summary: having fallen victim to a rather bizarre betrayal by a colleague, seonghwa finds himself in an even more bizarre situation. that being the unexpected success of their summoning ritual that leaves him subject to the will of a fertility goddess, as well as his own intemperate desire.
warnings: cults and cult activities, character death, religious tones (although any relation to a real religion is strictly coincidental, this is entirely made up), guns and violence, blood, mild gore, elements of mind control, heavy making out, aphrodisiac of sorts (?), generally dominant and submissive tones.
a/n: that’s.. a lot more warnings than i originally intended there to be. lmao oops. maybe i’m a tad insane for this, but if you’re also insane and prepared for a wild ride, strap in and enjoy. twas inspired by the ponzonya mv by purple kiss.
aldjdkslsjdjdkd i am absolutely and completely obsessed with this story. this was such a wonderfully gripping adventure with details that build themselves slowly. the tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife (a clovis point, if you will hehe) the very moment you realize it’s a cult. from that point forward, the tone and nature of the story takes on so many layers i kept screaming ‘this is so good’ at my phone. PLEASE
the characterizations were exceptional. i could see every nuance and facet of their behaviors so clearly. hongjoong and his menacing smile; the cold bitterness and venom in wooyoungs remarks; the power in seonghwa’s hands and his overwhelming desire to live. i appreciated every little dark detail in this story, and even more so appreciated that there was no fear from @the7thcrow in describing or providing these details. they just went for it and my god i am all in
this was so amazing i’m going to be thinking about this all day. i actually cannot wait to read it again UGH
pairing: sleep paralysis demon hoseok x gender neutral reader (platonic)
genre: … fluff?? Angst. Post-break up au. Supernatural au.
summary: Hoseok just doesn’t have it in him to make you even more miserable right now, so he tries something a little different.
rating: 18+ because I do what I want
word count: 1.4k
warnings: Swearing. Sleep paralysis. Creepy sleep paralysis demon Hoseok a la the “More” concept photos. Watching people while they’re sleep but not in an erotic way lol. Referenced Jimin x reader; technically a post break-up situation. Some image self-consciousness from Hoseok. Platonic spooning. Lots of talk about feeling or sensing smells and emotions. I know it seems creepy but really this is very soft, I promise.
notes: Ah wow, this is short but there’s so much in here. It started in a group chat with “idk what to do with more hoseok in the best way” and then it turned into me and @bangtanintotheroom taking “this hobi is our sleep paralysis demon” and running with it in two wildly different directions sldkjfhaslkdj. I know I’m supposed to be on break but like after finishing stuff last month, I had this whole “will I ever write again” crisis. Without @thatlongspringnight and @xjoonchildx this wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t feel ten million times better now than I did leading up to my meltdown. So, thank you. It means the world to me. I’m just going to yeet this into the void and get out but I miss yall!! Hope you’re having a nice July, wherever you may be :)
my masterlist | my disclaimers | read on ao3
Hoseok hasn’t gotten the chance to stretch like this in ages. As he steps across the lush carpet, he lets his muscles lengthen and move. It’s dusty and cramped in his little crawlspace, even with his cleaning regime. When was the last time you let him out his literal hellhole?
He looks at your sleeping form. You’re passed out, that’s for sure, huddled beneath layers of sheets and blankets. The dawn is beginning to trickle through your curtains, your eyelids freely fluttering in deep sleep, unencumbered by the sleep mask that’s somehow slipped off during the night.
He can feel how frozen you are, how you want to turn over to a more comfortable position but can’t. Ah, it’s been so long since he could feed freely like this. What a wonderful welcome you’ve decided to give him.
aldjfkslsjfja i am actually completely obsessed with this story. i want to know everything about how sleep demons are assigned charges, how one becomes a sleep demon, if he’s happy with his work, if he wishes he could work up demon ranks, if he has a tendency to be soft for reader that maybe he forgot or ignored. my mind went everywhere at once with this fic and i cannot stop thinking about it.
i LOVE sleep paralysis fics and this was executed so well. the way little details creep into this story slowly and effectively is just *chefs kiss* and the way our perspective is limited by his perspective as he takes in the change and the space and the emotions. i JUST!!!! want to scream about this all day
miss @miscelunaaa i am so grateful i stumbled upon this because my whole day has been consumed with thoughts of this story. it is so artfully done i cannot recommend it enough.
rating: mature > if you’re a minor this is not for you.
genre: fluff, f2l (at the l-stage), smut (there’s no plot, this is just horny people in love)
warnings: cursing, protected inter-coursing, hoseok’s hands do things, does it already need a warning when hands do things with breasts and nipples and clits, if yes, then it’ll need that, talk about a blowjob, people being grossly in love with each other
wordcount: 3.2k
summary: the next time you see hoseok after christmas, it rains. you’ve missed him.
a/n1: please read when it snows first to get to know this couple.
a/n2: hi, this me dipping my toes into a new genre, i hope you’ll like it. thank you so so much to @madseok and @hobi-gif for beta-reading and hyping me through this. you are the absolute best.
masterlist / AO3
Hoseok kicks your apartment door shut behind him and has you back in his arms in less than a second (which is already too long in your opinion), his lips hot and urgent against your own. You don’t mind that you’re both soaked from the ruthless March rain, dripping on the carpet in your hallway. It’s probably going to leave stains, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re all teeth and lips and tongue, giving as good as you get.
You giggle into his neck, as his hands graze a particular ticklish spot on your side. As soon as you crossed the threshold his hands made it right back under your shirt, as if he couldn’t wait one second longer to feel your skin against his own.
gosh this has made me so incredibly soft. i’m so grateful i was given this insight to such a deeply intimate moment. the intensity in this fic is palpable, rich with the tenderness and gentleness of new love while still partnered with a trust that comes from knowing someone for years. i could truly feel it. the moment everything was changing for them.
what’s amazing is you can feel it but you can’t pin point it. everything is new, and everything is changing, but there’s a pause in the way they look at one another in this fic. a moment that will likely be different for everyone because it builds so smoothly without interrupting you or taking you out of it to announce ‘this is it. now it’s so much more.’ for me it was the pretty lingerie. i could write a book about that.
@augustbutwinter oh my winter you always do write the most sweet and tender fics. i knew this would be the same but i forgot how expertly you make me yearn for love. gosh 💗
You adore your friends, how they make sure to invite you to things, even if they know you’ll more than likely turn down the offer. Which is probably why they just said it would be asleep over tonight and failed to mention the major rager they had planned.
It’s not that you’re straight edge or anything like that. In all honesty, it’s just that you’re too shy, too socially awkward, find your personality too quiet in the midst of the Olympian sized ones in the other room.
So instead, you snuck away, curled up on the twin side top bunk of your friends’ younger sisters’ room. It’s quiet, or well, as quiet as it could be with the music phasing through the walls like a ghost. You know that your friend has chosen to play Primary in an attempt to lull you out of your hiding hold, but you cannot bring yourself out of the safety you’ve found in the covers.
You know the majority of everyone outside of this room, see them on campus and in class. They call you a part of their group, make sure to include you in everything they can, to purposely ask you things so you never feel excluded. Especially Chanyeol.
He asks you questions the most, wide eyes always on your face as you spoke, like he was memorizing your entire being. Maybe it was because it took him an entire semester to learn your name.
The day he finally said your name without having to ask first was the day you realized you were undeniably in love with him. It was the day you realized that somewhere between asking you questions and bringing your hands to his mouth to warm them when you complained of being cold, between they way he would pull your earbuds out of your ears to replace them with his own anytime he wanted to share a song with you and the way his face lights up when he sees you, that you know you’ve fallen for him.
You know he’s out there, can hear the bass of his laughter over the bass of the music, perhaps because your ears are attuned to it. You can almost see him, black snapback with some vape company he doesn’t even know on it, ears sticking out, smile the brightest thing in the room. You know he’s making rounds, secret handshakes being exchanged, hugs distributed, inside jokes shared. It makes you sigh in disappointment for yourself.
You know that if you were to join the party, they would welcome you fondly, would pull you into hugs of your own, know someone would pull you along with them so you were never alone, know they would go out of their way to keep you included.
Because they understand.
They understand your anxiety, your social uneasiness. They take it in stride and work hard to make sure you knew you were wanted, to make sure you knew you were their friend.
And you couldn’t even join the party.
You sigh again, burying yourself in the covers, trying to make yourself less of a mouse.
You don’t know how long you stay like this, trying to will a dandelion into a tree, but when you hear the door open you freeze.
“C’mon kid. Let’s get you in bed.”
“Yeol, I may have overdone it.”
“You think so?” Chanyeols voice is teasing as he helps Sehun into the bed below you. “But lucky for you, I’m partied out, so I’m on Hunnie duty.”
There’s no response from Sehun and you know from the soft snores below you that he’s passed out. You can hear Chanyeol sigh, a soft sound before you hear movement, what sounds like jeans against carpet. You’re careful to stay silent as you peak over the guard rail to find him stretched out on the floor, elbow over his eyes.
You know from experience that the carpet is uncomfortable and the floor unforgiving. You close your eyes and muster up every ounce of courage you’ve been channeling all night.
“There’s room up here, if you don’t want to sleep on the floor?”
“Y/N? I didn’t know you were here.”
“Ah, yeah. I didn’t know there was going to be a party. I was just told it was a sleep over. I probably wouldn’t have come if I had known.”
“You could have stayed with me out there, you know I wouldn’t leave you alone.”
“I know, but you know how I am. Can’t make a soloist out of a background singer.”
“You sound like Professor Harris.”
“Ah yeah, I got it from her. It’s what she told me.”
“Wait, I thought you were an English major?” It’s at this that he moves his arm, leaning on the elbow instead, looking up at you.
“Oh, I am. But I was a music major first semester.”
“Why did you switch?”
“Because of that.”
The conversation falls silent at this. The music has stopped in the living room and you aren’t sure if it’s because the party has ended or if everyone has passed out. You’re chewing your bottom lip, trying to figure out what else to say when Chanyeols face appears beside you.
“It doesn’t look like there’s a lot of room up here.”
“Oh, uh, here.” You scoot to the other side of the bed, showing him the space left. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just didn’t want you to sleep on the floor. It’s up to you.”
“Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make yourself small.” He tilts his head at you and you know your face is red. You shrug, unable to form words. It’s the first time someone has ever asked you that and you aren’t sure how to say you were taught to be neither seen nor heard.
“Let me empty my pockets.” He moves back and you can hear his wallet and keys against the dresser. “Is it going to bother you if I take my jeans off?”
“Not if it won’t bother you that mine are.” He grins and looks at you, something you don’t recognize painting his features. “That was funny.”
“Thanks. I channeled my inner you.” You can’t help but giggle as Chanyeol climbs the ladder. He’s’ only on the second rung and his head is already touching the ceiling. “How the hell did you get up here?”
“There wasn’t anyone else up here when I was trying.” Chanyeol huffs, and ducks as he climbs one more rung before slinging his leg over the guard rail and rolling into the bed beside you. You cover your mouth to keep from laughing any louder when Sehun moves below you. You think you’ve woken him until his snores resume.
“So, I’m up here. What should we do?” He’s on side, head propped up on his elbow as he looks at you.
“I really only called you up here so I could sacrifice you to the moon.”
“Sorry, the moon and I aren’t on the best of terms right now, but I’ll accept Satan.”
You hum to yourself in fake deliberation. “You’re too pretty to go to Satan.”
“Did you just call me pretty?”
“I did.”
“I’m flattered.”
“So how did you know about professor Harris?”
“I had her for a music elective.”
“Aren’t you a business major?” You shift in the bed, turning on your side as well to face him.
“Yeah, it was required.” He shrugs.
“What kind of business?”
“Jongin and I have had a dream to open a record studio since we were freshmen in high school. I want to produce, but I don’t really need to go to school for something I’m already good at.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to produce.”
“That’s because I’m always asking you questions about yourself. Speaking of, why an English major?”
“I want to write. I’ve been told I have a way with words.”
Chanyeol grins and you know what’s going to come out of his mouth before he even says it. “You don’t talk much though.”
“I do too. I’m just not great with crowds.”
“You don’t seem to have a problem talking to me.”
“It’s cause you’re pretty.” You grin and bat your eyelashes.
“Lucky me then.”
It’s easy to talk to you like this Chanyeol finds. Outside of crowds, you transform into another person, one who’s all smiles, words and unhindered thoughts and Chanyeol finds himself getting lost in them easily. His eyes are on your lips as you speak, enthralled by the way they form syllables, hypnotized by the spell they unknowingly cast upon him.
It’s addicting, listening to you talk like this. Chanyeol can see the notes of your voice as they touch his ears, the soft scales climbing and falling down the lines on the music staff and he finds himself composing a song of it.
He grins at the realization, that it’s you. You’re addicting.
“Yeol? Are you okay?”
“What song is on your mind right now?”
“Nineteen by Tegan and Sara.” It says more than you know. It tells him things words cannot say, tells him things about you that you cannot bring yourself to vocalize. He can feel his heartbeat quicken and he chews on his inner cheek as he tries to subdue it, as he tries to figure out if you know that he has a playlist with your name on it, that song appearing twice. He wonders if you listen to it the same way he does, your face painted over the lyrics, senses drowned in you although you are no where near.
“What about you?”
“Are You Gonna Be My Girl.”
It’s the question that’s been on his mind for a while now. He wonders if you know that he asks you everything he can think of because your voice calls to him like a siren song, wonders if you know that he waits for you to say you’re cold so he can glue himself to your side because the coconut smell of your shampoo is intoxicating, wonders if you know that he always shows you new songs because your face interprets the lyrics along with your mind and it’s the closest thing he can get to reading your mind.
He wonders if you know that he pretended not to know your name for an entire semester because he was falling in love with the way that you said it.
You’re sure your heart is going to beat out of your chest. You know he’s naming a song, but the way the words fall from his lips turns the atmosphere in the room into a fragile thing and you’re terrified to open your mouth, too terrified to break the bubble the two of you have created for yourself.
Instead, you turn away from him, rolling over to face the wall, arm tucked under your shared pillow, eyes blinking back tears that threaten to fall as you realize you’re reading too much into his answer, the way you always do. Because truthfully, why would he ask you that?
He is Helios, his smile the sun. He is a warmth you do not think you deserve yet find yourself a glutton for. He is all laughs and words, wide smiles and crescent eyes. You find yourself wondering if he knows of the gravitational pull he has on everyone around him, or if he is simply floating through space, unaware of the beauty that is his entire being.
If this were a movie, you’d admit to your friends that you are not his type, middle too round, thighs too large and existence too small to be his because your friends would not be his friends. But this isn’t a movie, and your friends are mutual, and there is not a day that goes by that you do not see him, the small voice in the back of your head bringing you down as you try to stand in the light that he casts.
He shifts next to you and you prepare yourself for the loss of his warmth as you assume he is leaving, and instead freeze as the pillow moves, his right arm curled around yours, fingers tracing small patterns on the back of your hand. His left drapes over your waist and you stop breathing as goosebumps raise along the soft flesh of your stomach at someone else’s touch.
Chanyeol can feel you freeze under his touch but he doesn’t stop, left hand traveling north as it searches for your own, fingers finding purchase in your wrist as he pulls it from under your chin, tangling his fingers with yours. He can feel your pulse in the tips as he lets your joined hands rest on your hip. He is unapologetic as he scoots closer to you, shifting to nuzzle his nose at the nape of your neck, one leg tucked between yours and he wonders if you can feel the way his heart races too.
He knows your mind, knows your fight or flight response is kicked into over drive as your pulse pounds from every inch of your body. It doesn’t take long for yours to sync, hearts beating as one as the atmosphere turns heavy with words neither of you dare to say. So instead he does the only thing he knows to do without ruining the conversation your bodies are having for you; he hums.
It takes a moment for your pulse to die enough in your ears for you to realize that he’s humming your answer, humming the song on your mind right now. The vibration against the back of your neck lulls you into a relaxed state, letting your body fall into his, trying not to think about how well you fit into him. Part of you says to turn over, to face him and address the thoughts running through your head, though the other half of you says not to move or you’ll ruin everything.
His grip on your fingers tightens as he feels you relax against him, pressing his body closer to yours until you are no longer sure where he starts and you end. His voice is muffled against your skin, warm like the rest of him, “do you want me to move?”.
You shake your head, throat dry as you respond with a dry “no”.
“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time..”
“Give me a heart attack?” He chuckles behind you, laughing with his whole body and you feel the final shards of fear melt from your skin with the sound.
“No, to touch you without you pulling away from me.” Your heart is in your throat at his answer, mind racing as you try to interpret what he could mean.
“Why…why would you want to do that?”
He’s silent for a moment and you can hear him swallow, his hand suddenly clammy in yours. You try to think of another time you’ve seen him this nervous, but nothing comes to mind and you wonder what you’ve done.
