighteen you’d moved out. Because as much as you’d tried, you’d never truly felt anything for your parents in this life.

It wasn’t hard to play the role of a doting daughter, not when your parents never paid much attention to you anyway. Or how you knew attaching yourself to people that would eventually pass was a whole new wave of pain you weren’t ready to put yourself up for. 

There was no guarantee that once you died in this life you’d come back for a fourth time, there was no guarantee that if you did ever make your way back into this world that you’d ever gain the knowledge of what once was. But it was a risk you had never been willing to take. If you’d lived another life, come back again and again, then what was there to say it weren’t to happen once more? 

You often wondered how your old mother must have felt, finding out the only family she had left was murdered. How horrified she must have been after hearing the news. Or if she’d been the one to stumble across yours and Jimin’s cold corpses. 

You doubted she was still alive either way, time hadn’t exactly been on your side, the world so much different than when you were last alive. 

So much more advanced than it had been. You had so many more rights as a women than you had in your previous life. Everything seemed so new, the smallest glimpses of the past peeking through the new age that you found yourself living in. 

The story of you and Namjoon starts where you and Jimin had ended. 

You look up at the set of apartment buildings. The land that used to be the foundation of your home no longer what it used to be. The garden was buried under cement, and all your secrets that had seeped into the walls were probably rotting somewhere in the landfill.

What was once a small house for two had been reconstructed, and built so much bigger and better. Better than anything you could have imagined your home to be. 

It felt a little patronizing, the land you’d died on morphed into something so much more spectacular. 

You remember how hard it had been to simply own a house of your own. How hard it must have been for Jimin to save enough to buy it. How you felt as though you’d finally achieved something in your pitiful life the day the two of you had moved in.

How when you look at the building stood before you, it didn’t seem like such a wonderful place anymore.

It wasn’t special. It wasn’t yours.

Once again, it was so far out of reach, so different, the familiarity, the warmth, all of it had died along with you and Jimin. 

Yours and Jimin’s lives had been so insignificant that no one had thought to keep the land your sacred burial ground. 

You don’t resent the world for stripping away such a large piece of your life away. (even less so when the change had been the sole reason you’d found Namjoon. Or rather how he’d found you).  

Meeting Namjoon had become somewhat of a blur. Words slipping off your tongue as the wind dug its nails into your cheeks, and your fingers and toes felt numb from the cold. Grey cottony clouds had been stuffed in your ears and your mind had been so far from your body. Perhaps seeping into the gravel, slipping between the frost and the soil as your mind reels with every little moment you’d ever spent on this very piece of land. 

Jimin had been the spring, but Namjoon had been the winter. 

You see, Taehyung and Jimin had been the gentle things that wandered in the sunlight, flowers and warm afternoons, sweet kisses and heart-swelling love. Namjoon is what lurks in the shadows, and ugly thunder storms or gnarly bite marks imbedded into tender skin. He was every rough edge and anxiety filled heartbeat, his touch gentle as poison seeps into every pore he traces over. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Your head snaps in the direction of Jimin’s voice. Words catching in your throat, your mouth opening and then closing and then falling open once more.

Your eyes widen only for prickly disappointment to drown your heart when you’re met with the face of a stranger.  Jimin's saccharine voice echoing through one ear and out the other.

You lips fall shut, heat creeping up your neck to your cheeks as your eyes meet those of the stranger. 

“I used to live here” you point to the block of flats. And although that may not exactly be true, you don’t bother elaborating. 

(And Namjoon doesn’t bother to tell you that no one had lived in that building since it had been built. It was his land before it had been constructed and he had no plans of ever renting out any of the rooms.) 

He takes a step closer to you, maybe only an arms length away, “It’s not safe in this area” 

You turn back to look at the building, “That’s a shame” you hum, “Maybe I should get going then” 

A weird sense of guilt runs through your veins. Guilt because you weren’t at all scared. And maybe it’s because after being killed twice, the idea of death doesn’t scare you all that much anymore. Not when you were tired of life, not when you could come back and have the chance to live all over again as a whole new person. 

“I never caught your name” he says, mild curiosty dancing in his eyes.

The air is frigid as it fills your lungs, “Y/n” 

“Namjoon” he holds a hand out for you to shake.

You look at his hand, debating whether to risk it, wondering if he had plans to grab you, erase you from existence. You’d tell him it were useless if that were the case, that you’re estranged from your family and you barely had any friends that would risk themselves for your own safety. That he’d be wasting his time more than he would be yours. 

His lips curl up at the corners as you shake his hand, “Want me to walk you home?” 

You meet his gaze, pulling your scarf tighter around your neck, “No. I’m quite capable” 

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“I think there’s someone staring at you” your friend nudges you, hand cupping your ear. 

As much as you wanted to live a life of solitude, unprepared to face another life that ended in heartbreak, it was hard not to befriend someone along the way. 

The both of you would have probably quit this deadbeat job if it weren’t for each other. And luckily the place was run by an old woman that didn’t mind your shifts being practically identical. The income helped with rent and you got most meals free with the job, so really you had no plans to move anywhere else. 

Somehow, platonic love was a little easier to let go of, a little easier to mend, soothe until it doesn’t hurt as much and the memories fade like a painting left in sunlight for too long. You’d never wanted to come off as cold either, and what was one friend when you had a whole life ahead of you? 

Because as much as you liked to slip into your own world, replay the stories of Taehyung and Jimin until tears slip down your cheeks and you had half a mind to pull your aching heart out of youe chest, the strange sort of catharsis that hurts as much as it heals— having a friend wasn’t all that bad. 

And maybe you’d be upset if one day the two of you were to wander down separate paths, only to never meet at the crossroad and continue on with life like you hadn’t trekked for miles together; but maybe that hurt was worth the risk if it were easy to heal later on. A selfish thought, but you’d learnt that humans were simply built that way. That being selfish wasn’t all that terrible.

You look up at her, dropping the mug and cloth behind you in favor of leaning on the counter, arm to arm. 

“Who?” your head falls on her shoulder. 

“The guy over there” she nods her head in his direction. You follow her line of sight, eyes meeting the strangers’ very briefly before your gaze flitters out the storefront window. 

“Do you know him?” she asks, your head falling off her shoulder as someone stalks up to the counter. 

You squint as she takes the order, watching as the curious stranger flicks open a newpaper. 

You weren’t sure if he was simply confident or overly arrogant. His posture that of a man who gets his way, the kind of man you try to avoid when the sun sets. The kind of man you try to avoid when you go out for drinks and they offer you a night you’d never forget. 

His shoulders were lax, open. One leg crossed over the other. Chest broad and arms bulging under his thin dress shirt. He was handsome. Very handsome. And you knew he was aware of this fact, especially with the way all eyes were on him as people left the cafe. Their unrelenting stares doing nothing to deter his relaxed demeanour. 

“I don’t think so, no” you shake your head, turning back to grab a to-go cup, “Maybe he’s one of those creeps that have a thing for baristas” 

She frowns, hip knocking against yours with more force than intended, almost sending the cup you were holding flying. “Don’t say that, what if he’s a rich CEO and wants to take you on a date?” 

You can’t help the laugh that spills from your lips, “Doubt it. I don’t think rich CEOs drink cheap coffee on this side of town” 

She hums, “His suit does looks pretty expensive” 

“It does” you agree, meeting her eyes. 

“French make?” 

You tilt your head, taking another glance in his direction, “Italian” 

“Freshly pressed?” 

“Definitely” 

You slide the hot coffee across the counter, bitter annoyance creasing your eyebrows when you don’t even get a thank you. 

“I mean, there’s more ways to get money than just being a rich CEO” she tilts her head, eyes squinting ever so slightly.

“Maybe he’s a doctor” you run a finger over your bottom lip, and she throws her head back in laughter. 

“Maybe he does shady gang related stuff” 

Your nose scrunches up at that, “Like sex trafficking? What if he sells drugs?” 

She bites her lip. 

“You fiend” you laugh, “There’s bad boy, and then there’s just straight up criminal” 

She gives you an exasperated sigh, “What if he’s a nice? What if he wants true love, and cares about his family?” 

Your mouth falls open in disbelief, “I don’t–” you swallow, “You have strange preferences” is what you settle with. 

“Okay?” she laughs, “And what about you?” 

“A gentleman. The sappy ones that believe in true love” 

“Doesn’t seem to be many of those around anymore, not in this area at least” she nods, “Maybe we both have unattainable types” 

Your lips quirk up into a smile, “Maybe. I’m not really looking for love” 

“Why not? Add something fun to your life” 

Both of your attention is snatched by the door swinging shut, the stranger that had been keeping as eye on you slinking down the street, newspaper tucked underneath his arm. 

“I’m happy where I am” 

“You don’t go out” she deadpans. 

Your eyes narrow, “I do. For work, groceries, you know all that kinda stuff” 

It’s barely a laugh that puffs out of her, more an exasperated sigh, “How are you ever going to meet the love of your life?” 

Something bitter coats over your tongue, and you will yourself not to frown. You think your heart slowly starts to sink inside your chest, an ugly weight that has your eyes stinging a little. 

“I don’t think everyone has soulmates” you turn away from her, picking up the mug you’d put down earlier. 

“You’re so cynical sometimes, you know that? Besides, it’s not like you have to find a soulmate per say, just— a fling or something” 

“Yeah” you look at her over your shoulder, “Wanna go change? I’ll lock up today” 

She hums, “Are you sure? I don’t mind helping” 

You shake your head, pushing yourself onto your toes to place a mug back on the shelf, ‘I’ll be fine, you have somewhere you gotta be right?” 

“Yeah. My dad’s in the hospital again, I don’t know how I’m gonna pay the bill this time” 

You tuck your hair behind your ear, “Sorry to hear that” and truly you were. But as much as you wanted to offer to help her pay off the bills, you had your own utilities to pay for, a life to live.

And maybe you were a prime example of a selfish human.

She shrugs, “Life is shitty sometimes, not much I can do about it” 

She waves before she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her. You watch as she walks, only blinking when she’s out of sight. 

You stand there for a moment, time inside the cafe stopping as the world continues to move outside.

You can barely hear the chatter, muffled through the glass, though you see people’s smiles, watching groups of them laugh. Or two people holding hands. You see lovestruck looks in people’s eyes. Eyes that don’t seem to hold much emotion at all. Distress from someone on the phone. The smallest hint of happiness from someone listening to music. 

You fall back into reality when one of the boilers in the backroom rumbles, your attention quickly snatched as you duck under the counter to wash the tables. Your world now quiet enough for your thoughts to amplify. They fill up the room like thick smog, skipping around you with quick steps you almost stumble over your own feet. 