“Because I’m in love with you, Y/N, is it really that hard to notice?”
“You can’t be in love with me Chanyeol. You didn’t even know my name for an entire semester of our friendship.”
“Yes I did. I’ve known your name since the first time Kyungsoo introduced us. I just liked hearing you say it and the way you smiled at me when I asked for it again.” His thumb rubs circles into your skin at his confession.
“Why would you be in love with me?” Your voice is small and he hates it, hates the way you’ve returned behind your wall, hidden back in your shell.
“It’s simple, why wouldn’t I?”
He doesn’t say anything else, and soon you can feel his breaths deepen against the back of your neck and you know he’s fallen asleep. Something in you tells you to let it go, to wonder what he could mean tomorrow when the world is back to normal.
So for now, you listen and tighten your grip on his fingers as you let yourself fall asleep, body pressed and wrapped up in the boy you love and the last thought that passes through your mind is that for once, you’re glad no one told you a party was going on.
*sits down, cries, sobs, weeps, cries until i disappear*
not much to say here apart from the fact that ive needed a simple little story like this. something that captures the way chanyeol uses music to soothe people and is also the must hyperaware and observant person, especially when it comes to people he cares about. hes tender and hes gentle and he knows exactly what to say to provide comfort.
and hes so honest with his feelings. hes the worst at hiding. ive said it before and i will say it again - a heart with legs. idk, i was too verklempt to even think clearly while reading this because its been so long since ive read a chanyeol fic that actually captures his heart.
thank you @kyungseokie for recommending and thank you @yeollieayheehoo for writing this :( <3
➵ genre/au: 18+, porn with no plot at all whatsoever, smut, fluff, established relationship, political au (but not at all political bcs im just dumb)
➵ word count: 5.7k
➵ summary: jungkook gets elected as the youngest president and you’re there to celebrate his big win with him
➵ warnings & kinks: jaykay do be a lil dominant • sub reader with a dirty mouth • lil possessive jaykay • he calls her ‘little swan’ n ‘princess’ — honestly im mushy theyre saur cute • swearing • dirty talk • kissing • neck kisses • hair pulling • slight exhibitionism • biting • oral (m & f rec) • deep throating • jords’ famous spit kink makes a return agdfsgdhfg • fingering • size kink • unprotected sex • clit slapping w his cawk • cum swallowing • finger sucking •
➵ note1: betaed by @hobipaint, @amourtae, @baljinciaga, @m-yg93 & @rkivian. banner by @kth1. honourable mention to jj who fought for this <333 lurv u
➵ masterlist | feedback
Your fingers work diligently, scrambling at the lapels of his tightly fitted blazer while the other begins to undo the buttons of the crisp jacket. Jungkook manages to push the door open with the heel of his shoe, pulling you in right behind him. The door closes with a slam as he presses you up against the structure, hard enough that a painting of a historical member of the political institution rattles on impact.
A gasp sneaks past your lips as the air is knocked out of your lungs followed by a small giggle at the situation. You don’t have much time to catch your breath because one of Jungkook’s hands is firmly attached to the door while the other holds your hips tight so you can’t escape him; a thigh slides in between your own legs, parting them and pressing it against your core.
you know lmao @jeonjcngkook this is remarkably wholesome for being so incredibly hot and steamy. me, reading through this: in the presidential office? good for them honestly. someone has to bring some life to politics t b h
i think what i always love about jords and her writing is the way its always so remarkably sweet and tender. no matter the scenario or the setting or the intensity, there is always a thread of deep emotional connection between the characters. in this oneshot i learned so much about their relationship beyond the work it took to campaign and secure a popular vote. i learned theyve been married long enough for oc to see his hopes and dreams through highs and lows; i learned he probably wouldnt have gotten through those lows if he didnt have little swan by his side; i learned that the strain of being public figures did absolutely nothing at all to tarnish the way they need and want each other like theyre still newlyweds. and i also learned jungkook would probably be nothing without his wife.
i also learned that i, too, would like to fuck a president if he was hot and young and that good with his mouth lmao
i wish i could have seen how his first public speech went, but i imagine it made headlines to some degree. not just because hes young and, you know, the president, but because im not sure anyone can really fix their clothes and hair enough to hide theyve just been fucking. maybe im just so used to having half dead white men in office, but seeing a young president clearly getting some and in love with his wife would maybe restore 3% of my faith in politics. lets just hope his policies are as extraordinary as his....eagle...hehehe
⟶ Protecting the Bloodline [Hoseok x Female Reader]
⟶ Genre: vampire au, royalty au, fantasy au, strangers to lovers, smut, angst, one-shot, 18+
⟶ WC: 40k+
⟶ Warnings: angsty angst angst, virgin!oc, breast play, choking, fingering, mentions of blood, blood play, p*ssy slapping, biting kink, a forced kiss (once), praising, unprotected, creampie, blood drinking, forced drinking, alcohol mentions, oral (f), multi-org*sms, overstimulation, mentions of death, dom!hoseok vibes, mentions of graphic violence, (spoiler) pr*gn*ncy descriptions, open ended ending for the imagination, etc
⟶ Summary: Understanding the role you were given by the Church you took on your duty of serving the one Prince you choose with ultimate pride. The longer you stay by his side, the more you grow curious about the treatments you receive within the walls of Briarwood Manor. Sooner or later, you stumble upon mystifying evidence of your sole purpose and what you truly are to the vampire species.
⟶ Beta: @jeonjcngkook, @xjoonchildx - Thank you both, deeply, for taking the time out of your busy schedules to read and advice me through this fic. I mean this - you are all amazing! Also amazing shout out to @taegularities who assisted me with some word play and descriptive actions! There is still possibility for grammar errors, please be understanding.
⟶ Teaser: Who needs a teaser when it’s Jung Hoseok?
⟶ Author’s Note: A part of the Briarwood Manor Collab, hosted by yours truly, @kth1!
Hoseok leans over to you and in a low whisper he says, “The more feverish you get, the hungrier I become.”
this is a story in which maggie marie makes an attempt on my life. this line appears quite early in the story and it sets up every dark and grim and fantastic little detail that follows (it also is about me. its about me and how i feel about this hoseok. but well get into that later).
the lurking darkness and aspects of horror, abjection, and suspense in this story are absolutely exquisite. i crave depictions of vampires like this - where every act of tenderness and kindness is followed by an act of blood and rage and a hunger that is never really quite sated. there are a lot of interesting ways to play with vampire lore or the concept of vampirism itself, and this story does an incredible job at ensuring the lore feels fresh. from the very moment they sign the contract to the very end of the fic in which the moon calls the reader home, this was an unsettling exploration of vulnerability and the bloody horror of love.
i am so so so grateful that @kth1 did not shy away from the necessary details and the intricate details that shape this story. the depictions of blood and death and even childbirth were expertly handled. there is a reason that so many horror stories center around pregnancy and birth, and when there is love developing and growing between two characters - a love that is grounded in need and physical longing so intense they are continuously drawn together - its easy for the pregnancy to become something tender and soft and special. and while it is special, maggie handles this with all the proper darkness necessary for the child of a vampire and a human born to choose him.
and choose him i would. i would choose this hoseok day in and day out for all my life. this is one of the most darkly erotic and sexual depictions of hoseok i have ever read and i am obsessed. he navigates every scene with impressive power, and the way he clips his words and shares only what is necessary while still giving so much away and a testament to the way maggie is a skilled and extremely talented writer. even when the scenes he occupies are horrible, he is still beautiful and compelling to read. any time i was reading a scene without him, i was waiting for him to arrive, about as on edge as the oc, losing my mind waiting for this man to come and sate the need steadily building.
read this immediately if you are craving a darkly sexual story about love and sacrifice and, you know, a lot of blood.
Short summary It’s been years since his Nabi (Butterfly) flew away with angel wings. Kim Namjoon meets you, a librarian at his daughter’s school, who reminds him of life’s beauty and love he’s sure he doesn’t deserve. It will take a strange convincing from the other world to help him let go of the past and embrace… you. The question remains: Is he ready?
TW: Soft vanilla sex, some oralling (m and f receiving). Protected sex. Peaceful mentions of a grave. Quick mention of an auto accident.
Part of In the Spoop Collab--Shoutout to all the delightful lovelies in this collab who were superduper encouragining in this entire journey of fic-writing. Sorry! My fic's late!
Many thanks to: @vyduan @bangtanmademedoit @httpnamu-u @yeoldontknow @btsarmy9593 for betaing this. I hated writing this fic at times but you ladies just gave me the encouragement I needed to go on and all your insights helped so so much.
And always, the incredible @hobi-gif who always helps to make this sweeter, tighter, better, butter
A/N: This fic centers on the development of the character PRE relationship, and then provides a snapshot of what happens when they get together (when they bang, basically) and some kind of epilogue thingy. Enjoy!
*edited to add:Banner by the incomparable @madseok
Goodnight Nabi
He’s at the park where they first met.
It reminds him of her grave. Peaceful. Quiet. Beautiful.
Here, his senses are sharpened. Every color is brighter, every pinprick of sunlight, warmer. Even the breeze seems to linger on his skin after it passes.
The wind carries a whiff of a memory— it’s her. It’s how she smells.
She’s here.
Eager, like a little boy, he turns around to look at her just as he’d done so many years ago when she entered the little chapel, all in white. “Nabi—”
But just like that, it’s over.
She’s gone.
He wakes up. The pillow beside him is still untouched; the space next to him, still empty; the bed, still too cold.
Hot, angry tears stream down his cheeks.
Even in this goddamn dream, he still didn’t get to say goodbye.
It’s been six years since he lost her.
Still, he chokes out the two words that have never left his lips.
Goodnight Nabi.
————————————————
“Remember, if anyone asks, you’re a CEO in the auto industry.”
Kim Namjoon winces at the letters C.E.O. The owner of a small, auto mechanic shop is hardly a CEO. But, it’s what his little girl wants.
Choking a little at his own exaggeration, he parrots after her, “I’m a CEO in the auto industry.”
With serious eyes, she nods approvingly. “You look great, Dad.”
The suit Sora found at the back of the closet looks a little tight on her father. It was his wedding suit after all, and like her, it was twelve years old, but it would have to do.
Glancing down, she noticed he had even polished his only pair of leather shoes. She looks up at him gratefully, her smile already melting his frustration with this whole fucked-up situation.
Namjoon knows the first Parents’ Welcome Night is so important to his only child. She’s a new girl trying to fit in at 7th grade when everyone else has already been friends since preschool at Lee’s College for Girls (established 1805).
The scholarship offered to promising students who embody the Lee philosophy of Honor and Excellence couldn’t have come at a better time. When Sora found out that her mother was a Lee girl, she always knew she wanted to be one herself.
And so, wise and mature beyond her years, she had taken it upon herself to apply for the scholarship offered at 7th grade. Namjoon had cautioned her that Lee probably gets a few hundred applications for a single scholarship and there’s always next year.
But Sora won it on her first try.
“Come on, we don’t want to be late,” she urges him.
Sighing, he quickens his stride to catch up. To anyone on the street, he looks like a well-heeled executive taking his daughter for an expensive dinner downtown. But the truth is, he’d parked two blocks away at her insistence so no one would link them to the faded red truck emblazoned in chipped gold paint “Kim’s Auto Repair. Service at its Finest.”
The autumn night breeze has a slight bite but Namjoon isn’t one bit cold. Instead, everything feels too tight and too hot. The collar always gets to him— it feels like a fucking noose. Same goes for the too-tight Italian shoes.
Why the hell did he let his daughter do this to him? His work overalls from the garage fit him just fine! And the well-worn boots with the steel-capped toes—less than a third of the price of the fancy shoes but a million times more comfortable.
A button-down shirt and a pair of jeans was his counter offer to Sora. But look at him now—he’s in a fucking suit. The only thing that truly fits is the light grey wool scarf around his neck Sora had insisted he’d wear. Apparently, it’s stylish and sophisticated.
As they enter the school, the reception hall is lined with portraits of famous alumni. Namjoon counts three Olympians, one princess, two heads of state, and even a Nobel Prize winner. It’s a snooty place, but even he has to admit that Lee’s has earned its bragging rights.
Surrounded by the rich-people smell of expensive cologne and perfume, Namjoon feels out of place. Old money meets new money within these oak-panelled walls, and for someone with no money, it’s as awkward as fuck. He suddenly wishes his nabi were here. She would know what to say. She would fit in right here with the crowd.
He shakes off the thought. It’s been years. Time to let go.
Thankfully, they are all ushered into an auditorium to listen to presentations from each of the subject heads on The Major Learning Goals for the Year 7s.
Fucking boring.
He pulls an interested face, but cocooned in the plush cushioned seat (goddamn, even the chairs are luxurious in this school), Namjoon’s thoughts drift from the monotonous drone from the Head of Mathematics to the 1965 Corvette which came in today.
The clunking sound could not possibly be coming from the transmission. It had to be the rear suspension. It just had to. He’ll have to check the axle half shafts with U-joints tomorrow.
“Dad, pay attention!” Sora hisses into his ear. “I can tell you’re thinking about the Corvette.”
There’s nothing he can hide from his daughter. She practically grew up in the auto shop by his side. Even as an infant, she’d watch him from her little car seat as he handled oil changes, brakes overhaul, transmission jobs, and bodywork stuff to deal with dents and dings.
Sora has seen it all, heard it all and often thinks she knows it all. And most of the time, she does. Properly chastised, he straightens in his seat and tries to look attentive.
“This year, we have a plethora of library activities for Lee’s sixth graders to participate in… we have fanfiction contests, search engine races, Battle of the Books...”
It was only when you took the stage did Namjoon sit up and pay attention. There was something about your voice which stirred him. Something warm, something inviting.
“Who’s that?” he whispers to Sora. Even from four rows away, you’re breathtakingly beautiful.
“It’s Miss Y/L/N. She’s the Head of Library Science.”
“What the fuck is Library Science? Is it Library or is it Science?”
“Shh! No swearing at school. You’re gonna get me in trouble.” Frustrated, she glares at him.
Namjoon musters his most apologetic look, miming a quick zip over his lips. It’s fun to see his daughter all riled up in her earnest, youthful way. He’s gonna miss this when she hits high school and he’s no longer fucking relevant.
But you’re speaking, and Namjoon doesn’t want to miss a word. Your voice is sweet, the cadence of your words rolling out like a river. He finds himself nodding to what you’re saying, smiling along with you while you talk about the new library amenities. When you’re done, he can’t help but note the way you glide effortlessly across the stage.
Wow.
His eyes follow you as you take your seat with the rest of the teachers in the front row, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. It’s not obvious, but from his angle, he sees you’re stealing a quick, surreptitious look at your phone. A full smile spreads across your face, and he wonders curiously what or who gets to make you smile like that.
Quickly, you rearrange your features again to look mildly interested at whatever your colleague is saying on stage and Namjoon finally finally exhales. (His heart, though, is pounding loudly.)
But who the fuck is he kidding? It’s not like he’ll have a chance with you. There’s the shop which takes up all his time, there’s Sora who takes up all his energy, and well, there’s his past which has consumed all of his soul.
Sighing, he lets his thoughts drift back to the garage. The new hire on his team—Jeon—is quick on his feet, has a quicker mind, and seems eager to learn. Namjoon makes a mental note to let him handle the brake pads replacement he’ll do on the Hyundai Elantra tomorrow. There’s also the Lexus that needs a—
“Dad, we have to go!” Sora is urging him to stand, the rest of the parents are already heading to the mezzanine for refreshments. He quickly shakes himself from thinking about the business and wills himself to focus.
He’s not going to let his daughter down if he can help it.
“Dad, remember—” she begins.
“—I’m a CEO in the auto industry. Hey, I got it. Relax. I’m your dad. I got this.”
Sora sighs. It was the same thing he said when he took her birthday cake out of the box and accidentally dropped it. The same thing he said when he did the laundry and his red lucky socks got into the whites and turned her school uniform pink.
It’s not that she doesn’t like her dad.
It’s more like, whom can she talk to about what period cramps feel like or when she should start shaving (and how often)? Her dad always ends up blushing, then says he’ll check out a book from the library, which, a week later, would appear on her desk with a cheerful post-it note “Hope this helps!”
But what Sora really wants is to talk to someone, someone who has actually been through this… this disgusting thing called puberty.
If only she had a mom. A mom like Luna’s who takes her out to get their nails done together for mom-daughter dates and shops for different period products for her to try.
Or one like Hyejin’s who’s a doctor and explains everything about puberty, sex, and pregnancy with charts and diagrams and an honest-to-god plastic model of fallopian tubes and doesn’t flinch when her daughter asks her questions like what’s an orgasm.
Too bad her friends are not in the same school anymore. She hardly gets to see them now that she’s at Lee’s.
With a determined clench to her jaw, Sora makes up her mind to make a new friend tonight before she leaves. Preferably someone with a nice mom or older sister. Wandering off to look for a friendly face among the sea of students, she hopes her dad remembers not to swear.
As for Namjoon, his only concern is when the fuck is it a polite time to leave. He has to work on accounts early tomorrow morning. These damned teenie weenie mini cucumber sandwiches are not worth the extra five minutes imprisoned in this suit. He already ate three and they barely register in his stomach.
God, what he would do for some jajangmyeon right now.
Sighing, he turns around to grab another damn cucumber sandwich from the table when he suddenly bumps into you, splashing the entire contents of the fruit punch bowl you were holding all. over. your. dress.
“Oh SHIT!” he sputters. It’s loud enough that several people stop talking to turn to him.
You’re stunned from the shock of it all that you can only glare at him.
Quickly, he tries to redeem himself. “I’m sorry! I meant Crap! Feces. Poop—“
“Here at Lee, we prefer a simple oh no,” you say primly, trying to hold on to a shred of dignity while the entire front of your dress is now sticking to your chest. You smile awkwardly at the concerned faces around you to signal you’re fine, really, it’s just a little water, nothing to see here but right now you’re ready to crawl into a hole and die.
“I’m fucking sorr—,” he stops himsef again.“Napkin. Gonna get you a napkin.”
Of course this had to happen. Of course, the white bodice of your light floral crepe dress is now soaked and stained with (organic) fruit juice. Of course, as the librarian, you were asked again to be in charge of refreshments. And of course, something just had to go wrong.
Clumsily, he heads to you with a thick wad of napkins he’d just grabbed from the corner of the refreshment table, almost tripping over himself due to the wet puddle of punch on the floor. “I’m fuc— really, really sorry,” he says as he hands you the napkins and takes the empty punch bowl from you.
You’re trying to dab yourself dry as much as possible, to no avail. Instead, you’re noticing the outline of your lace brassiere is now awfully obvious through the wet fabric. God, you can even feel your nipples tightening under the icy water.
He notices it too.
Swallowing hard, he shrugs the scarf off of him and hands it to you. “Here, take this. It’ll keep you warm for a little bit—” he says, intent on keeping his gaze on your face and not anywhere lower. “And please, let me pay for the dry-cleaning for your outfit. Or if you need a new one, really, I’ll—I’ll pay for it.”
“Well. You’re lucky I didn’t wear my Chanel suit tonight,” you say wryly. Not like you can afford those on a librarian’s salary.
Namjoon marvels at how you can even crack a joke when he’s been so fucking dumb. “I hope you have something dry to change into?” he gazes at you, genuinely concerned.
“I should be fine. There’s a t-shirt somewhere in my office. And how do I return this to you?” you ask, careful to break eye contact with him because you’re suddenly overwhelmed by the clean, woodsy man smell of his aftershave or cologne or whatever spell he puts in that scarf of his that’s making you dizzy.
“Just give it to Kim Sora. She’s mentioned how much she loves the library in this school.”
“Ah. So you’re Sora’s dad?” Sora is that sweet girl that comes in all the time during lunch break to study or read. Often, she would stop by your desk to ask for a book recommendation and has now even begun to linger to chat about all sorts of interesting topics with you.
“Yeah. And it's Namjoon, aka the god of destruction according to my daughter,” he admits, looking forlornly at his hands, like he can’t believe his very own flesh has betrayed him again.
It’s hard to remain angry at him especially when he’s so contrite about it. “Well, god of destruction, I’ll return the scarf to Sora then—she’s great by the way.”
“Dad! What are you—” One look at the empty punch bowl and her father’s wool scarf around you, Sora instantly knows what has happened. “Ms. Y/L/N, I’m so sorry. My dad is just such a klutz—”
“It’s okay. Luckily, it’s just fruit punch and not hot coffee. But I’m going off to get dry. Have a good night Namjoon and Sora!” You give a little wave and try to send an extra warm smile to Sora to reassure her you’re fine and not mad at all.
“Goodnight Ms Y/L/N,” she says, still apologetic. When her father doesn’t immediately reply, Sora elbows him to remember his manners.
He clears his throat roughly and manages to smile back at you. Namjoon doesn’t know why the hell the words catch in his throat, but they do.
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lee Min-Joo (yes, she’s a direct descendant of the school’s founder) thought it was mildly odd that Sora Kim arrived with only one parent.
She also found it mildly funny that Sora’s father crashed into the batty librarian who’s always shushing her in the library.
With a satisfied smile, she continues gawking as she watches the water spill all over the librarian.
Her keen eye observes how Sora’s father looks so uncomfortable—his suit looks a little tight across the shoulders and too much of his shirt-cuff is showing.
She notices that while all the other adults in the room are talking to one another, Sora’s father is alone. And so is Sora.
She catches on that both of them are taking too many sips of water from their paper cups, pretending as though no one’s talking to them only because they’re too busy drinking water.
It’s awkward as hell.
And Lee Min-Joo is mildly intrigued.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
People are starting to leave.
“Sora, let’s get the hell out. I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”
“Daaad. Swearing.” Sora reminds him pointedly. “Just another five min—”
Namjoon is determined to leave but then a student, dressed immaculately, approaches Sora with a smile, her face open and friendly.
“Hey Sora! Isn’t this entire evening absolutely dreadful? Total waste of my time, if you ask me.” Lee Min-joo (Lee Min-joo!), who has never spoken to Sora before sidles up and puts an arm around the stunned Sora.
“H-hey, Min-joo! Yeah. Total waste of time. Boring.” Sora mimics Min-joo’s eye roll perfectly.
“Listen, I was wondering if you want to come to a sleepover at my house one of these days. We should ask your dad. What’s his name?” Min-joo asks innocently.
“Namjoon.”
“Kim Namjoon?”
“Yeah.”
“Or should we ask your mom? Where is she, anyway? Or do you have another dad?” She jabs Sora conspiratorially as if it would be so funny if Sora had two dads.
“Uh, my mom’s not around anymore.”
“Sweet. One less parent to keep an eye on you. My mom’s always, you know, helicoptering. You know how it is, Moms.” Min-joo says with an exaggerated sigh and a flip of her wrist in the air.
“Yeah. Moms.” Sora parrots back, happy to finally have a friend to go to a sleepover with. The dull ache of not having her own mom still stings a little, but she pushes it down just like she has done with all her other emotions since she entered Lee’s College for Girls.
It doesn’t matter. She has a friend now. And maybe, even a sleepover invitation with the Lee Min-joo!
_____________________________
The walk back to the truck is chilly.
Sora hops from side to side to keep warm as she tries to keep up with her father’s long strides. She’s giddy and happy, glad that she’s made a friend tonight.
“So, Dad? What do you think of my teachers?”
“She’s nice,” he mumbles absentmindedly, lost in his own thoughts. God. He hasn’t felt like that in a while. Like a complete utter fool.
“D-a-a-a-d. Who’s nice?” she says, tugging at his hand. A mischievous smile plays on her face.
“Hmm? Who’s nice? Um, all your teachers?” he says, still dreaming about your pretty eyes and soft smile.
“That’s not what you said just now!” Sora squeals. “You said she. You said she!”
Namjoon knows he’s been caught out. Ears reddening, he tries to explain himself.
“Sora—,” he cautions.
“It’s the librarian! Ms Y/L/N! Right? Right?” Sora claps in glee as he looks away shyly.
God, how is his daughter so smart? “It’s nothing, Sora.”
“Well,” she says in that know-it-all voice of hers, “I think it’s time for you to get back in the game.”
“What game?” Namjoon thinks it sounds suspiciously like a conversation he had yester—“Wait. Who taught you to say that?”
The guilty look on Sora’s face says it all. Sighing, Namjoon goes into full Dad mode to explain that:
a) eavesdropping is wrong (but Dad, I just walked by the garage office and it’s not my fault my ears are sensitive)
b) matters of the heart should not be considered a game (duh, I know that, it’s more like a journey)
c) she’s a little too young to understand that such things are complicated (gosh Dad, I watch TV , remember?).
“All I’m saying, Dad, is I won’t mind if you have a girlfriend— like Jungkook oppa’s Erin, or Hobi oppa’s Hope and Ana. Even Jin oppa’s Joy is awesome. And Yoongi oppa’s Virginia. Someone nice and pretty and kind, like ahem, Ms Y/L/N,” she says, grinning at her dad who’s squirming at the mention of your name.
It’s fun to tease her dad. He gets too serious when he’s talking about cars or her grades, worrying about the garage business and about her future. Sora wonders if this is just so that her father won’t have to face his own loneliness. What’s going to happen in a few years when she goes to college. Would he be okay?
“Besides,” she says, eyes solemn and serious, “it’s not like anyone can replace Mom.”
Namjoon softens. “That’s right. No one’s gonna replace Mom.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t be happy with someone else, right?”
He swallows hard. Namjoon doesn’t know why it’s so difficult to say this aloud, but he forces the words to come out breezily, “Yeah. Exactly. It doesn’t mean I can’t be happy with someone else.”
“Just make sure I like her too,” she pauses, “okay Appa?”
Kim Sora never ever calls him Appa unless it’s very, very important.
“C’mere.” He draws her close to his side, the top of her head already brushes against his ribs. God, she’s getting tall.
Planting a kiss on her head, he reminds her, “Hey, I’m your Appa. I got this. Nothing will ever be more important than you. If I do find someone, she’s gonna be someone you’ll love, and—” he pauses, “someone I love.”
Damn. When was the last time he thought of the possibility of love coming his way again? Even the word love feels foreign on his lips.
“Now hop into the truck, no more of this love business, it’s not going to happen anytime soon.” He opens the door to help her into the passenger seat. Fuck. Sometimes he wishes he had a boy instead. They’ll just talk about cars and basketball all day.
Just as he’s about to help her close the door, she says in a rushed breath, “I’m sorry I insisted you wear the suit and asked you to lie.”
Namjoon breaks into a smile. His little piece of sky, Sora, is truly, truly growing up. “It’s not a lie technically. It’s just not really how I see myself— you know, as Mr. CEO.”
“I know. Thanks though. For polishing your leather shoes and all.”
“Only the best for my girl,” he says quietly.
What happened to the chubby little baby who could only give him slobbery kisses and poopy diapers? Sora’s looking more and more like his nabi every day with her serious eyes and beautiful hair.
How he wants to protect her from every bad thing in the world. But life doesn’t work that way, does it?
“Love you , Dad.” She leans in for a hug, and Namjoon wraps her in his arms, silently willing himself to remember this moment forever and ever. He hopes she will too.
“So is this when you ask for a raise in your allowance?” Namjoon teases. It feels better this way. Less intense. Less emotional.
“D-a-a-a-d! Come on!” she protests with a pout, hands on her hips. “Give me more credit than that.”
But without missing a beat after a perfunctory moment of indignation, she slyly adds, “There might be a sleepover coming up and more allowance for make-up wouldn’t hurt...”
Namjoon hurries to slam the door shut.
Some things are better left unheard.
—————————
In his bed that night, Namjoon has the dream again. The same park. The same familiar warmth flooding his senses, the same yearning to see his nabi.
This time, he hears her laugh. It’s deep. Full. Rich.
It’s how she laughs at the dinner table when Sora makes a funny remark that everyone must have drunk dinosaur pee at some time in their lives after watching a cartoon on The Water Cycle.
It’s how she laughs when he tickles her at the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes, his arms around her waist, fingers roaming devilishly over her ribs, bodies tight together while soap bubbles and lemon suds fill the air.
It’s a laugh he can’t resist.
Namjoon turns around to call her over.
But she’s gone again.
He wakes up sweating, gasping for air, confused as to why that laugh sounded so fucking real.
The last time he’d heard it was when they looked at the pregnancy test together and realised Sora was going to be a big sister.
Was.
It’s not like it’s going to happen again.
With a sigh, he falls back into his side of the bed and whispers for sleep to come like he’d always done.
Goodnight Nabi.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s something about being in a library that feels safe to Sora. Familiar books, familiar plots. Even the air, suffused with the musk of old carpets and older stories smells familiar.
She always comes in on the dot, five minutes after the lunch bell, always heads to the corner study carrel where she can be as inconspicuous as possible. Sheltered on all three sides from prying eyes, she methodically lays out her books and the dreaded laptop.
It’s a heavy laptop, black and bulky and clunky and heavy. It’s the model given to the scholarship students in the school. Free they’d said.
To Sora, the dumb latop feels more like a prison, like a ball and chain she’s shackled to while everyone else is using a sleek silver one. Quietly, she sets to work, determined to outstudy every single person in her class and prove her worth.
“You’d never guess what I found about Sora Kim last weekend. I heard from my father that her father is a mechanic. Can you imagine?”
It’s a loud whisper. One made deliberately to be heard, to scandalize the ear, to intrigue the mind. Min-joo is especially proud of her whisper.
Sora feels her ears burning. She ducks her head deeper into her study carrel.
“—and her mom is not around anymore—”
“—like she’s actually dead—”
“-—maybe, maybe her dad killed her mom—”
“—-maybe, he —”
She hears enough to start shaking anger. “Maybe if you girls would just shut the fuck up and ask me, you wouldn’t have to guess! My dad is a mechanic, so what? And my mom—”
“Ooh swearing! Swearing! We’re going to tell Ms Y/L/N!” Min-joo and Co. are delighted to finally have something on Sora.
“Tell me what?” you ask icily. “Bullying is three days suspension, minimum”
Stooping to shelve the books in the YA Fiction aisle, the catty accusations broke through your flow of thought and you’ve heard everything.
Normally, you’d stay out of the students’ petty squabbles, but this was far too much.
The girls disappear out of the library in a flurry of apologies before you can give them a more severe reprimand.
“Are you okay?” you ask Sora gently.
It’s a while before she gains the composure to speak. And when she does, her voice is barely a whisper, still shaky, still trembling. “I hate this school. I hate them. Wish I didn’t get in…”
Hot angry tears spill from her eyes as she starts to sob. “I heard the other girls talking about it the other day. She never even intended to ask me for a sleepover. Just pretended to be my friend to find out all this stuff about me—” She draws a shuddering breath as she struggles to speak in the midst of her tears.
“Those girls had no business talking like that,” you murmur, offering a tissue.
Sora’s hiccuping now from the force of her tears. “You don’t understand, it’s just so hard to fit in. So f-f-freaking hard. I should just quit. I should just quit,” she sobs quietly into her hands.
“Oh Sora,” you hesitate, not sure if you’ll be saying the right things. “It’s okay to cry.” Don’t try to solve problems. Listen. Empathize. “Just—just let it out… there, there.”
Patiently, you let Sora cry it out, hoping no one needs you right now at the circulation desk. It’s a good thing there’s a parent volunteer today.
Eventually, she starts to calm, and you reach for her hands to clasp them in yours. You tell her that it’s always always hard to start in a new school and she has every right to be here— she’d won the scholarship through hard work. It would be a pity if she gave up now.
Slowly but surely her smile returns, her very spirit strengthening. Gently, you suggest it might help to talk to the school counsellor about this.
In a grown-up voice, Sora explains, “Oh, I already have my own therapist. Dad and I used to go for therapy regularly when Mom died. I guess I should I should make an appointment. Dad should go too, since he’s so afraid of getting back into the game except he says relationships are not a ga—”
Sora clasps her hand over her mouth. She shouldn’t have said that.
You’re not sure how to deal with this deluge of new information but you tell yourself your focus should be Sora as the next bell rings.
“Do you feel okay enough to go back to class? Or do you need to see the school nurse?” You want to make sure you’re not forcing her back to class until she’s truly ready.
“I’m okay, now Thanks Ms Y/N.” Sora musters a brave smile and starts to pack her things into her bag.
“You’re welcome, Sora. Remember, give yourself time—”
“It’s going to heal everything, right?” she asks, staring at you, vulnerability in her eyes. “Time?”
You wish you could promise her that it does, but life doesn’t work like that, does it?
“I don’t know Sora, but we deserve to give ourselves a chance to find out. That much I know.”
As you see her walk away under her big, heavy backpack with determined, steady steps, you hope to god you said the right things.
—————
The smoke starts to seep out of the hood of your car just as you start your daily commute home.
Alarmed, you pull to the road shoulder and call your automobile association, glad to have its number on the car decal stuck on the corner of your windshield.
The robotic voice over the phone tells you a tow truck will arrive and thanked you for your continued trust in their service.
Before you could ask how long you had to wait, the call cuts off.
Carefully, you make sure the hazard lights are turned on, then climb out of your car, over the safety guard rail.
It’s cold. You’re hungry. And just about damned tired after a long week.