Some days you found yourself wondering what Taehyung would think of you now, how the both of you might have danced around the cafe, a piano piece playing in the background from a jukebox as you closed up for the night. Or what would happen when you’d finally go home to your one bedroom apartment and Jimin would be sprawled across the sheets, hair damp, and skin still damp, wet from just taking a shower. 

You startle when someone approaches you just as you lock up the door, “Willing to take my offer to walk you home this time?” 

With widened eyes you turn to meet the stranger, acute terror tickling your mind as you think he must have been hanging around the shop since he left earlier, just waiting for you to lock up, “Excuse me?” Your voice breathless. 

“It’s pretty late, and girls like you don’t fare well when the sun goes down” 

You slip the key to the cafe into your pocket, “I think I’ll pass” your shoulder barely brushes his as you slip past him, though you don’t miss the thump of footsteps behind you. Too close, yet not close enough for you to do anything about it. 

You stop, “What do you want?” 

“Come on, Y/n, We’re past that, I’m just making sure you get home safe” you watch as a dimpled smile tugs onto his face and you pull your coat tighter around your body, unsure if the shiver was from the cold or from him.  

Your eyes narrow, skeptical, “How’d you know my name?” 

Something akin to a scoff vibrates from his chest, “You’re fucking serious? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already?” 

You bite your bottom lip, eyes glazing over his face, memories playing like a strip of film in your mind, click click clicking until you pause when you catch sight of his face, a little blurred but his eyes are hard to forget. “Ah–” you sigh, “Namjoon” 

You will yourself no to smack the shit-eating grin off his face, rather turning back around, starting your walk home. 

“So i’m not that forgettable?” his steps fall in time with yours. No longer walking behind you, all caution thrown out of the window. 

“It took me all day to remember. Why were you just hanging out at the cafe? Don’t you have better things to do?” 

“No” he shakes his head. 

You don’t open your mouth the rest of the way home, and neither does Namjoon. Not until you’re stood on the step of your apartment building, slightly looking down at him. 

“Thanks for walking me home” you rock back and forth on your heels, “You don’t need to do it again though” 

Namjoon wets his bottom lip, pulling his scarf a little tighter around his neck. Condensed air whispering into nothing as he open his mouth to speak. 

“I want to see you again” Plain. Simple. Straight to the point. But not what you wanted to hear. 

You sigh, back of your throat drying as you inhale frost riddled air, “That’s a bit too forward, don’t you think?” 

He runs a hand over his chin, “I wouldn’t say so” 

“Whatever it is you want, Namjoon, I don’t want it” you tell him, hoping that by some miracle, your little hint penetrates his thick skull. 

“And how do you know what I want?” His arms fold across his chest. 

It doesn’t apparently, and you are so close to losing your tether. 

“Dating. Marriage. Sex. Simply a fling. I don’t want any of it” 

It irks you how he laughs, “Marriage is a bit too soon, I barely know you. But I’m not opposed to the rest” 

“But I am” 

“We’ll see about that” he waves you off, “i’ll see you around, yeah?” 

You choose not to reply, willing yourself not to look back as you push open the door to your building. 

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“Do you fuck on the first date?” 

And for a moment you think your mind short circuits, neurones working overtime to piece together a coherent thought. Sparking against one another as his question replays in your mind. 

Everything with Namjoon was always so quick. What had been him walking you home had somehow melted into him taking you out to dinner on the nice side of town for a date that truly you hadn’t had any interest in. That was until he’d shown up at your door out of the blue barely a week after the two of you had met. 

You’d never told him your apartment number, and it had left you mildly curious as to who you’d gotten yourself involved in. You could only hope that if you came off dull enough he’d choose to go and flirt with another human that was willing to spread their legs for him on the first date. 

“I haven’t before. So, no” 

Namjoon hums, hand running over his jaw in thought. 

“How charming” he muses, and you’re unsure if it’s a laugh that rumbles from his chest or a scoff, perhaps a mixture of both. “They must have been true gentlemen. Let me know what I’m working with” 

You raise an eyebrow, and he nods for you to continue. 

“The first guy.. I suppose we never exactly had a first date. The second…we ate by a lake and talked about dreams and the universe, and then he made me a flower crown so I made one for him” 

Namjoon’s eyebrows furrow, “Men like that exist?” 

The corners of your lips quirk up, wistful memories of still-there emotions seeping back into your heart. “No. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here” 

“They’re dead?” 

You swallow, breath catching in the back of your throat. Namjoon’s head tilts, expectant. 

“Something like that” is all you can find yourself to manage. 

“You kill them yourself?” his eyebrow raises, though you think the both of you know the answer. And maybe that had been the moment you’d gotten an inkling of what Namjoon did for a living, and how utterly fascinating it was to talk about death so freely with another human being. 

It had always been so taboo. But it was simply the end of life, the end of a story. Everyone were to experience it one day, so why would no one ever talk about it? 

“No” you shake your head, “And this isn’t about them” 

“It’s not” he agrees, “I’ll leave the sex for next time as well” 

You cover a laugh with a cough, “How thoughtful of you” 

“You don’t seem upset” he points out, piercing eyes making it a point to hold eye contact. 

“About you wondering what happened to my dead lovers?” And he nods, “You’re understandably curious. I’m not going to hold that against you” you shrug. 

Your finger runs over the seam line of your dress, some small part of you on edge, always wondering what Namjoon’s next words would be. He was always so calculated. And a small part of you was scared he’d ask things you had no intention of mentioning. 