The fall delivery for the new books of the month is late again. Plus, someone has been defacing the books on display, scribbling Free Riders Go Home within the pages.
One day, you will get to the bottom of this and find the culprit.
At least, you’re going to your sister’s for the long weekend to meet your new baby nephew. It’s a five-hour drive you’ve had to postpone twice already because of school and more school commitments.
Your hands are just itching to hold his plump little body, smell the baby-ocean smell of his sweet little head, kiss those chubby cheeks and cheeky thighs.
One day, perhaps you’ll have your own.
Shivering in the damp air of a dusky fall evening, you’re glad for Namjoon’s grey scarf around you. It doesn’t smell the same now that you’ve washed it. Sora wasn’t at the library today or else you would have returned it. Thankfully, it remained in your bag, and you snuggle in its warmth.
One day, you will return this scarf.
But It’s getting late and those one days seem far away on this dark road.
Suddenly, the bright orange lights from the tow truck flashes from behind, approaching your car steadily.
You wave from the side of the road, wondering if the driver can see you. As the tow truck approaches, the blinding headlights from the truck stun you for a moment before the vehicle slows to park in front of your car.
You hurry to the driver who just got out of the truck, his silhouette oddly familiar.
“Did someone call for a tow truck—”
In the dark, his face is partly hidden by the baseball cap, but the deep voice is unmistakable. “Mr. Kim!”
You sense his hesitation for a moment before he glances up. The lights from the vehicle illuminate his face as a smile spreads across his features when he sees you.
“I didn’t know you—”
“Yup. I’m a mechanic. Owner of Kim’s Auto Repair. Or—,” he sighs, “—according to Sora: CEO in the auto industry.”
His eyes meet yours and you share a light moment together, forgetting suddenly that you’re here, brought by a car breakdown, right by highway 605.
“The AA network said something about smoke?” Namjoon forces himself to focus on his job, afraid that his gaze is lingering a little too long on your face.
Automatically he gravitates to the hood of your car, and shines his flashlight over the engine, and then the transmission. Going through the motions of checking your radiator and AC compressor next, he feels safe again, glad for the familiar smell of engine oil.
He fiddles a little with his flashlight. “Doesn’t look good. Likely a cracked cylinder head or something worse. I gotta bring it in and check it.”
“How long will the repair take?”
“Three days? Maybe two?”
Your face starts to crumple. Really. Of all weekends. You’ve been looking forward to finding warmth and refuge at your sister’s for so long. And now this.
“Hey. You okay?”
“It’s been a—, been a—” You struggle for words to describe the failings of your day, the exhaustion you feel, the goddamn politics in your school, and the trip to your sister’s which is now delayed again.
There really is no word to encapsulate it all.
“— a shitty day,” he says gently, like he’s offering warm milk and honey.
“Yeah. A shitty day.” You let the swear word roll off your tongue, enjoying its vulgar unfamiliarity. It feels good to say it. “A shit shit shit shitty day,” you say, louder each time, bolder, surer.
“The shittiest,” he adds helpfully, a small smile playing on his lips.
“The shittiest shitty day.” You can’t help but feel the lift on the corners of your mouth, furrowed brows slowly dissipating as the tension of the day slowly fades away in his presence.
For a moment, there’s nothing to say because you’re both savouring the moment of being the two idiotic leads in a rom-com who suddenly realise they have a connection.
“So,” he clears his throat, suddenly feeling shy, “uh, do you want me to work on it? I could try to get it done by tomorrow afternoon.” He hesitates before adding, “Or if you want, I can tow it to your regular mechanic?” Fuck, he already feels like he wants to beat up whoever the hell is this guy who let you and your car down.
Without thinking, you blurt, “I want you.”
When you see him startle, you realise, with horror, what you’ve just said. Belatedly, you try to repair the damage. “To work on it,” you gulp. Steadying your voice, you try to go for an authoritative tone. “Want you to work on it.”
He beams in a way that feels warm and fuzzy, and for a moment, you forget you’re cold, hungry, and tired.
“Perfect. Let’s hook up.”
Now it’s time for your eyes to widen in surprise.
“I mean I’ll hook it up. To my truck. Since it’s a tow truck—” He’s suddenly embarrassed.
“—with a hook and all,” you finish for him.
“Yeah. Exactly.”
He looks cute when he’s flustered but you already know that since the first Parents’ Night.
A gust of autumn wind takes you by surprise. He notices you’re visibly cold, trying to keep your hands under the scarf that you’ve wrapped around your body.
“You know, my scarf isn’t going to do much to keep you warm. Why don’t you hand me your car key and you wait in the truck while I rig this up?”
“The scarf— I was going to return it but Sora—” God. You’re so embarrassed that you’re wearing his scarf when you were supposed to return it last week.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he reassures you. “It’s a good scarf. I don’t blame you. Sora’s great at picking things like this. She’s just like her—” the words disappear into the night. He looks away briefly, suddenly preoccupied with the scuff on his work boots.
“So. Why don’t you get in the tow truck? I’ll turn the heat on and you can decide what you want to do while you warm up.”
Gratefully, you hand him your car key to set up the tow, while he turns on the heat in his truck for you.
With you safely ensconced in his truck, the night suddenly seems quiet and inhospitable to Namjoon on this lonely road shoulder, punctuated by the intermittent drone of uncaring cars as they zip by. With a sigh, he heads to your car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, the smell of something sweet and inviting greets him.
It’s not air freshener for sure.
He steals a moment to himself, arrested by the lingering scent of your presence.
It reminds him of fresh laundry dried in the sun, of wildflowers pressed between the pages of a book, of warm tea on a cold night.
It reminds him that it’s been a while since he held a woman close to him, close enough for him to chase her scent along her neck, close enough to breathe in the sweetness of her skin.
It reminds him that it’s been too damn long.
With a sigh, he does what he always does: lock the handbrakes, turn on the hazard lights, and forget about what his heart has been missing all this time.
—————————-
When he joins you in the cab of the truck, he asks if you’re still feeling cold.
“I’m warm now, thanks to the heater. But honestly, I should get an Uber and head back.”
“I don’t know if an Uber will come to pick you up from the side of the highway. Where do you live?”
You both figure out that it’s easier for him to drop off your car at his garage first. And he offers to then drive you back quickly without the burden of the tow.
It sounds like a good plan, but as he starts the truck, you remember he’s not just Namjoon, your road-side saviour, but Sora’s father.
“What about Sora?” you ask, heart thumping, because you did not expect this turn of events when smoke began pouring out of the hood of your car.
“She’s babysitting at our neighbour’s. Saving money to buy some makeup. Some eye thing… whatchamacallit massacre? Mas—”
“Mascara.”
“Yeah. Mascara.” Namjoon rolls his eyes in mock teenage angst.
You laugh at his eye-roll. “She’s too beautiful for make-up at this age.”
He sighs. “See, that’s what I told her. But she says I’m a dad and I don’t know about these things. If only—” Namjoon feels the words catch in his throat.
“If only what?” you ask quietly.
There’s no good way to finish this sentence.
And so he shifts gears like a pro and says “—if only ads these days were more about breakfast cereals and sugary drinks. I mean, what the fuck is it with this shit about eye-lash elongation? Or extension? Existentialism!” He forces a laugh which sounds hollow even to his ears.
You know this wasn’t what he wanted to say but you suppose you’re just a stranger, a customer who needs a tow and a transmission job, a librarian who isn’t even his daughter’s teacher.
Your eyes soften as you look at him. There’s a hard clench in his jaw as he keeps his eyes stubbornly focused on the road. A glimmer of watery shine slips from the corner of his eye and you wonder about the hell he has been through.
“For what it’s worth,” you murmur, “she’s a great girl. Studious. Focused. And above all, she’s kind.” Softly, you add, “You must be doing something right.”
Chest tightening, he grips harder on the steering wheel. Really, what the hell did he do which was right? What about the one big wrong in his life?
It’s a while before he can answer you.
“Thanks,” he says quietly. “Sora’s one of the few good things in my life.” Shaking off the wistfulness in his eyes, he turns to give you a quick grin, “So, library science huh? You’re into Dewey and all that shit?”
“Yeah. Library Science and Dewey is my shit.” You let out a little laugh.
“400–Language. 500–Pure Science. 600–Technology. 700–Arts and Recreation. 800– Literature. 900–History and Geography.” It pops out before he can stop himself.
“Whoa, where did you learn that?”
Ah fuck. Now he has to explain himself. He can’t believe he was such a show-off.
“I worked in a library before,” he pauses, “as a janitor.”
“We needed something extra in those early days with the baby and all. I got fired after a while. Too busy reading instead of cleaning the aisles in the reference section.”
“Well, you could say, as a librarian, I’m doing the opposite. Too busy cleaning instead of reading. I like things neat, and I swear— these rich girls are some of the messiest, most entitled on earth. They never put anything back on the right shelves.”
As you and Namjoon share a laugh, a shudder of pleasure courses through him. It’s been a while since he enjoyed a genuine laugh with a woman. It feels good.
In the awkward silence which ensues after a good laugh, your stomach starts growling unabashedly, startling even Namjoon himself.
“Aye, my traitorous stomach. Just pretend you didn’t hear that. I had to skip lunch today because they needed someone to supervise the kids—” Another loud growl from your stomach interrupts you, impeccable in its timing.
“Listen, I can cook some ramyeon for us. Something quick and simple, and then I’ll give you a ride home.”
“I really shouldn’t impose,” you protest, aware that it’s late, that he’s Sora’s dad, that you’re really just a librarian at his daughter’s school.
“You’re not imposing. Besides, Sora should be home soon. She’d worry if she didn’t see me at home, and she’d worry if she knew you hadn’t eaten. So… ramyeon?”
“Ramyeon,” you say, thrilled in your insides.
He pulls up into the darkened garage, the boys having left for the weekend to party wherever boys go to party with their partners. The apartment above the office is also dark. Sora’s not home yet.
After you wait for Namjoon to unhook your car from the tow truck, he shows you his apartment which sits atop the office building of the garage.
“I had to sell our house three years ago to buy over the garage from my mentor who retired. I hope you don’t mind. It’s not large, but it’s home.”
“I don’t mind. Cozy’s good,” you reassure him.
Entering the apartment, Namjoon turns on the soft lighting which casts a warm glow in the living-dining room where a large leather sofa takes centerstage.
You spy a plethora of plants lined up on the window ledge longing for the morning sun to come; and to your delight, rows and rows of books standing like obedient school children across wall-to-wall shelves.
“Make yourself comfortable. Food’s ready in five minutes.”
He heads to the kitchenette, body on autopilot as he goes through the motions of making the one dish that has sustained him and Sora for days busy and hectic, on nights lonely and cold.
Looking around the living room, you spy a small framed photo sitting quietly among the pots of plants. It’s of a beautiful woman with eyes crinkled mid-laughter, her hair lifting in the wind. She looks exactly like Sora.
Well, Sora looks exactly like her.
He sees you staring at his favourite spot in the home. “That’s Sora’s mom. My—” He doesn’t know why he struggles every fucking time he says this. It never gets easier. “My late wife.”
He hates it. It sounds as if somehow his nabi is habitually late when, in reality, she was always early to anything and everything—early for their first date, early for their wedding, and too early for her death.
“I’m sorry.” You did not mean to be the cause of the hurt which flits across his face.
“It’s okay. It’s been some time. Years and years.” His natural instinct for ramyeon honed from years of pots boiling over with noodle and soup moves him back to the stove.
Glad to have a reason to escape the pity in your gaze, he carefully pours the contents into two bowls, setting them on the dining table.
“Eat,” he says. “Careful, it’s hot.” He’s so used to being the dad that the cautionary words slip out easily. Dude, she’s a grown woman, she knows it's hot. Why the fuck does he feel so stupid around you?
Ravenous, you tuck into the steaming food, slurping up each delicious spoonful. Namjoon too, is also preoccupied with eating; still, he notices you don’t pick at your food, but slurp heartily at its MSG-laden decadence.
It’s a while before you notice it’s suddenly all quiet.
When you meet his eyes, he’s staring at you, in a mix of shock and awe that almost half of your ramyeon is gone, like his.
“What?” you ask, a little perturbed, wondering if you have a noodle fragment hanging off the side of your chin.
Namjoon smiles widely. “I’m impressed. I’ve not met anyone who has matched my ramyeon-eating skills.”
“Hey, plenty of guys eat ramyeon faster than I do!” you protest.
“I mean I haven’t met a woman who can eat ramyeon like me,” he explains lamely, words flowing out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He’s stupidly cursing himself for sounding like a sexist pig.
“Well, then. Maybe you haven’t met many women!” you joke.
A brief shard of regret (or is it disappointment?) flashes in his eyes.
It stops you short.
“Sorry, it’s none of my business.” God, you’re so embarrassed now. Averting his gaze, you focus on wolfing down your noodles.
His words, however, freeze your spoon mid-air.
“Two,” he pauses, “met two in the last six years.” He swallows hard. “When things got serious, they realised they just didn’t want the whole step-mother thing.”
You’re quiet for a while. “God. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s okay. Sora and I have a good routine going. Plus being the sole owner of the garage is a lot of work. There’s ordering of parts, dealing with customers which I swear is more work than fixing cars…” Talk about her, stupid.
Clearing his throat, he steers the conversation away from his fucked-up dating life. “So. How long have you been at Lee’s?”
“Three years. I was the fifth hire after a string of them quit when the new management took over. After a few weeks, I realized why. The school just doesn’t respect the work it takes to run a library at an elite school. I get thrown all sorts of extra duties that I shouldn’t have to do but, oh well… what the heck. I need the money. Plus—” you hesitate.
You wonder if it sounds too cheesy.
“Plus what?”
“Plus, I love my job, helping kids to love reading. It’s worth all the cups of coffee I have to brew for staff meetings, all the refreshment tables I have to organize for this conference, all that oh-you-dont-have-any-grading-to-do-so-you-can-do-the-decorations-sh—.”
“Shit,” he adds, helpfully.
“I was going to say charade but shit works too.” You grin again. It’s not something you’re used to—this offhand swearing that comes so easily to him. But he makes it feel right.
“Sora hates it when I swear. It’s too inappropriate. I’m too inappropriate.” He rolls his eyes again, just the way he’s seen Sora do. “Hey, do you want some dessert? She made cookies—“
The eager footsteps followed by the unlocking of the door announces Sora’s arrival.
“—ah, here she comes,” Namjoon gets up to grab a cookie jar on the counter. “She’ll be surprised to see you here. Probably thinks we’re on a date or something.”
You have no time to react to what he’s saying because Sora enters with a burst of questions.
“Dad? Who’s here? I saw the shoes outside. Ms Y/L/N! What are you doing here?”
“I heard you made cookies so I had to try them.” You beam at her, enjoying her little squeal of delight.
“Ms Y/L/N’s car broke down,” Namjoon keeps his voice calm and even; as if this happens to everyday. “I happened to answer the tow truck SOS and I picked her up.”
“Pick her up? Pick her up? Dad! Very smooth!” Sora giggles.
“Sora.” he grimaces. He shoots you a look to convey to you see what I mean? “You want a cookie or not?”
“You mean, do I want a cookie I’ve made.”
“I mean, do you want cookies you made with my money.” Namjoon does not miss a beat. You can tell he’s used to the sass.
“I want cookies I made,” Sora stands her ground, a little impish smile on her face.
Namjoon plays along, and insists, “With my money. Say it. Or don’t get any.”
“It. There. I said it.”
It takes a second before Sora’s shrewdness hits him. “You’re too smart for me kiddo. I surrender.” He makes a great show of reluctance about handing over the cookie. They tug playfully at each end of the chocolate chip cookie before Namjoon finally lets go.
Sora sits down next to you, grinning as though she’d won a million dollars. “Next time, Dad, I’m going to use my babysitting money to buy all the ingredients and they would be truly my cookies.”
“Ah, but you would be baking them in my oven. Plus, I feed you. The very energy you need to make those cookies is only possible because of me.”
“Next thing you know,” Sora says knowingly to you, “he’s going to say half of all my cells have his chromosomes… which means I owe him half of all the cookies I will ever make for the rest of my life,” Sora prattles on as she takes a dainty bite. “Thank goodness I don’t have to give the other half to M—”
Everyone freezes.
The quiet hum of the refrigerator becomes too loud.
Namjoon looks like he was just slapped in the face. Sora, the poor girl, looks horrified at what she was about to say.
You wish you weren’t here in this very private family moment.
“Dad, I didn’t mean—”
Namjoon sits stock-still for a split second before he can answer. Eyes softening, he murmurs, “It’s ok. Mom would have loved a good laugh.”
“She would. Wouldn’t she?” Sora whispers.
“C’mere.” He opens his arms and Sora goes over and buries her face in his chest, quietly tearing up.
He pats her head lightly as his eyes are squeezed tight, face twisted half in pain and half in relief because it’s probably one of the last hugs he has to savour before she grows up.
The way they hold each other sears your heart. Not wanting to intrude in this shared moment between a dad and his little girl, you avert your eyes and stare at your lap.
Your own father was never particularly affectionate and you wonder if Sora knows how fortunate she is. Quietly, you take out your phone to book an Uber. You really shouldn’t overstay.
“Feel better?” he asks Sora.
She nods quietly.
There’s tenderness in which he tucks a wisp of hair which has escaped from her ponytail behind Sora’s ear. He’a reminded suddenly of how much Sora looks like his nabi, long hair tied in a ponytail always skewed to the side, eyes puffy after a cry, baby hiccups coming out in staccato breaths.
It’s a little too overwhelming and he retreats into the safety of annoying his little girl. Squishing her cheeks with his large hands, he cups her face and says “You’re too cute, little miss. Go brush your teeth and go to bed. I have to send Ms Y/N home.”
It’s your cue to announce that you should take your leave. It’s late and you’re sorry for having stayed so long.
But Sora will have none of it.
“Ms Y/L/N, please let Dad drive you. I’m fine. There’s an alarm and everything, and the Chois are just in the lot next to us. Besides, I can always call Jin oppa or Hobi oppa…”
“Ah, too bad. I just asked for an Uber just now, and my ride is on its way. But your cookie? That was totally worth my car breaking down.”
Sora giggles and finally allows you to say goodbye.
You’re just about to get your bags when his fingers brush against yours.
“Here, let me,” he says, his breath so close to your neck that you almost shudder from how good it feels. “Least I can do is see you out and wait with you,” he drawls, each word low and deep.
You nod dumbly and let him lead you into the cold October night. It’s almost Halloween.
“I’m sorry about what happened back there,” he begins. “She can get emotional sometimes.”
“No! No! It’s okay. It’s sweet, really.” Waiting for the Uber on the sidewalk, you stare up at the night sky to distract yourself from the growing silence between you.
“It’s such a big world,” he says, staring up in the sky with you. “I just hope she knows how important she is.”
“You’re a great dad, Namjoon. She’ll find her place. Give her time,” you say, wondering if your dad ever thought of you as important.
He sees you shivering in the chilly air. “Here, take my coat.”
“I already have your scarf.”
“You’re still cold. Take it. You can bring it back when you collect the car.” He shrugs it off and hesitates a moment, unsure if it’s right to do this thing he always did for his nabi.
He tells himself it’s only a coat, it’s only a goddamn coat, and then drapes it over you, making sure it hugs your shoulders snugly.
When your Uber arrives, he helps you in with your bag, arms gently guiding you in.
“Thanks for staying. Text me when you get back? Just so I know you’re safe?” he says it loud enough for the driver to hear because no one else is going to get hurt on his watch. No more. “Share this ride with me on the app, yeah?”
“Yeah, I’ll text you.”
As you settle into the seat, the warmth of Namjoon’s coat tucked around you becomes extra comforting.
You wonder how mere nylon and polyester can retain so much more than heat, how it seems to hold the smell of a good man, how it carries his strength, how it sends his care.
You wonder and wonder.
————————————-
In his darkened apartment, Namjoon sits alone on the couch, staring obsessively at his phone; the glare blinds him but he doesn’t care. He’s tracking the little car, willing it to move closer and closer to the safety of your home.
Eyes bleary, he thinks he should go to bed, but his feet won’t move, his body remains stuck to the couch. But his heart, his fucking heart, travels with you, across pixels and over roads until he sees you home.
Y/N: I’m home. Thanks for the tow, the ramyeon, the scarf AND the coat.
Namjoon: You’re welcome. Glad you’re home safe. Goodnight.
Y/N: Goodnight Namjoon.
He stares at his phone screen, wishing for something more. But really, why long for something more with you when he’s got baggage?
He doesn’t expect more from you. He shouldn’t expect more.
And so, with a sigh, he turns off his phone and hopes his heart will switch off his feelings.
It’s midnight when he finally crawls into bed, showered and truly tired. As he shifts under the covers, he always does the usual: put his left arm on the pillow where his nabi used to sleep and whisper the last two words of his every day.
“Goodnight Nabi,” he sighs.
—————————
He’s at the park bench this time.
The sun is high in the sky, and he feels the sweat sticking to his shirt. There are butterflies all around, and he knows this dream well enough to know that she’s not among them.
He sits still. Waits for the breeze to blow. Waits for the familiar prickle on his spine that tells himself she’s on her way.
In these fevered dreams, he has always woken up when he turns to look at her. He’s never had a chance to ask her how she is, nor a chance to ask her for forgiveness.
So tonight, he wills himself to stare straight ahead on a little tree far into the horizon.
Don’t look.
He smells her first—like the first crisp apple of fall mixed with baby’s breath and oak. He loved nuzzling her in all her secret spots for this heady, intoxicating scent.
Sometimes his nabi would squeal and giggle and laugh, then push him away playfully; other times she would press him deeper into her skin, wanting him to breathe her into his very soul.
Don’t turn.
The slight give of the seat on the wooden bench tells him that she's here, next to him. His fingers long to inch towards her, to feel her hand clasped in his. He wonders if he’ll feel the imprint of the wedding ring on her finger.
Don’t see.
“Is that you, nabi? Tell me it’s you,” he breathes hard, willing his eyes to stay the course. He can’t fuck this up like the last few times—he was too eager to look at her and this dream between the living and the dead always ended too soon.
“Baby, it’s me.” She laughs. “It’s really me,” she convinces him like he’s a little boy who’s been lost for too long and can’t believe he’s finally home.
“Nabi. My Nabi.” He knows it’s a dream but his tears are real, rivulets of regret trekking down his face, soaking his pillow.
“I’m sorry.” He digs his fingernails into the flesh of his palms to stop himself from reaching for her. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“We had good years, baby. I’m not sorry.”
“I should’ve gone that day instead of you.” The words Namjoon has uttered over and over by her hospital bedside, by her grave, by her empty pillow come pouring out on instinct. “Me, not you. Me.”
“None of that now. You gotta let go. Please baby, don’t do this to yourself.”
Namjoon weeps. The guilt which came like an enemy, has stayed as a friend; it fills the gaping hole which his nabi left. Let go? He can’t. It’s a punishment he deserves for what happened.
He’d promised he would go to the pharmacy to get the fever meds for Sora. Instead, he got stupidly sidetracked, working on a car for the overtime pay.
He still remembers the exact model, a blue Nissan Sentra 2015 with a deluge of transmission problems. Worried for Sora and tired of waiting, his nabi drove to get the meds herself and met with an auto accident. If he’d gone instead… if only he’d gone instead.“I can’t—I can’t—fucking can’t,” he’s gasps from the weight of the memory.
And then, her whisper—her whisper is so close to his ear Namjoon feels the warmth of her breath feathering his cheek. “Listen to me, Namjoon. You can. Let me go, baby. You’re gonna be all right.”
“No, nabi,” he chokes out. “Stay. Please.”
Everything in him longs to turn to her like how the earth reaches for the sun.
“Nabi!”
But Namjoon feels the weight on the bench lighten. His heart, though, is still heavy with regret. She’s gone again: too soon, too quickly, too quietly.
Let go.
The air around him still hums with life—the chirping of birds, the stray bee—the eternal light, still bright and warm.
It sings to him a song of comfort—he doesn’t need to punish himself. This burden is not for him to carry; this yoke, not for him to bear.
Let go.
He sits and he sits, the parched landscape of his heart soaking up the peace in this place. He lingers until he’s ready because he knows he can’t come back anymore.
Let go.
And when he finally wills his eyes to open, Kim Namjoon says the words he didn’t think he could.
“Goodbye, Nabi.”
———————————————————————-
Dates with Kim Namjoon usually go according to plan.
He’s meticulous with details. There’s the book-launch date to meet your favourite author. The bike ride date. The picnic date. The museum date (lots and lots of those).
But today, the art installation you were going to view was suddenly cancelled due to maintenance issues.
So here you are, at his home, the dishes are done, ramyeon swimming in your stomachs, both of you sitting together on the couch with books open on your laps.
(And Sora?
Sora made a huge show of yawning loudly, announcing she’s going to her room and read with her headphones on with music at full blast. She might be sleeping early even, and she sleeps very, very soundly and wakes up very, very late. And, oh yeah, she’s not coming out of her bedroom unless there’s a fire, a huge one.)
He’s diligently reading pages and pages of Thus Says Zarathustra while you struggle to read even a paragraph of the YA novel which just came into the library.
Gah, you’re not sure what kind of date this is going to be.
But what you want to happen, what you really want, is a make-out date.
You’ve held hands (the first time, dear reader, was electrifying.) He has kissed you, always chastely by the cheek when he sees you home. There are random side-hugs from him here and there that send a thrill down your spine.
Once, his fingers lingered around the nape of your neck when he adjusted his coat to drape more protectively over you. The keening, desperate sound which leapt from your throat was so embarrassing that you quickly covered it with a violent fit of coughing which got him concerned.
You wonder what’s holding him back. There were many times you swear he’d lean in to kiss you, only to pull back suddenly. Times where you accidentally brush against the front of his body and he flushes a deep red. Times where you think his hands linger around your shoulder, unsure if he could hold you closer and tighter.
And you? You find yourself holding back too. Afraid to take the lead. Of being too eager. Too much. Too soon.
“Namjoon?” you ask, as he turns a page of his book in hand.
“Hm?” He looks up from his book.
“Could I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he says, closing his book, fully focused on you.
“Remember when we first started dating?”
He remembers all right. It took him a fair bit of pep talk from each of the guys to finally ask you out.
(First, he’d ask you to drop by with the car because he needed to re-check the wiring. Then, he’d said he needed to check your tire treads with the approach of winter. When he asked you for the third time in as many weeks to bring your car in for a look at the heater core, you were getting worried.
Namjoon, what’s wrong?
‘M just checking the heating core.
Is it bad?
Don’t think so. But um… (muffled, since he has effectively buried his face into the bonnet of your car) um, d’you want to get dinner together after this?
Sorry, what?
Do you want to go out for dinner? You know. For fun. I mean, for food too, of course. And uh, just to get to know each other.
Phew. I thought you were going to say I need a new car. Sure. Let’s get dinner. For fun. For food. And just to get to know each other.)
There’s no fucking way he could forget all of that. His heart was hammering then, a bit like right now. “What about it?” he asks, a little nervous. It seems like one of those trick questions.
“You said it’d be nice to get to know each other.”
“I did,” he nods slowly, fearing that he’s now on thin ice.
“It’s been a few months. Do you think you know me well enough by now?”
“No, not really,” he says solemnly. There are whole worlds to explore.
“Well, what else do you want to know?” you ask, insistent.
You wish he would want you. Wish he would want you in the way that you want him—the burning of skin left untouched, of lips left unkissed, have left a dull, deep ache in the pit of your stomach.
“Why, I want to know lots of things. Like what’s your favourite dinosau—”
“Brontosaurus.”
“What was your favourite cartoon when you were growing u—”
“Powerpuff Girls.”
“What’s your favourite blue crayon col—”
“Blueberry muffin.”
Your eyes are all fiery; blood and emotion heated as they course through your body. No more holding back. Leaning in closer to him, you ask quietly. “Anything else you want to know?”
His breathing gets a little erratic with your body pressed so near to him, lips angled right there next to his. “Y-yeah,” he whispers shakily, “I want to know your favourite way for me to kiss you.”
“Like that, Namjoon,” you say, breathless from desire, as you tilt his chin so you can savour each other fully. “Kiss me, like that.”
Set free with your permission, Namjoon slots his lips gently into yours and tastes your rosebud mouth which has been driving him crazy. He’s sampling the Cupid’s bow, teasing the seam of your lips, parting his own lips to breathe you in. He kisses you thoroughly, giving himself to your pleasure, the pace not hurried, nor harsh.
As he pours himself into each kiss, his fingers glide to your neck, stroking lightly up the sides, down the back of your nape, gently under the collar of your sweater until he hears that sound he’d heard you make before.
“I wanted to know if your neck is that sensitive,” he murmurs, “heard you the last time.” You keen into his touch, softly whining, whimpering. “And now I know,” he says, as he repeats the motion again just to feel you arch into him, “—it is.”
This. This is how you want to be wanted.
Emboldened, you grasp his shoulders and press your body more fully into his side, breasts brushing against his arm, as heat pools in your core. You can’t resist. “I want to know you too,” you tease into his ear, “your favourite dinosaur, Mr. Kim?”
Taking the chance to kiss him behind his ear lobe, you sample the smooth skin along the shell of his ear, along his jaw, tongue darting to tease the rough beginnings of his five o’clock shadow dotted here and there.
He shudders, jolted by the touch of your tongue. “Oh, fuck.”
“Fuckasaurus? Never heard of that one,” you snicker while he holds back a snort. “Next one. Favourite cartoon?” you ask, as you pull at the collar of his sweatshirt to plant kisses on the skin exposed there, your hands finally free to dance across the defined planes of his chest.
Namjoon can hardly think. He hopes your hands don’t go any lower because everything suddenly feels too hard and too tight.
“Captain Planet,” he chokes out.
“Gonna take pollution down to zero?” you tease as you laugh quietly into his shoulder.
“Not funny,” he growls back playfully. “Don’t forget, I repair catalytic converters.” Namjoon is about to poke fun at Powerpuff Girls but his mind goes blank when he feels your fingers at the hem of his sweatshirt.
“Want to know the name of your favourite blue crayon, and—” you murmur, gently easing your hands under the shirt, “—if it’s okay if I touch you like this?”
“Y-yes,” he stammers, as he feels the light trail of your fingers feeling their way around his abs, climbing up his ribs, brushing against the flat of nipples while your tongue trails a hot, wet kiss down the side of his neck. “Electric,” he gasps. “Electric blue.”
“Electric? Is this electric?” you ask as your fingers circle his nipple over and over again.
“God, yes.” He wants to touch you too, like you’re touching him. But his fingers hesitate a little, hovering just above your sides.
You see how his hands are uncertain, and you lean in to assure him. “I want this. I want you. Guiding his hands, you bring them to your body, heart soaring with pleasure as he lets out a low groan. “Let go, Joon.”
Something in him breaks. He can let go. He will.
“Where can I touch?” he rasps. “Where?”
“Everywhere. Touch me everywhere.”
His hands clasps your waist, pulling you flush against him, tight and desperate. All that he’s held back from himself is unlocking like a flood. “Need you,” he grits out.
“I know.” You pull yourself over to straddle his lap. Experimentally, you rock your hips against his, relishing the way he’s so hard for you. “I feel it.” You swivel your hips again, this time, finding a rhythm that draws groan after groan from him. “I need you, too.”
“Can’t do this here,” he gasps. “Sora.”
“Your room?”
“Now.”
With urgent hands and urgent kisses, you make your way into his room, the little thud of his door marking a finality of what you’re about to do.
You don’t want him to change his mind, or second-guess himself. You don’t want him to hold back one bit from you. Quickly, you’re about to lift up the hem of your sweater to get it off when his hands stop yours.
“Hey. I know we haven’t done much. But I’d like to take my time,” he drawls out quietly into your ear. “Let me.”
You nod, breath hitching as he tenderly untucks one arm then another from your sweater sleeves before lifting it over your head. You shiver with a tingle with the way he looks at you in your bra.
“Is this the same one? The same one from Parents’ Night?” he asks, hoarse with desire.
He doesn’t need your answer though. The pattern of your lace brassiere which imprinted itself on your wet top has been burned into mind over and over. It’s the same one. Reaching behind your back, he unclasps it, a heady rush roaring in his ears as he peels it off you.
His hooded eyes feast on you, the curve of your waist, the slant of your shoulder, the way your hips flare, and when he can’t help himself any longer, he allows himself to kiss you along your jaw and then down your neck, hands still resting lightly on your hips.
“Namjoon, just touch me already,” you urge him. “Put your hands on me, your mouth on me. Everything.”
It’s the encouragement he needs.
He bends down, mouth, lips, tongue and teeth descending on the soft flesh of your breast, nipples already tight and hard from his gaze. Moaning, you bury your fingers in his hair pulling at him a little frantic, a little desperate. Your hands flit over his shoulders—everything about him is so broad, so big, you feel wonderfully protected by him.
“Your shirt, take off the sweatshirt. No fair,” you gasp, little breaths coming hard and fast as one of his hands drifts down to the apex of your thighs. Measure for measure, you think, as you cup his length, thumb gently stroking the evidence of his arousal underneath his jeans.