“And you’re not curious about my past relationships?” he asks, somewhat surprising you. 

You shake your head, “I think I’ve made it clear that I’m not interested in a relationship. So I really couldn’t care what your past endeavours were like” 

You sit up a little straighter when his lips quirk up into a smile, “I wonder why you’re here then. If you truly wanted nothing to do with me” 

Your tongue wets your bottom lip, “You’re awfully similar to a parasite, you know?” 

He raises an eyebrow, “Elaborate” 

“Do you believe in destiny?” 

“That doesn’t answer me” he shakes his head, “What does destiny have to do with parasites?” 

“You’re like a parasite because no matter where I go, you cling on to me like it’s all you know” you say, “For the last week since we’d met that one evening all you do is sit in the cafe all day while I work, walk me home and show up at my door on my days off even though I told you I’m not interested” 

“And destiny?”

“I said yes to today, because destiny is a bitch. And maybe it had been her that had sent us to one another” 

Namjoon leans back in his chair, “I do believe. To answer your earlier question” 

You sigh, “That doesn’t mean I want to dive head first into a relationship with you” 

“But you’re not opposed to the idea of us getting to know one another?” 

You bite your lip, maybe trying to hide a smile, “I didn’t say that” 

“It was implied though” Namjoon’s own lips curl upwards. 

“Was it?” 

Namjoon’s eyebrows furrow, “Don’t start acting like a brat now” 

“Or what?” 

He leans over the table, lithe fingers taking a hold of your jaw before he runs his thumb over your bottom lip, “Are you willing to play that game, love?” 

“Maybe one day, but I have a shift soon so I better get going. Thanks for dinner, I’ll make sure to add a complimentary cake with your coffee tomorrow” 

Namjoon’s fingers fall loose around your jaw, “You want me to visit tomorrow?” 

You push yourself to stand, chair squeaking against the tiled flooring, “Something like that” 

“When does your shift start?” 

“I open up tomorrow” 

He nods, “And you’re closing up tonight?” 

“Mmhmm” you hum. 

“I’ll come pick you up after I get some work done” he calls out to you, and you simply wave over your shoulder as you weave through tables towards the exit. 

Everything about life with Namjoon was fast paced. So quick you often found yourself stumbling after him as the both of you wander in the dark, no clear destination in mind. But as you stray away from him, he always seems to find where you are. 

Arguable coincidences turning a little more purposeful. You never thought much of it when you’d run into him while shopping, or out drinking with your friend. Never thinking it was weird how no matter where you seemed to be, Namjoon would be there too. Always there to find you, always there to bring you home. 

He loomed behind you like a shadow, an obedient guard dog that lurked in your shadows. 

When you truly think back to your time with Namjoon, every moment together was clouded by rose tinted glasses that you seemed to have refused to take off. 

It wasn’t long after that first encounter with one another that you started dating. And merely weeks after that, somehow Namjoon had convinced you to move in with him. He always told you how he didn’t like the side of town you lived on, how worried he got dropping you off at your door. 

Because he knew what happened when people slept, and the world was a little quieter. When the light of the moon didn’t spill into the dark corners of alleyways and brutish men think they run the streets that belong to him. 

“I have a lot of people’s blood on my hands, you understand that right?” he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. 

You blink up at him from where you’re sat on his bed, “Yes” you nod. 

“That if you accept me like this– wholly me– there is no going back for either of us?” 

Your tongue wets your bottom lip. “I understand” 

The corner of his lip curls upwards, “Good. Because I had no plan of letting you go” 

And maybe that’s when you should have turned your back on him. That through the misted veil of sickly belief that fate had played a game with you again, you’d stayed– evidently leading to another tragedy. 

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Namjoon was the epitome of obsession, it coursed through his veins just as much as blood did. 

He was comparable to a magpie, though his form of treasure was delicate little beings like you that he liked to lock up. And watch as you dance for him behind the bars of a cage, eyes piercing into your very soul until it melts and he mends you back together again. 

“What’s wrong, my darling?” Namjoon frowns, slouching back into his chair. 

You lay the book over your chest, heart-wrenching deja vu tickling your insides. “It’s just work. The old lady that owns the place is lowering our pay” 

Namjoon hums, “Why don’t you quit?” he takes off his glasses, hand running over his face. 

“Quit?” you sit up, eyebrows furrowing, “I probably have enough saved for a couple of weeks but after that I’m done for. It’s not like I’m paying rent anymore” 

Namjoon pushes himself to stand, slinking around his desk to stand before you, “That’s why I’m here. You don’t have to work anymore, I’ve got the both of us” 

You shake your head, “Namjoon I can’t do that” you tell him, leaning into his touch as his thumb caresses your jaw. 

“And why not?” He crouches down, head tilting in a way that is so very much Namjoon. 

“It’s unfair on you. Plus, I’m capable of taking care of myself” 

He runs his thumb over his bottom lip, “I know you are, but why have all the added stress when I’m more than happy to do this for us”

Some days Namjoon seemed awfully normal. Integrated perfectly into society, just like the rest of human kind. And some days you found it scary how ordinary he seemed when you knew of the things he did. He always seemed so in control of his own mind, thoughts easily articulated into convincing words, dressed proper, a kind smile. 

It was unnerving how someone so perfect was so very much the evil that you fear as a child. The grim reaper who melts into the darkess, takes a life and thinks no more of that pitiful being’s existence as he stalks through the night ready to chew on another soul. 