He shrugs his shirt off while your hands go to his jeans eagerly, unbuttoning him and unzipping him. He sucks in a breath when your fingers play along the waistband of his briefs, dipping under the cotton fabric to feel the hot, hard flesh. When you swipe the head of his cock, already leaking arousal, he grunts in pleasure. “Slow down. I can’t last like that.”
“That’s okay, I don’t want you to hold back,” you look at him, eyes imploring to believe you.
“No, you first.” He urges you down onto his bed. “Lie back for me,” he says softly. “Want to know you, know how you sound when you come.”
How you both struggle off the remaining clothing is a blur. All these weeks and months of holding back of wanting to touch but not daring; of wanting to take but not having; of wanting to give, but not getting; has ignited into an unstoppable desire for each other.
Slowly, he dips his head into the juncture of your thighs, urging them apart, only to see that the insides of your thighs already have a light sheen of arousal. “God, you’re so wet.” He licks and kisses the smooth skin, tongue sliding slowly along the folds of your cunt before entering you. He learns from your cues, listens as you squirm with pleasure into his mouth. Fisting his smooth crisp sheets, you squeeze your eyes tight as he rubs your clit with a finger. “Show me how,” he pleads.
You tutor his fingers, teaching him a rhythm that your body is most familiar with. Namjoon gets it quick, and soon, you’re panting his name, chest heaving with effort as you focus on all the tingly sensations his tongue and fingers send into you.
“Namjoon.” When you climax, your thighs tremble and he relishes every moan and heated huff. You stop breathing. You stop thinking. You can only feel the pinpoint of pleasure breaking your sinews into a million strands.
When you’re finally calm from your high, you stare at him. A look of incredible joy on his face.
“I thought I was the one who came,” you say. “Why do you look like you just came?”
“Happy. I’m just happy to finally hear you. You sound sexy. Hot.” His eyes crinkle up in a smile, dimples winking at you.
You laugh. You never really thought about how you sounded when you climax, but you’re glad he likes it. Smiling at each other, you can’t help but lean in again to kiss him in this post-climax bliss.
The kiss turns heated and he gasps for breath. “Can you take a little more?”
“Yeah, I can take it. Come inside me.”
Namjoon grabs a condom by the bedside table. This moment feels incredibly awkward in its intimacy and he feels a sudden need to explain himself. “The boys got it for me. When we started dating.” He rolls his eyes. “Or else, the ones I’ve had would have expired already. Anyway, I hope I still remember how to—”
“Shh… you’re rambling. You’ll be fine.” Seeing his fingers trembling a little, you take the packet from him and open it. With you sitting on the side of his bed, the height at which he’s standing allows you to admire his dick—thick and hard with desire. Pumping him from his base to the tip, you lower your lips and take him into your mouth. His short, violent gasps of pleasure thrill you to your toes, giving you courage to keep swirling your tongue around him.
“G-gotta stop now, love. Not anymore right now.” He almost fucking came.
As you slide the latex down his length, you know that one day you will find out how he sounds when he comes in your mouth. But right now, you’re aching to feel him inside you.
It’s so quiet. This moment where he’s about to join himself with you.
Slotting himself between your legs, he puts an arm under you to angle your head. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just wanna feel you inside me,” you encourage, canting your hips towards him eagerly.
But Kim Namjoon will not be hurried. He kisses you first, cock prodding gently between your thighs while he nips and laves on your hairline, behind your ear, down your throat. Fingers splaying across your belly, he writes the words for love in Hangul, writes it without telling you, a language of skin on skin, as a pledge of his body to yours.
When he finally enters you, you both sigh with pleasure. His skin, sweaty and hot, slides against yours, but his arms, muscled from hard, manual labor, anchors you to him.
He clenches his jaw, tight, holding back and holding on as he feels the snug clench of your walls around him. “You’re tight, love, so tight.”
He keeps his movements controlled, completely focused on not thrusting too hard, or too fast. But you want his wildness, want him to lose himself in you, to forget his own name and remember only yours. “Let go, Namjoon. Let go for me. Want you to feel good.”
“One more time. Let me know how you sound when I’m buried inside you like this,” he breathes out. He brings a finger to your clit, muscle memory taking over, just like how you taught him to get you to gasp out his name. Your entire body is on fire with need because the pleasure is building, and building. And then he mouths at your breast again, drawing the nipple tight in his mouth. You come arching into him, body melding with his in a rush of molten heat.
Digging your nails into his back as you moan his name, he shudders at the thrill of pain and pleasure. “Fuck. I’m coming.”
He chases his own high, hips stuttering, breath coming in desperate spurts, running to your voice in his head which urges him to let go, let go.
Choking back a cry, he comes hard and long wrapped in you—your legs around him, your heart beating wildly against him, your gaze locked steadfastly on him.
You know him now.
And he, you.
And you both know you will never want to let go.
—————————————
The graveyard is full of life this morning. Birds are chirping noisily, excited by the little family walking up the path.
Namjoon and you and Sora have come dressed up for the occasion. He has a new suit now, one which fits his physique better. He walks between you and Sora, proud to show off the two women in his life.
Stopping at the headstone, Namjoon traces the photo encased there. “She’s beautiful, nabi ,” Namjoon begins. “Looks just like you. Top of the class. Wise. Giving. Steady. Just like you.”
“Hey Mom,” Sora’s voice is a low, beautiful alto. It suits her unflappable personality well, which is an advantage, considering she’s going to take the nation’s most rigorous coursework for her age this year.
She doesn’t really know what to say. Her mom is someone she talks to in her thoughts, a lively spirit who helps her to press on in her studies, someone to laugh over puns with. No, her mom is not here, not at this quiet grave. It feels awkward as hell to speak to a headstone which bears a photo of the dead. But it’s what her father wants.
With a deep breath, she says, “I miss ya,” in a typical taciturn teenage way.
Namjoon is a little annoyed. Is that all she can say?
And you? You’re not sure what to say yourself. Looking at the tight clench in Namjoon’s jaw, you know this is more for him than for you or Sora.
He clears his throat, now feeling a little foolish that he’d insisted everyone come. “This is Y/N. Um. She loves Sora. She loves me, too. And I love her.” He holds your hand, glad to feel the circle of metal around your ring finger. You’re his.
Under the blue sky, Namjoon holds yours and Sora’s hands on either side of him to share a moment of silence, letting the quiet of the morning soak in.
You think about the good memories and stories that you’ve heard about Sora’s mother and your heart is grateful for her life.
“Thank you, nabi,” Namjoon chokes, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude at this chance of life with you and with Sora. “Thank you for the good years together. Thank you for Sora. Thank you for how you loved us.”
Tears are now streaming down your face and Sora’s too. This time, this time, the three of you lean into each other, seeking and finding shelter.
“I hope we’ll make you proud by how we love each other.”
A soft wind blows through the trees, stirring up the autumn leaves of another year that have fallen. The rustling leaves seem to say a farewell of their own.
gosh this story. ive been speaking a lot with friends lately about how badly i crave messy single parent stories - by this i mean, single parent characters that are flawed, curse all the time, are full of the complex emotion of parenting, the ugliness of it - especially those with teenage children. theres a raw, difficult edge to parenting teenagers, probably the hardest age because of all the emotional strain children go through at this age. add to it namjoon as a single father? i was all over this fic the very moment i saw it.
theres so much heart in this fic. seriously its just pure heart. @sahmfanficbts writes the act of parenting with brutal honesty, and that honesty comes with fear, acceptance, and forgiveness. namjoon is such an incredible father, and his daughter in this !!!! god shes so smart, shes brilliantly written and totally alive. i could read this fic all over again from her perspective alone and id be just as obsessed with it. this fic just....it has it all. searing romance, humor, grief, sadness, hope. SO MUCH HOPE!!!! i know it was meant to be a spook season offering but the haunting in namjoons dreams felt more an element of his own regret and grief than anything supernatural and i appreciated that so much. sometimes, the internal ghosts are so much more difficult to navigate than external and his emotions were palpable.
what else could i say? sam always does an incredible job of navigating the adult human experience, and this, i really thing, was her best one yet.
genre: one-shot, 19th century gothic horror, vampire!au, vampire!reader x doctor!kyungsoo, mutual pining, friends to lovers, historical fiction, angst, romance, smut.
rating: NC-17
warnings (minors dni): themes, mentions and descriptions of blood, murder, and death; slight angst; biblical quotes and religious metaphors; mentions and descriptions of food; smut—explicit language and sex, biting, marking, dirty talk, scratching, hair pulling, unprotected sex, body worship, light breathplay (m), bloodplay, creampie, crying, breast play, fingering (f), light praise kink, pain kink, oral sex (f receiving), orgasm denial, light degradation, mentions of voyeurism, edging, overstimulation, cum play.
summary: you’ve known ruination in as many different ways as the next person, if not more, and yet, there has never been anything quite like the quake in your bones that emerges at the sight of the man who insists upon dining with you every friday night. it’s what your friendship entails, he has told you, what your painfully platonic relationship requires. and tonight should have been like any other walk into the weekend, but as with most things in your life, it must play out beyond your control.
word count: 10k
author’s note: no one asked for this, absolutely no one, but it is autumn and i have been rewatching hannibal so please have it anyway. happy to be sharing this as a part of the when wrong feels right event held by @superm-net! happy halloween from your local fic writer and her muse! <3
“How’s the entrée?”
From where you sit, across the table, you’re sure you can smell his very heart, the quiver of his every sinew—you want to blame it onto your sanguine powers as if it were a poorly written letter from the boy who said he loved you at one of your late mother’s soirées, or the chipped edge of a teacup that makes you question whether there still remains hope for it to be redeemed, for its salvation in your acceptance of it.
Straying from his wordless slice into his plate of venison, Kyungsoo looks up. “It’s wonderful, as always. When have you heard me say anything different?”
You laugh, a crystalline sound that seeps into the candle flames, making them sputter. The roses on the table—a part of his weekly tradition with you—were red and purple, like a fresh bruise against the white silk of the dinner table. He is your preventive to the prism of time, but also the poison to the pacific of your soul. You have long since sunk your teeth into the marrows of humanity, partaken from the holy grail of life itself, and yet, he remains a god, astride upon your very sanity as if it were his chariot, pulling at the reins of your every pleasure. You could drive your dagger into the heart of this world, carve it into a chalice and have it against your lips at all hours, but the totality of him would make a desert of you, leaving you parched, forever desirous of all that makes him who he is.
“There is always scope for change, doctor. No two hungers are ever the same.”
god i cant believe how late i am with this reblog. thats a lie. i know why im late. because @kyungseokie stole all the words and put them in this fic. TRULY the language and the quality of writing in this story is insane? like...half the time i was enjoying the way it was written as much as i was enjoying the back and forth between the characters. there are only two words i could use to describe this story and the kyungsoo dia has created:
linguistic foreplay.
thats it. thats the summary. this whole thing, the bible quotes, the slow way they dance around the thing they want most (each other. it is absolutely each other) - its all linguistic foreplay. this is the most @kyungseokie fic i have ever read like its so clear she absolutely poured herself into writing this. she comes utterly alive when shes writing kyungsoo, and its absolutely never been so apparent as it was here.
everyone knows im a whore for vampire fics, and everyone knows im a whore for linguistic foreplay. ive spent weeks thinking about this fic and all i ever muster when i try to talk about it is gibberish because the writing is ???? just astronomical. this is a masterclass on writing. please read it before i start making ted talks about it. thank u.
💀summary: taehyung can't figure out how he got separated from his men, or how he ended up stranded in these woods -- hurt. the only thing he knows is that he has no choice but to rely on the beautiful, secretive stranger who's found him.
💀pairing: reader x soldier!taehyung
💀rating: mature, 18+
💀genre: american revolutionary war AU (don't ask), creepy shit, spooky smut
💀warnings: it's...gross? not pleasant? kind of nauseating? enjoy!
💀word count: 8.8K
💀notes: phew, y'all this is kind of a wild ride. there is a reason i chose this particular plot which i will explain in a follow up post but like, yeah -- if you're particularly squeamish this is not for you. otherwise, bon appetit!
this story is part of the "In The Spoop" collab i was honored to be a part of with a group of amazing writers. big thanks to @wwilloww @madseok @augustbutwinter @hobisuniverse @kkulfm @sahmfanficbts
thanks goes, as always, to the lovely @hobi-gif and @btsarmy9593 who took time to read this sick little story and who both still speak to me anyway, which i am taking as a good sign. there is a plot device in this story inspired by an episode of turn (y'all tell me i wasn't the only dork who watched this show?)
It’s the pain that wakes Taehyung.
The bright, searing throb that starts low in his foot and burns a path straight up his leg. It’s the pain that has him cracking his eyes open, vision obscured by the leaves strewn about his face and head. He wrinkles his nose at the musty smell of the forest floor.
It’s the sound that comes next that makes his blood run cold.
The all-too-familiar scrape of metal against metal, followed by the stomach-churning clank of a shell falling into a chamber. Prone as he is -- hurt as he is -- Taehyung still manages to raise his arms to his head, instinctively shielding the back of his skull with shaking hands.
“Don’t shoot,” he rasps, cheek pressed into the thick, damp dirt. “Please.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
None of this makes any sense.
Not the way he’s come to in this dense forest, not the injury that makes it impossible to move his leg. And certainly not the soft voice that sounds from overhead, airy and feminine and laced with an unmistakable edge of warning.
“Speak, Soldier,” the voice demands, impatient. “Or I won’t hesitate to pull this trigger.”
“I’m hurt,” Taehyung protests weakly. “I can’t move. I have no idea how I even got here, I swear it.”
The voice overhead is quiet for a while and Taehyung decides to risk moving his hands. He lowers them slowly, pressing his palms flat to the earth so he can lift his head and get a look at his captor.
The soft, gossamer dress that billows all around you is the very antithesis to the heavy steel in your hands. The light wind makes the fabric dance around your legs, whips dark strands of your hair off your face. But the gun in your grip never moves, weighty metal steady as you study him.
Blunt barrel pointed directly at his head.
“Stop moving your body,” you order stiffly, “And start moving your mouth. Have you come here to rob me?”
“No -- ” Taehyung sputters, tasting the granules of dirt pressed to his lips. “ -- No. I mean you no harm, truly. I speak the truth when I say I have no idea how I came to be here.”
“A likely story from any man caught trespassing on someone’s property.”
“I never intended to trespass,” he swears, nodding in the direction of his lame leg. “I would leave this place right now but I don’t know if I can walk.”
Your dark eyes narrow as you study him, searching his face for any indication of deception.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
The leaves beneath your boots crunch as you start to move, walking a slow, careful circle around him. Taehyung keeps still as you complete the cycle twice, assessing the state of his body and thus, the truth of his account. The barrel of that shotgun in your hands stays trained on him the entire time.
“Where is your gun?”
A fair question. Taehyung twists his body to search for the bayonet, one hand blindly groping for the weapon that should be strapped to his back. But he can’t feel the weight of it against his spine and his fingers grasp at nothing. And he knows what he must say next will only serve to heighten your suspicion.
“It’s gone,” he announces quietly. “I must have lost it somehow.”
“I don’t believe you.”
A soft click sounds as your finger toys with the trigger of your shotgun. “I don’t believe you,” you repeat, more fiercely now. “I don’t believe a word you’ve said since I found you.”
Taehyung tenses, squeezing his eyes shut as he waits to hear the shot that could come at any moment.
“You are on my property, Soldier. Deep into these woods. I could kill you right now and no one would ever be the wiser.”
“I know you could,” Taehyung croaks, words unsteady. “I understand how this must look. But I have only told you the truth as I know it. I swear it.”
He takes a chance in the quiet that follows. Opens his eyes to search for yours and finds them a bit less cold than before. The frostiness in your features seems to thaw, though the dour expression remains. Taehyung recognizes this moment for what it is -- a chance to appeal to your humanity.
To beg for his life.
“Please,” he pleads, eyes fixed to yours. “Please believe me. I am a man in need of help, Miss. Have mercy on me.”
Uncertainty flickers behind your eyes as you finally lower the shotgun, barrel now aimed towards the forest floor. And Taehyung’s head swims with the rush that comes from the sudden relief that floods his limbs.
“It’s Ma’am, Soldier,” you correct stiffly, turning away from him. “As I am a married woman.”
Taehyung watches in disbelief as you turn your back on him, pausing for just one moment to call over your shoulder.
“And you should be glad it’s me who found you. My husband would have shot you dead on sight.”
💀💀💀💀💀💀
Taehyung has to fight the urge to snatch up the porridge set in front of him.
When is the last time he’s had a hot meal? He’s lost count of the days by now. They all blend together in a blur of pain and blood and suffering. Were he with his men at this moment, he would not hesitate to grab the bowl and tip the contents back without a single care for decorum.
But his men are not here, you are. Watching his every move with sharp eyes.