Maybe it was blissful ignorance that had chained you to him. If he were the being that men feared then it was only smart to latch onto him, to pretend he didn’t do all these bad things and let him squeeze his way into your heart. For you to be docile and quiet and everything he wanted from you. Even if his love hurt, thick shards of glass piercing their way into your heart and your mind and your body and your soul. 

It was suffocating. Emotions too hard to decipher when he treated you as if you were the only thing that mattered in this cruel world. His love having a tiny semblance of your previous lovers. Foolish in the way you clung on to the smallest parts of them that you could, even though you knew it was never going to be the same. Namjoon was so far from being Taehyung. He was never going to be Jimin. His love a new type of raw, skinned alive and thrusted into your hands without much thought. 

Namjoon’s finger’s slip between your own, grass prickling the bare skin of your arms as you shift,  “Sirius” 

“Pardon?” you tilt your head to look at him, the softest smile on his face as he looks up at the sky. 

“You’re my Sirius” he closes his eyes, smile still lingering. 

“I don’t–” you start, mouth falling shut when he turns to look at you, eyes an endless abyss that you find yourself falling into. Every bad thing he’s ever done, suddenly no longer that evil when he looks at you like this. 

“If Sirius is the brightest star in the sky. Then you must be my Sirius” 

You blink, utterly baffled as to where this had come from. 

“Are you ill?” you dare ask, breath catching in the back of your throat. Warm, gentle, love heating your cheeks the lightest pink, though you doubt Namjoon would be able to see it in the light of the moon. 

A laugh bubbles from his chest, “No” he shakes his head, “Love turns us into fools sometimes” 

You push yourself up onto your elbows, fingers slipping from between his own. 

“That wasn’t foolish” you tell him, “Surprisingly profound. And incredibly sweet” 

“Is that the way to your heart? Sweet words and a pretty face?” he teases, sitting up. And you fall onto your back. 

“It seems so” you say, “Though you’ve already found a home in mine” 

“Is that so?” his hands run over your thighs, fingers teasing the hem of your shorts. 

“Mmhmm” you hum, eyes flickering back towards the sky. 

“Then it is lucky you’ve also found a home in mine” He leans down, arms caging your head as he presses a plush kiss to your cheeks, following the slope up to the tip of your nose before he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. 

“Not here” you murmur just as he pulls away, curious hands wandering over whatever bare skin he can grab onto. 

“But how is the world to know you belong to me?” he asks, warm breath fanning over your lips. 

You swallow, “I’m sure they’re all aware by now. More than a few men have lost their lives because of me” 

Namjoon pushes himself to sit up, frown morphing on his face, “I told you their blood is not on your hands, but mine” 

And he had told you that. Many times. Between kisses of reassurance, where his hands wander down for back as you cling to his suit jacket, guilt chewing away at your mind until you couldn’t take it anymore and begged him to stop his merciless ways when it came to you. Because in truth, no matter how many times he’d told you, their deaths are your fault. And will latch onto your weary soul. 

And maybe one day when death knocks at your door, he will open his book and list out every man that had ever died because of you, and then he will tell you the devil is waiting downstairs with the door open and a spare room just for you. 

Never once had you asked him to slip out of the bedroom as you slept, slaughtering every man that dared lock eyes with you for longer than Namjoon deemed necessary. Or utter your name from mouths made of filth, or gawk at the small sliver of skin you would show at dinner. Skin that was wholly his to touch and defile and bite at until he’d become the artist, painting you red only for flowers of purple to bloom across unblemished skin. 

“That doesn’t change the fact their premature demise wasn’t linked to me” 

“None of that” he hums, helping you sit up, fingers raking through your hair. “Angels don’t have human blood on their hands, it is above them”

The day you’d kneeled before him, begged for him to stop killing on your behalf, that he didn’t need to do more than he already was, that those men didn’t mean anything at all to you– he’d never mentioned another instance where he erased the existence of another human. 

That didn’t mean you were naive enough to believe he’d stopped killing. You weren’t stupid. It wasn’t hard to piece together the little things that happened when you’d wake up during the nights, sheets cold beside you and Namjoon nowhere to be seen until the sun had risen. 

Familiar faces printed on the front pages of newspapers, gruely deaths typed out without a lick of sympathy, just another face, just another story. 

And maybe it had been all your fault, bringing up such trivial things like destiny. Uttered how you thought fate had brought the two of you together, solidifying whatever little budding obsession Namjoon had for you. And it was ironic, how even after the tragedy of this life, the little flicker of hatred you held for fate herself was blown out, because as fucked up as it was; you had no regrets when it came to Namjoon. 

He’d built you up into an entirely new person. So different than you had been. Shown you a life that was so different from what you’d had before. So fresh. And new. And exciting. 

Impossible to hate. 

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

A choked moan catches in the back of your throat when Namjoon’s teeth clamp around your nipple, his chin spit-soaked as he lathers his tongue over your flushed skin. 

“Fuc– Namjoon” you huff, hips rutting upwards, desperate to chase after every lick of searing pleasure as your clit rubs against the soft fabric of your panties. 

Your pelvis knocks against his stomach, head tipping backwards as he kisses over your tender skin, tongue soothing over every divot that his teeth had left over your body. 

His hand slips down between your bodies, awfully mean as he hooks his fingers in the waist of your panties, tugging them upwards until the crotch is tucked snug between your folds, soaked fabric rubbing deliciously against your throbbing clit. 

“Yeah?” he laughs when you moan out his name, tears gathering along your waterline as you rut upwards. A feral sort of pleasure consuming your entire being, emotions rubbed red-raw, heart thrusted for Namjoon to chew on, to consume like it were his only life force. 

You whine when he lets go of your underwear, pleasure fizzling out, orgasm ebbing away. Your poor clit sending barely-there pleasure up your spine— utter frustration wracking throughout your body. 

You tug his face parallel to your own, fingers digging into his jaw, “No, no– Namjoon please” you whisper against his lips, fingers slipping to tangle into the hair on the back of his head. 

“What do you want?” he asks, fingers dancing across your thigh. 

Your mouth drops open in another shaky moan as his fingers dig into a hickey on your thigh, perfectly crafted; almost a hollowed heart shape. Proof of the rawest lust that’s mixed between your sweat slicked bodies, and his salvia that drips into your open mouth, tongue already out to catch his spit. You swallow, prickly heat dusting your cheeks as he smiles down at you, so proud as your tongue laps up the remanence of his saliva from your bottom lip. 

“You– want you so bad” your hands wander, anywhere they can grab on to him. 

Nails that dig into covered biceps— muscles flexing, over his pecks, sinking into the plush skin; perhaps some small part of yourself hoping that you could carve a chunk out of him to keep for your self, a part of Namjoon that will always be with you for when he’s gone. 

A strange desperate sort of need that has bloomed into your body and mind. Slithering through each valve of your heart, sinking its claws into the muscle, just Namjoon

Namjoon 

Namjoon. 

He’d consumed your life, your every thought. Your skin alight as he touches you, your mind constantly buzzing with thought of him him him when he’s gone and just more more more of him when he’s with you. 

“Yeah?” he kisses your jaw, teeth nipping over the skin, sucking hard enough that you know you’ll be littered in marks of his lust for days to come. 

“Yeah” you nod, thighs clamping shut as you try and relieve some of the ache, beyond desperate for some form of release. The sort of release that you know only he would ever be able to give you, the feral sort of release that you never knew were possible if not for him. 

“My poor baby” he croons, sitting back on his heels. Goosebumps prickle the skin of your arms, the heat of Namjoon’s body leaving you cold when he pulls away. 

Your bottom lip is tucked between your teeth as he shucks his shirt off, you eye the ink that slithers up his chest, spreading across his arms. Deep black that stains his skin, bare hints of color peaking through. 

“It’s rude to stare” he reminds you, unbuttoning his pants, underwear soon following the rest of his clothes on the floor. 

“You’re just very pretty” you say, sitting up, chest heaving as you gasp for breath. Namjoon leans down, lips pressing against yours in a kiss that holds so many unsaid words, both from you and from him. 

“Not as pretty as you” he whispers, one hand taking a hold of his cock. He lathers pearly beads of precum down his length, his other hand slipping between your legs, thumb running over the length of your still-covered slit. 

“Take these off for me?” he asks, catching your attention that had been on his thick cock, “How precious” he whispers as you fall onto your back again, bare and wholly his to take. 

Your hair fanned out beneath you, teeth marks littering your skin and hickies that he doubts you’ll be able to fully cover; the whole world knowing that you’ve been claimed by him. 

You wriggle under his sharp gaze, eyes raking down the length of your body as though it were the first time. (He had every little dip of your body ingrained into his mind, though nothing would ever been the tangibility of you spread bare like before him) 

You thighs fall open, silent temptation— a silent invitation for him to fuck you senseless. 

“Turn around for me, darling. On your hands and knees, I plan to absolutely ruin you tonight” he runs a hand down the length of your thigh. 

You roll over, lifting your hips for him, cheek pressed against the duvet. Your outstretched hands grasp onto the pillows, though you doubt they’ll be much help if Namjoon does exactly what he had promised. 

You wiggle your hips, breath hitching in the back of your throat when a warm hand ghosts over your asscheeks. 

“Precious” he kisses the back of your thigh, sharp inhale from him causing your cheeks to flush the darkest shade of red. 

This thumb parts your folds, barely dipping into your hole before he’s trailing wet fingers upwards; free hand pulling your cheeks apart. 

He teases over your puckered asshole, nail raking over the delicate skin. “You’re a slut sometimes you know that?” he laughs, choosing to dip his index finger, nail deep into your ass. 

Your breath hitches, something similar to a moan spilling out and onto the sheets as you rock backwards. 

“Not a slut” you tell him, slick dribbling over your clit. 

“No?” he croons, pushing his finger further into you, empty cunt clenching around nothing as he teases a second finger around your ass hole. 

“No” you breath, fingers digging into his pillow. 

“Not a slut, but you like you like me toying around with your ass?” he laughs, finger slipping out as he finishes. 

A watery moan follows, asshole clenching around nothing as he toys with your pussy. Pulling your folds apart, and you hear it before you feel it, wet slap reverberating off the walls, sting following soon after. 

Your mouth falls open, fresh wave of arousal slipping from the entrance, dripping onto the sheets. 

“More” you beg, thighs quivering as you try to hold yourself up, “Please, more” you try to get a look at Namjoon from over your shoulder. 

You hear a mocking laugh rumble from his chest, squeak of surprise punched from your throat as he lands another harsh slap over your cunt, string of slick snapping as he pulls his hand back towards his body. 