When you’d turned your back on him in the woods, Taehyung had been certain you would not return. You had already been generous enough not to leave a slug in his skull and that was a mercy in and of itself. He’d refused to delude himself into believing there would be any further intervention in his pathetic circumstances on your part.
But you had returned.
This time, without the heavy shotgun to weigh you down. You’d extended one delicate hand and helped him to his feet. Supported his tired body as he’d limped all the way into your home.
“You must be starving,” you note, waving one hand at the bowl in front of him. “There is no need to stand on ceremony here. Eat.”
Taehyung’s stomach grumbles loudly as though it’s understood your words and he nods, wiping at his dirty face with the back of an equally dirty sleeve.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, shoving the first spoonful into his mouth. The porridge is hot and it warms a path down his throat and into his empty belly. “I can’t thank you enough.”
You don’t acknowledge his gratitude.
Instead you sit silent and watch his every move as he makes quick work of the porridge, stopping only briefly to sip at the glass of water you’d provided. The quiet scrutiny is daunting and Taehyung can feel sweat beading at his temples. He clears his throat and looks around the room, catching sight of a pair of boots by the door.
“I hope your husband does not take offense to my presence.”
“Don’t worry about him,” you return evenly.
Perhaps a bit easier said than done, Taehyung thinks. The boots look to be rather large from where he’s sitting, so it stands to reason the man who wears them is rather large as well. Coming this far only to be confronted by an irate husband would be going from the frying pan into the fire.
“Well, I won’t impose on your kindness any longer than I have to,” Taehyung vows, spooning the last of the porridge into his mouth. “I swear it to you.”
You say nothing but never take your eyes off him, even as you leave the table to head back to the stove. You ladle more porridge into a fresh bowl and Taehyung could weep with gratitude when you set it down before him.
“What business do you have in this area, Soldier?”
Taehyung makes haste on his second bowl, chewing slowly as he considers his answer. War is a nasty business -- always -- but this war has been particularly difficult. It has pit neighbor against neighbor; split some families into shards. In this war, the enemy is sometimes hard to spot. Most people do not wear their loyalties on their sleeves.
He takes a long drink of water before speaking.
“I’m a scout,” he starts carefully. “I was sent ahead of my men to survey the route we intend to take towards the next meeting point. I left camp on foot so as not to draw attention.”
You digest his words as Taehyung digests his food, dark eyes skeptical across the short spanse of the table. It’s the first time he has allowed himself a proper look at you. He takes in the striking beauty of your features with awe; the midnight black shade of your hair, the unusual golden flecks in your dark irises. He hopes you have the right of it where your husband is concerned. Taehyung can only imagine that he’d be a very jealous man.
“And what do you remember of the moments leading up to when I found you?”
Taehyung wipes at his mouth before setting his spoon down.
“Very little, I’m afraid. The sun was setting by the time I reached these woods. There was no indication on my map of this property or your home, I would have remembered that. But I can’t remember how I got here or how I got hurt.”
Beneath the table, his foot throbs uncomfortably inside his boot. It’s as though his body temporarily forgot the pain in lieu of the more pressing matter of his hunger.
“I see,” you murmur. “And now you are here. Continental Army, I presume?”
Taehyung’s heart starts to hammer inside his chest. You’re staring pointedly at the worn patch sewn to the breast of his shabby jacket, the blue fabric that indicates his allegiance to the colonies. There is nothing to do now but hope that you share in that allegiance -- or that at the very least, that you’ll allow him to leave without bloodshed if you do not.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he admits, tongue feeling a bit too thick for his mouth. “5th regiment, Massachusetts. I hope that won’t be a problem for you.”
Your lips purse as you take a long moment to regard him, drumming one dainty fingertip against the tabletop.
“It won’t be a problem so long as you don’t make it one, Soldier,” you say at last, and Taehyung exhales, hit once more with another dizzying rush of relief.
Light glints from between your collarbones as you move to clear the empty bowls away.
Taehyung’s eyes search for the source of it, finally settling on a golden strand that circles your neck and falls neatly into your decolletage. He marvels at the delicacy of the metal. It’s fine as a thread against your skin.
Gold has always been rare, but in wartime even more so. You must be rich, Taehyung surmises. It would explain the quality of your gown, to be sure. It would also explain why you’d assumed he was here to rob you.
Then you catch him staring, fixing him with those peculiar sparkling eyes and Taehyung flushes, looking away.
“I’ll bring hot water to the basin in your room once it’s done warming,” you announce, leaving him red-cheeked at the table. “And I’ve set out some of my husband’s extra clothes for you. They’re a bit worn but I’m sure they’ll serve you better than what you’re wearing right now.”
Taehyung looks down at his jacket and britches, neither of which was in sterling condition even before he’d found himself stranded in the woods. Now they look to be rags, caked through with dirt and riddled with holes.
“And you’re sure your husband won’t mind? My wearing his clothes, that is.”
“I assure you that he will not,” you announce upon your return. The skepticism in your eyes is all but gone now, nothing left in your expression but a cordiality that borders on warmth. Taehyung decides to allow himself to relax, inhaling and exhaling deeply before speaking again.
“I don’t know why you took me in,” he starts quietly, “But I am grateful to you. To you both.”
You smile at him for the very first time, striking face even more beautiful when you are wearing this expression. Taehyung shyly smiles back.
“Think nothing of it, Soldier. I am happy to help.”
💀💀💀💀💀💀
It takes him nearly an hour to wash away the dirt caked to his face and hands, the mud jammed deep beneath his fingernails. He peels away his boots to reveal his grossly swollen ankle and hisses once it’s free of the leather confinement.
He would still be trapped in those woods, were it not for you. Crawling, perhaps -- aimless and lost -- and to what end? Instead he is clean and warm inside this house, limping his way towards the first proper bed he’s seen in months.
The last thought Taehyung has before he extinguishes his lamp and slides beneath the sheets is that you must be an angel.
Godsent in his time of need.
💀💀💀💀💀💀
It is well into the afternoon by the time Taehyung limps his way into the great room.
He finds you wearing another grand dress, this one a bright red silk that drapes beautifully over the lines of your body. You are seated at a loom near the window, carefully threading what appears -- to his untrained eye -- to be silk.
You speak your first words to him without ever looking away from the steady work of your hands.
“Good afternoon, Soldier. I trust you rested well?”
“I did,” Taehyung answers, shuffling slowly towards you.
He finds himself mesmerized by the effortless movement of your fingers as you work with the silk, how elegantly you weave each strand together without a single errant move. He stops to rest against the wall, shifting weight off of his bad leg as he watches you.
“I love to weave,” you sigh happily. “It calms me. I make all of my dresses myself. Do you like them?”
You stop weaving long enough to allow Taehyung to admire your handiwork, twisting your torso from side to side as you proudly display your stunning red dress. Fine threads of gold filament adorn the sleeves, visible only upon closer look. It is far and away the finest garment Taehyung has ever seen.
“Your work is remarkable, Ma’am,” Taehyung says genuinely, and your eyes light with happiness. In this moment, there is no semblance of the fierce, shotgun-wielding woman he’d met the day before. In this moment, you seem like a different woman entirely.
“Take a seat,” you direct, looking down towards his swollen ankle. “You’ll not heal that thing if you continue to strain it.”
Taehyung gladly shuffles his way to the nearest chair, groaning as he settles into it.
“Thank you. I suppose it’s too early to say but I think it might be in better condition now than it was last night.”
“That’s very good,” you hum under your breath, fingers dancing between threads in a hypnotic staccato. “I’m sure it will be even more improved by tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Then perhaps you do intend to let him stay a while longer. Taehyung scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck.
“Yes, about that,” he starts slowly. “Has your husband returned? I want to be sure he’s not angry about my being here.”
A strange look passes over your face and the movement of your fingers stops at once. You look up at Taehyung with those ethereal gold-flecked eyes, pinning him with an earnest gaze.
“I must confess something to you, Soldier.”
Taehyung’s stomach flips uncomfortably, though he’s careful to keep his voice steady when he answers.
“Certainly, Ma’am.”
“My husband is dead,” you announce somberly, turning back to your loom. You resume your weaving and a strange sensation comes over Taehyung, half-relief and half-dread.
“I see. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s been dead for more than a year now,” you go on to explain, strands of bright blue silk slipping between your fingers with ease. “But as I did not know your intentions when I found you, I lied. I am sorry that I deceived you, but I hope you can understand. It’s a dangerous thing to be a woman alone.”
Taehyung wets his dry lips with his tongue, heart cracking inside his chest for you. A beautiful widow, left all alone in these thick woods -- in the midst of a war no less. No wonder you worry after your safety.
“I understand, Ma’am,” he vows. “And just as I promised you last night, I will say it again. I do not mean to cause you any harm.”
You peer up at him with those spellbinding dark eyes and Taehyung feels goosebumps raise on his forearms.
“I know you won’t.”
💀💀💀💀💀💀
The two of you pass a quiet, comfortable day together.
Taehyung reads while you weave. He limps circles around the room while you cook, testing the strength of his swollen ankle.
And when he sits down to another hot meal and you smile at him from across the dinner table, Taehyung can’t help but feel just a bit sorry for all the men he’s left behind.
💀💀💀💀💀💀
What kind of man was your husband? Taehyung wonders. Thin? Husky?
The clothes you’d lent him just one day prior fit him remarkably well. But the shirt and pants you set out for him today are far too loose, hanging askew off his broad shoulders and narrow hips.
He cinches the pants tight with a belt and scrubs a hand down his face, frowning at the rough hairs that prickle his fingertips. He’s never been one to sport a beard on account of the spotty hair patterns along his chin and this growth feels significant.
It’s as if he’s skipped shaving for weeks, not days.
He limps his way out of his room to find you, encouraged by the improved speed with which he’s able to walk.
Today’s dress is yellow, bright as the sun -- adorned with the same pretty gold patterns you seem to favor so much.
“Good morning,” he greets kindly, pulse quickening when you look up at him from your seat at the loom. Your ebony hair hangs loose today, spilling over your smooth shoulders as you acknowledge him with a beatific smile.
“Good morning, Soldier. Did you rest well?”
Did he? He must have. He can’t remember tossing and turning like he so often does when he’s in the field with his men. In fact, both nights that he’s slept in that glorious bed seem like a repressed memory. Like he’s closed his eyes and been swallowed whole by blackness.
“Yes, I believe I did,” Taehyung smiles, lumbering forward. “My foot is much improved this morning, I’m happy to report. I don’t think it will be long now before I can set off in search of my men.”
Your lovely mouth twitches into a faint pout.
“I see no need to rush your healing, Soldier,” you say agreeably. “I think it best you take the time you need to recover fully before attempting to re-join your war.”
Taehyung nearly trips over the hem of his pants as he settles into the chair near your loom, grimacing at the awkward way his ass meets the surface of the sturdy wood. You quirk one eyebrow high as you watch him.
“Yes, it’s just as I said,” you remark with a hint of a smile. “You should be sure you’re fully healed before leaving this place. There’s no rush.”
Taehyung studies the dazzling blue silk on your loom and notes that the dress you’d started only yesterday looks to be almost complete. He wonders if you’d stayed at that loom all night, weaving while he slept.
“You are very generous to say that, Ma’am,” Taehyung murmurs, eyes trained on the steady work of your fingers. “And I wonder if I might impose on that generosity again.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I was hoping that you might still have your husband’s shaving implements somewhere,” he says, rubbing his fingers against the grain of the bristled growth. “I am not the kind of man who likes to keep a beard, I’m afraid.”
“I do believe they’re around here somewhere,” you muse, rising from your seat. Taehyung watches, entranced, as the bright yellow fabric of your dress drapes enticingly around you. The silk shifts, hugging the curves of your backside and legs as you disappear into the back rooms of the house.
You are a beautiful woman, of that there is no doubt. And how long has it been since Taehyung has known a woman? Far too long. Far too long in the company of men, filthy in every sense of the word. Far too long since he’s known the pleasure of tasting soft, scented skin -- or the pleasure of being buried between a pair of supple thighs.
You glide back into the room with a satchel in hand, extending it to him with a smile.
Taehyung silently berates himself for entertaining such lewd thoughts about you. You’ve shown him only kindness during his stay here and in turn he’s fantasizing about what it would feel like to bed you.
“This is what I was able to find,” you explain, and Taehyung accepts the satchel and pulls the strap open. Inside lies an ancient straight-razor, in bad need of sharpening. But it will have to do.
“Thank you,” he croaks, clearing his throat. “I’ll do my best with it.”
He lifts himself off the chair, taking great care not to trip over the hem of his overlong pants as he limps back towards his borrowed room, shaving kit in tow. But he pauses as a thought occurs to him.
“If I could bother you for just one more thing,” he calls out. “Where can I find a mirror?”
You shake your head and strands of inky black hair cascade down your back.
“There are no mirrors in this home, Soldier,” you say with nonchalance, turning back to your work. “Vanity is a terrible sin, you know.”
Taehyung stands in the doorway of his room and puzzles that for a long moment. It’s a strange sentiment for anyone to have, and certainly even stranger for a woman as beautiful as you. But he shrugs it off.
It is, after all, but a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.
“It’s no matter,” he concedes pleasantly. “I’m sure I can make do.”
💀💀💀💀💀💀
The clothes you set out for him today are a much better fit, if a bit short in the leg.
Taehyung dresses with ease, encouraged by how well he’s able to move this morning. He limps around his room as he readies with a bit more finesse than before, efficiently making his way from the bed to the wash basin. He splashes water onto his face, rubbing his fingers across his stubbled jaw. At the very least, it’s a bit less wooly than before.
His steps are still a bit jerky as he enters the great room, surprised to find you dressed in a beautiful black overcoat. Bright green silk spills out from beneath it, adorned with those familiar gold threads.
“Good morning, Soldier,” you greet kindly, tying your coat tight around your waist. “I’ve left food in the kitchen for you. You’ve caught me just as I was heading into town for some supplies.”
Taehyung’s heart sinks.
He too, would like to head into town for supplies. He’d love to walk you there, to stand at your side and allow the men who pass to believe the breathtaking woman on his arm is his in some way. But as remote as this home is, there is certainly no way to take on the journey with his foot in his current state.
“I won’t be gone long,” you promise sweetly, and Taehyung wonders if you can see the disappointment in his face. “Just a quick jaunt and I’ll return to you.”
Return to you. It’s a curious choice of words, and it makes Taehyung’s skin hum with awareness. It’s almost as if you feel the same strange pull he’s felt the entire time he’s been in your home.
“Don’t worry on my account,” he smiles, reassuring. “I’ll be just fine on my own.”
💀💀💀💀💀💀
Taehyung decides to make himself useful in your absence.
He roots around in your kitchen until he finds a broom and spends much of the afternoon staggering from room to room, sweeping. It’s more physical activity than he’s had for days and his muscles protest the vigorous exercise but he pushes through, sweeping until the floors gleam.
He rests and helps himself to the stew you’d left warming for him, savoring the luxury of yet another hot meal. It will probably be some time, probably years after this war is fought and won, before the simple indulgence loses its novelty.
The sun is starting to set by the time he sets to work on sweeping the wrap-around porch. He shuffles his way across the creaking wood, clearing away the scattered leaves and dirt.
Just a short distance away sits a large shed.
It’s where your husband kept his tools, Taehyung reasons, and he decides that he’ll have to leave the arduous task of walking to it for another day. He’s already been on his feet as long as he can bear.
So he slowly makes his way around the porch, clearing it as he goes. But he has to stop to squint down at his feet as he reaches the most isolated part of it, the part that wraps around the back end of the house. Dozens of tiny black bugs march over the point of his boot and across the warped wood. He scowls, swatting at them with his broom.
Then he follows the creeping line with his eyes, vision slowly adjusting to the ebbing sunlight.
They’re spiders.
Hundreds of them, from what he can tell, spilling from and into a bush that’s overgrown onto the porch. Taehyung’s skin crawls as he attacks them with his broom, beating back the few he can see. He stays at it for a while, bringing the broom down like a hammer until the porch is littered with tiny black bodies.
Then he sweeps what’s left of them away and limps his way back into the house.
💀💀💀💀💀💀
Night falls and you still haven’t returned.
Taehyung sits alone with his book and an oil lamp, reading in the chair next to your loom. He ponders your long absence with dread, imagining all the ways you might have left this home and fallen into some kind of danger.
What if you had been robbed on your way into town? What if you’d crossed the path of some barbarian who’d taken stock of your fine clothes and glimmering gold necklace? What if you’d happened upon a camp of Kingsmen and they were holding you against your will at this very moment?
Well, Taehyung would be powerless to stop it, wouldn’t he?
There is no way he could set out into these thick woods to find and rescue you, even if that was the case. So he shakes away the fears and tells himself to relax, that you’ll return to him just as you’d promised.