His next slap lands on your clit, pain morphing into a strange sort of pleasure as you feel it wrack up your body, mind muddling into a mushy mess that has you rocking your hips backwards; desperate for at least one more measured slap to your flushed pussy.

Namjoon groans, wetting his bottom lip as he gets a glimpse of your puffy folds, so wet and messy he’s awfully tempted to lean down and lick you clean until you’re pleading for him to let you cum, only for him to push you over the edge so many time that you have to beg him to stop, and maybe if you start crying, delicate little tears cascading down your pink cheeks, then he’d take a little mercy on you. 

Another wave of arousal dribbles onto Namjoon’s cockhead as he runs it through your folds, blunt head pressing against your hole, walls stretching to accommodate his girth. 

“Oh” you whine, back arching a little deeper as he feeds an inch into you. 

His hands fall onto your hips, fingers sinking into the meat of your hips, ragged crescents far from majestic digging into your skin “Feels good” his hips stutter, your body jolting forwards. 

“Fuck– Namjoon” you cry when he loses all resolve, pelvis smacking against your ass, impatient to have your walls fully wrapped around his cock, the closest he’ll ever be to sinking under your skin and becoming one with you. The closest the two of you would ever physically be. 

“Fuck” he groans as your walls clench around him, your hand slipping between your chest and the bed, down to your stomach. 

It felt as though Namjoon had weaved his way into your body, so far inside of you, you wonder if he’d sunk into your stomach. His cock touches places you never knew felt this good, pleasure buzzing up your body with every unintentional sway of your hips. 

He barely pulls out, cockhead dragging deliciously through your walls before he eases himself back into you fully. 

“Faster, please, Namjoon” you swallow, throat awfully dry– and Namjoon hums.A hand leaves your hip, tangling into the hair on the back of your head. 

His cock drags through your walls, tip still wedged inside of you. You’re unsure if it’s a moan or a garbled scream that leaves your lips when he tugs you back by your hair; back arching uncomfortably as his hips snap into you. 

Arousal seeps onto the sheets past his cock and down his ball that barely brush past your swollen clit. 

“Ah–” you cry, fingers gripping onto the pillow as he punches back into you. 

“Like that? Yeah?” he grunts, the hand that was on your hip slipping underneath you, keeping you propped up as his finger leave your hair to press down on your shoulder. 

Tears dance across your waterline, raw pleasure consuming your entire being until all you feel is Namjoon’s thick cock dragging rapidly against your cunt, mind so wholly consumed by him you’d forgotten where you were. Who you were. What you were. 

His hands burn where they hold you, your ass red from each wet slap of his pelvis against your ass and the backs of your thighs. 

Your moans somewhat harmonise, pleasure coursing through both your bodies, rush of dopamine clouding any sort of sanity you thought you had left.

“Play with you clit for me” he groans, tugging you back onto his cock, position causing his cockhead to hit your g-spot perfectly from this angle. 

Your hand shakes as you bring it to your clit, swollen and pink, the barest touch enough to sent you lurching forwards; though you don’t get very far, Namjoon pulling you back with the grip he still has on your waist. Making sure he’s buried deep inside of you, making sure to hit that little sweet spot that has white dancing behind your eyes. 

“Oh” you cry, staccato of noises spilling from your lips as you toy with your clit, messy as your nails drag over the bundle of nerves. 

Namjoon feels you clench around him, ready to tip over the edge with him. 

“That’s a good girl” 

You hiccup a sob, “Gonne cum. Joonie I–” 

“I know, darling” he huffs out a laugh, “Cum for me, all pretty” 

Your thighs quiver, and you’re sure you would have collapsed by now if it weren’t for your boyfriend holding you up. 

You peel the pressure build in your stomach, fingers messy as you try to keep the stimulation up on your clit. Climbing higher and higher towards your peak. 

“Oh– Fuck” your free hand clamps over your mouth, eyes squeezing shut as you tip over the edge, squirting onto the sheets, soaking the fabric, little squeezes of watery cum tumbling past your fingers as you ride out your high— hips stuttering forward with each soft drag of your palm over your clit. 

The insides of your thighs shine, wet with your release, Namjoon’s balls seemingly just as wet when they smack against your clit. 

“Shit” his head tips backwards, and you cry as he slips out of you, sudden emptiness causing your cunt to clench, another spurt of cum dripping onto the sheets below you. 

Namjoon’s hand is rapid around his cock, pulling your ass cheeks apart he groans one last time before he shoots his seed over your red ass. 

It drips over your hole, dribbling down to your messy pussy; mixing with the mix of your cum and arousal. 

He smears his cum across your puckered hole, rubbing it across your folds and down to your clit. A low groan rumbles from Namjoon’s chest at the sight, your labia creamy white and shiny. 

“No” your thighs give out under you, his finger still smearing his cum over your sodden clit, throwing you into a less intense orgasm that has you trembling, sob catching in the back of your throat. 

“You’re so good, my darling” he whispers, wet fingers sliding over the expanse of your back, rubbing his release into your sweat slicked skin, “How about a bath?” he smiles when he catches sight of your closed eyes, “Hmm?” 

You nod, “Drink too” you whisper, voice hoarse and Namjoon traces over each hickey, feeling the dips in your skin that his teeth had left and over the swell of your ass. 

“And a drink too” he nods, “can I go to the kitchen to get a drink? Or would you want to come with me?” he asks. 

Your tongue slips past your lips, wetting your bottom lip as your muscles relax, “Come with you” 

“Yeah?” he laughs, “I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” 

You hum, rolling yourself onto your back. Your eyebrows furrow when your ass is met with wet sheets. “Clean sheets too” 

“Of course” he brushes the wet hair from your forehead. 

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The day Namjoon had acted on impulse, your story had reached its climax– and it had been downhill after that. That is how most stories go after-all. 

And for the first time your ignorance to what Namjoon did behind your back had come to bite you in the ass. A sick little reminder that you should have listened to yourself all those months ago. That you should have never gotten involved with Namjoon. Should have just lived this life through with no hiccups and hopefully finally lay to rest at the end of your cycle. 

And somehow you found yourself here. 

It should have been nothing more than a night out together, nothing more than drinks and hands that wandered in intimate places under the table, no one any the wiser. Clothes imbedded with cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, Namjoon’s lips on your neck and yours on his cheek before he wandered to the bar for refills. 

All it had taken was one man to bring you both to downfall. One lingering, sweaty hand, five chubby fingers and two beady eyes that had no respect; one unruly man for your life to once again fall to shit. 

You’d never seen Namjoon anything but level-headed. He always had such control over his own life, knew how to control a room, his people, part of the city. He was always on top. It’s always been Namjoon’s world and you were simply living in it. 

A small whisper in the back of your mind had told you that surely— surely a man with that much power would one day snap. Perhaps not at you, but you’d placed yourself in his line of fire. Dominoes stacked up one after the other and no matter how fast you ran, they would always catch up to you, knocking you over with them. 

And you knew. You knew that a story with you and Namjoon was sure to be another tragedy. And maybe you wanted to believe that he was invincible, that death wouldn’t rattle at behind him like it had the last two of your lovers, and you suppose he didn’t. 

Death was after you. 

Death was scared of Namjoon, but not you. 

“I told you” you whisper, eyes flitting back to your lover when you catch the attention of an officer, “I fucking told you not to do it, that we could sort something out later but you just had to–” 

He had to kill him. Well, he didn’t have to. But he did. 

“I’ll sort it out” he takes your hands, “Don’t stress too much” 

You exhale, chest deflating, utterly defeated, “And how do you plan to fix this?” 

“I’ve got a good lawyer” he tells you, leaning into the table a little more. 

And you want to tell him his lawyer was shit, that there was no way for him to plead innocent when so many people had seen him slaughter someone out of pure rage, no matter if it were in the back of a club, in a drunk daze, you doubt many would forget the shrill cry of a man slowly losing his life. You doubt many would defend a man that was known for chewing up the lives of any man or woman that he deemed unworthy. 

“You trust me? Don’t you?” He interlaces your fingers, squeezing. 

You nod, swallowing hard as an officer slinks past your table. Unnerving as you eye the weapons strapped to their belts and the haunting jangle of keys. 

“Yes. Yes I do” 

“Good.” he nods, “I need you to do a few things for me while I’m held up” 

“Okay” you whisper, foot tapping anxiously against the floor. Palms flushing in a cold sweat.

“Pack your bags, there’s money under the bed, go away for a while” 

Your eyebrows furrow, “What?” 

“I need you to leave the city for a while until I’m out of here” 

“Namjoon I don’t–” 

He tucks your hair behind your ear, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Ever so gentle, a lame attempt at reassurance. Though you only find your heart rate picking up, hands trembling ever so slightly. And you wonder if he can feel it; your fear. You wonder if he can taste it on the tip of his tongue. 

“A lot of people are going to be after you now that I’m not around” 

You shake your head, mouth opening to say something though you’re unsure what. 

“I have a lot of enemies” he says carefully, slowly, “And they all know about the delicate little flower I hold, and they’ll want to pluck her and tear her petals off one by one” 

You swallow, “Namjoon” tears threaten to fall to which he brushes a thumb over your cheeks. 

Shaking his head, “None of that” he smiles, “Soon we’ll be together again, and everything will go back to normal, and we’ll be happy” 

You flinch as a bell rings, hands trembling when chairs scrape against the laminated flooring. You swallow down the lump in your throat, bottom lip tucked between your teeth as you simply stare at Namjoon. Curious to see how long it would take for you to get lost in his eyes, to be able to wander his mind and simply live there., Safe, happy. 

He told you that you’d be happy. ,

“Go” he nods behind him, “I’ll see you soon, yeah? I think I can have one more visit before trial” 

The both of you stand, Namjoon pulling you into his chest. He kisses your forehead, displeased scoff tumbling off his lips when one of the officers towers over you. Eyebrow raised and expectant. 

He lets go, and you clench your jaw. Your chest expands, lungs stinging with the rush of oxygen— and you will yourself to look up at Namjoon, painting every little crevice of his face into your mind before you’re slipping past him towards the door. Unable to say anything. 

Because you know if you did you’d break down. And you wouldn’t do that to him right now. Not when he’s told you how much it physically pains him to watch you suffer, how your tears should never fall, how your heart should never hurt. 

“Sirius” Namjoon calls out and you look over your shoulder, “Remember that. My brightest star” 

You wave, swallowing down the sob that claws up your throat. 

And you’d barely made it halfway home before your life had slipped from beneath your feet for a third time. 

Stem snapped, and petals picked; a rotting rose left to decompose on blood-soaked concrete, with the regrets of not even leaving Namjoon behind with a final ‘I love you’. And a faint wish that life after you would fare him a little better. 

thank you for reading!! <3 🌌