But when he finally climbs into his bed, he isn’t welcomed by the same blackness that’s shrouded him all the nights before. He’s tormented all night by visions of you -- naked beneath him, naked on top of him. Your breasts in his mouth and hands. His cock buried deep inside of you and that melodious voice of yours calling his name.
💀💀💀💀💀💀
Taehyung wakes to find new clothes set out for him.
He staggers his way into the great room and finds you seated at your loom, weaving a new dress this time. This one a deep red. You smile up at him as he enters, gait smoother than when you’d seen him last.
“Good morning, Soldier,” you greet sweetly. “I’ve made eggs for us this morning. Fresh from town.”
Taehyung smiles back, despite his confusion. He suppresses the urge to question you about your whereabouts because who is he to demand such things? A guest in your home and no more.
“Good morning, Ma’am,” he says carefully, shuffling towards the scent of eggs. “Welcome back.”
You ignore the lead in his greeting, offering no explanation for your long absence. And Taehyung can’t help but feel spurned somehow, not unlike a jealous lover. Once again, he must tell himself to keep quiet and mind his own business.
“A beautiful day,” you sigh, looking out the window. “I wish we could go for a walk. But I know that you must heal that injury well before you try it.”
Taehyung swallows around a mouthful of eggs, washing them down with a sip of water.
“Actually, I think I might try it,” he starts. “I spent the day sweeping the floors yesterday and found that I’m able to move around quite well.”
“I noticed that,” you return, fingers twining between red silk strands. “Very kind of you to do that for me, Soldier.”
Taehyung finishes his eggs in a hurry, shuffling into the great room to sit beside you.
“I swept the porch as well, Ma’am, and I must tell you that I found something of great concern outside.”
“Oh?”
“There’s some kind of spider infestation near the back of the house. Hundreds of them from what I could see. I killed as many as I could and beat back the others, but you ought to consider burning that bush away to rid yourself of them.”
Your eyes go wide with horror, pretty lips pursing with shock and Taehyung nods.
“I know, I know,” he commiserates, “Foul creatures.”
“Oh, Soldier,” you bemoan, shaking your head. “You can’t just go around killing spiders! They do far more good than harm, you know. Misunderstood creatures, in my experience. Vilified for no good reason.”
“But I -- ”
“Leave them be,” you say firmly. “They’ve never bothered me once and they dine on the things I’d rather not have in my home. There will be no burning of any bushes today or the next.”
“Very well,” Taehyung concedes, astonished. What a curious woman you are. “I just thought you ought to know.”
“And I thank you for that,” you say, dazzling him again with another brilliant smile.
💀💀💀💀💀💀
Evening comes and Taehyung feels unsettled.
There is something so odd about you, he thinks. Something that draws him in and at the same time makes him feel disoriented, lost.
There is the issue of his lust, yes, the ever-constant throb inside of him when you are near. It’s hard to be in your presence and not be overwhelmed by it. By the lascivious thoughts he has to fight off more and more each day.
And he wonders if you feel it, too.
When you look at him the way you do sometimes, with a gaze seemingly ripe with yearning. When you look at him the way you’re looking at him right now, dark eyes glowing in the lamplight between you.
Taehyung cuts into the roast chicken on his plate and savors the way it falls apart in his mouth.
“An indulgence just for you, Soldier,” you murmur, eyes brimming with pride. “I was able to find one in town. I thought to bring you something you might enjoy.”
“I am enjoying this. Perhaps a bit too much,” Taehyung chuckles. “My men have probably written me off as a deserter at this point.”
“Don’t be silly,” you say with an airy laugh.
“No, I mean it. You’ve made it nearly impossible for me to conceive of leaving this place and walking back into a war. But it’s something I must do. My men are counting on me.”
A sullen expression falls over your pretty face as you fork at your plate.
“The war will be there when you return. Certainly there is no need to leave in haste?”
Taehyung can’t help but feel as though he’s disappointing you and it feels as though he’s disappointing himself. He sips at his water and clears his throat.
“I think I should try to leave tomorrow,” he admits, heat creeping a path up his neck. “I can tolerate the walking. And the swelling is nearly gone.”
“So you mean to leave me then? Just like that?”
“Well, I -- ”
“ -- It’s fine,” you announce, words clipped as you jolt out of your chair. “There’s no need to justify it, and I’ll ask you kindly not to bother.”
You take your plate with you as you leave in a huff, china clattering loudly as you drop it onto the kitchen counter. Taehyung springs up from his chair with surprising speed to follow you.
“Don’t be angry with me,” he pleads, closing in on you. “You’ve been so kind to me. And maybe one day I can repay that kindness. When all this war madness is over.”
You keep your back to him, shoulders stiff as you stand at the sink.
“I’m not angry.”
It is then that Taehyung takes a liberty, touching you for the very first time. He grasps your arms with his hands and turns you, heart twinging at the way he finds your eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I’m not angry,” you repeat, voice just a whisper now as you look up at him from beneath your lashes. “I’m lonely, Soldier.”
You reach up to brush his hair away from his face, fingertips lingering as they trail a path from his cheek to his neck.
“Don’t you ever get lonely?”
Taehyung wants to tell you exactly what he knows of loneliness.
The many nights he’s lay awake beneath the stars with only the sound of gunfire to keep him company. How he sometimes envies the men with wives and children praying for their safe return home. How it’s harder to fight when there’s no one at home doing the same for him.
He would tell you all of those things right now, were his mouth not already covering yours.
💀💀💀💀💀💀
Bright red silk slips off your shoulders and pools on the floor at your feet.
Taehyung reminds himself to breathe as you make your approach, looking nothing like the teary widow from the kitchen. The woman before him standing before him in this room is remarkably bold. You approach him completely bare, brazen, without hesitation.
And Taehyung is more than keen to accept what you offer.
The bed in this room is larger, a bit more plush than the one he’s enjoyed in his own. And when you sink down onto it, straddling his slim waist, Taehyung sinks down a bit, too.
“I want you to forget all your worries,” you whisper, tongue pressing against the seam of his lips.
He opens his mouth to accept it, cock already rigid and pulsing beneath you. You kiss him with abandon, scraping your teeth down his neck, licking at his pulse point with the tip of your tongue.
And when you take him in hand to line him up at your entrance, Taehyung feels almost certain he could die from wanting. That is, until you let him breach you, inch by inch. Then he’s sure he could perish from the pleasure.
It goes on for hours like that, it seems, because at no point do you tire.
You make him come with your hands, your mouth, your cunt -- and Taehyung does everything in his power to return the gratification in kind.
By the time grey morning light starts to trickle through the trees, Taehyung can go on no more.
He slumps deep into the sheets, body boneless with exhaustion. And you crawl up the bed to settle into the crook of his shoulder, lightly humming him to sleep.
💀💀💀💀💀💀
Well perhaps he could stay for just one more day.
That is the first lucid thought Taehyung entertains when he wakes. You are still curled into his side, silky black hair falling like a drape over your face. Taehyung carefully winds a hand into it, smoothing the strands between his fingertips.
But nature calls.
It takes work to untangle your joined limbs, to move the arm and leg you have wrapped around him, but eventually he’s able to slip away without disturbing you. He presses both feet to the wood floor and his swollen ankle throbs, though the sensation is much more bearable now than it was before.
He creeps quietly from the bed, cursing the groaning floorboards as he staggers his way out.
The injured foot makes him clumsier than he should be and pain shoots up his leg when he jams his toe against the edge of your closet door. He claps a hand over his mouth to contain the sound he wants to make, something between a sob and a roar.
But it takes only seconds for that pain to become the least of his concerns.
Taehyung stares into the sliver of space revealed by his bungling, eyes falling onto a pair of boots. A pair of boots that looks to be much smaller than the ones he’d seen in your great room.
He shuffles closer to push the closet door open just a bit more and a frisson of fear runs down his spine. The boots sit next to another pair of boots which sit next to another pair of boots. Each of them lined up in a neat little row.
Each of them a different size.
Over the years Taehyung has known thin men who’d become heavy ones, and heavy men who’d become thin ones. But never once in his life has he known a man to wear more than one size of boot. Let alone seven of them.
“Are you looking for something, Soldier?”
Taehyung nearly comes out of his skin when your voice pierces the silence. He jerks backwards, breathing a bit harder than he should as he wills his racing heart to calm.
“No, I -- ” he stammers awkwardly, “ -- I jammed my foot a bit. That’s all.”
You sit upright in bed and the sheets fall to your waist, but you seem to have no qualms with the casual nudity. You shake your head with a smile as you regard him.
“You’re a careless little thing, aren’t you?” you laugh and the sound sparkles just a bit less today than it has in the days before. “You ought to be more cautious. Someday you’re going to wind up seriously hurt.”
💀💀💀💀💀💀
“Not hungry this morning, Soldier?”
Taehyung blinks as you pose the question, looking up from his bowl to find you watching him with one eyebrow raised high. Obediently, he lifts a spoonful of porridge to his mouth, peering at you cautiously across the table.
The meal is delightfully made -- porridge seasoned with cinnamon and nutmeg -- but it may as well be a bowl of sawdust set down before him. His mouth and throat feel unnaturally dry. He grabs his water glass with an unsteady hand and sips, forcing the food down.
“I guess not,” he says at last, forcing a watery smile.
“Well I’m surprised you’re not ravenous after last night,” you tease, dark eyes glittering. “I know I certainly worked up an appetite.”
Taehyung chews his porridge slowly, mind cluttered with a thousand clashing thoughts. Could there be another explanation for those boots? One that does not make his palms sweat? Perhaps cobbling is another one of your gifts along with weaving.
Perhaps not.
You smooth down the sleeves of today’s dress, the brilliant blue garment he’d found you working on that very first morning here. The gold filaments twinkle in the light and Taehyung stares at them as he tries to justify the discovery he’d made just a short while ago.
He can’t.
He has to leave this place, he knows it, can feel it in his bones. But the days are short this time of year and he’ll have to set out early to make use of the sunlight. The woods surrounding this home are unfamiliar and they won’t be any easier to navigate in the dark.
“I should tell you that I plan to leave in the morning, Ma’am,” he ventures carefully. “It’s time. The weather looks fair enough to travel and I need to find my men.”
There are no teary protests from you today, no angry outbursts or female manipulations.
You seem to take the news in stride, nodding with a smile as you say, “Yes, Soldier. Of course.”
💀💀💀💀💀💀
The two of you pass another quiet day together, this one a bit less comfortable than the days before.
Taehyung reads in his chair, as he’s done every day since arriving -- and you sit at your loom and weave, as you’ve done every day since he arrived.
It’s a shame he can’t focus on the story coming to life on the pages in his hand -- last he remembers, the tale had taken a rather exciting turn. But every few words he can’t help but sneak a glance at you, turning the worries and doubts over in his mind, over and over again.
You disappear into your room after lunch, and Taehyung takes up the task of clearing away the plates. It’s only late afternoon but the sunlight has already started to wane. He makes a note of the hour, silently plotting his escape from this place.
Running down the relevant details in his mind like a battle plan.
You breeze back into the great room a short while later, surprising Taehyung by turning up dressed for an outing, blue dress cloaked in your exquisite overcoat. He swallows thickly, attempting to alleviate the sudden dryness in his throat.
“I must make for town once again, Soldier,” you explain apologetically, gathering your things as Taehyung watches with wide eyes. “Forgive the late notice. This cannot wait.”
“But it’s nearly da --” Taehyung starts, astonished, before abruptly ending his argument. The last time you’d left for town you’d not returned until the next day and perhaps this particular circumstance plays to his favor. “Yes, Ma’am,” he amends evenly. “I’ll think only of your safety until you return.”
You smile at him then, sweeping grandly across the room to press a kiss to his cheek on your way out the door.
💀💀💀💀💀💀
You’ve left him with little sunlight to work with, and so Taehyung sets out with an oil lamp in hand.
He slowly lumbers the distance from the house to the shed, the aging warehouse nearly swallowed whole by the overgrown trees. He frowns when he spots the rusty padlock hanging from the double doors, but the corroded metal serves little use as a deterrent.
The pieces come apart with ease after just a few forceful pulls.
The splintered wooden door springs open and Taehyung pauses for a moment, peering into the darkness. He takes a deep breath, steeling his nerves -- telling himself that it’s not even likely he’ll find anything of interest inside.
And he’s hoping that he won’t find anything inside. Hoping that he’s only allowed his imagination to run wild. That you are not the deceiver he now believes you to be.
He retrieves the oil lamp at his feet and makes his way inside.
At first, the glow of the oil lamp reveals nothing out of the ordinary. He spots gardening tools hanging on the wall, a saw left to rust on a wooden work bench. Deeper into the shed he presses on, startling when a shadow from his lamp passes over a scarecrow tilted against a wall.
He shakes his head with a nervous laugh and keeps moving, careful steps kicking up the fine layer of dust and dirt that cover the straw floor.
It takes a bit of maneuvering not to trip over the wheelbarrow he doesn’t see coming, but Taehyung manages -- eyes falling onto a massive wooden cabinet tucked into the furthest corner of this shed.
There is another rusty padlock to contend with now, this one a bit more stubborn than the one at the entrance. He sets the lamp down once again to free his hands and struggles with it, jiggling the metal pieces for what feels like an age.
After a while, the lock in his hand gives -- shackle loosening just enough for Taehyung to slip it off the cabinet’s handle. He lets it drop to the floor and grabs his lamp before cracking the heavy doors open to search it’s contents.
He finds guns. A veritable arsenal of guns.
Muskets and rifles and pistols, hanging neatly from a line strung inside the cabinet. Dozens of them, lined up in a row -- enough weapons to outfit an entire militia. He goes down the line, one by one, examining each piece, some of which look to be antique.
But it’s the very last gun he finds that makes his blood turn to ice in his veins.
Taehyung holds his lamp up to the bayonet, fear pooling in his stomach as he runs a finger down the thick leather strap. He already knows what he’ll find when his fingertips slide down to the base of it. The grooves he’d marked into that strap long ago, when he was more a boy than a man and newly enlisted in the Continental Army.
His fingers brush against those grooves and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end.
“I hope you don’t intend to use that,” you warn darkly.
Taehyung stops breathing. He turns slowly, lamp in hand, to face you.
There is no beauty in your face in this moment, though your features remain the same. The dazzling smiles you’d once showed him are gone now, replaced by the hard set of your jaw.
Your eyes, once sparkling, are now flat -- terrifyingly cold.
“It’s considered quite rude to rifle through someone’s belongings, Soldier. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that? Very, very poor manners.”
You inch closer and Taehyung tries to retreat, back knocking against the cabinet.
“You’ve d-deceived me,” he stammers, shaking his head. “You’ve been lying to me this entire time.”
You laugh at him, the mocking sound of it echoing off the rafters of the shed.
“I only let you see what you wanted to see, Soldier. Some men prefer seduction and some prefer helplessness. I could see in you right away that you were the latter. But in the end, all human men are the same. Not one of you can withstand the temptation of a willing woman. You saw fit to slake your lust, and now I see fit to slake mine.”
Human men?
“What are you?” Taehyung rasps, heart pounding violently inside his chest. “What do you want from me?”
You sigh, as though bothered by his questions.
“I’m hungry, is what I am,” you return, taking another step closer. “And though I am not the type of woman to play with my food, I simply could not resist with you, Soldier. You are far and away the prettiest thing I’ve caught in the last hundred years.”
You shut your eyes then, and when they open again the glimmering golden flecks and whites are gone. The eyes that stare back at Taehyung now are shiny black, beady.
Vile.
“Get away from me,” Taehyung shouts, shuffling to the side as he tries to clear the cabinet with his body. He stumbles over the nearby wheelbarrow and falls to his knees, nearly dropping the oil lamp in the process.
It’s as he’s struggling to stand that he begins to hear the sounds, grotesque sounds -- fabric ripping apart and popping and cracking that make him want to heave. He abandons his attempts to get to his feet and starts crawling, hooking his lamp between his teeth.
The sound of clanging metal rings out behind him, tools crashing to the ground as you -- as whatever you are -- makes its advance. Taehyung crawls faster, panting as he moves desperately towards the shed doors, which he realizes with dread are now shut tight.
Something comes down on his leg, something that feels like a rod and he scrambles away from it as pain blooms from the point of impact. It is only as he is reaching the doors that he chances a single look back, muscles locking with terror as he holds the lamp before him.
It illuminates the true form of the woman he’d lain with just the night before.
Not a woman at all, but a giant, grotesque spider.
Shiny black legs extending from a long body covered in spots of yellow, blue, and red. The spider rears up on its back legs, poised to strike and Taehyung forces his body to move, hurling the oil lamp into the straw beneath its giant abdomen.
The lamp explodes on impact, flames bursting out of it and onto the straw floor. They lick at his legs and feet as he turns back towards the doors, shoving at them with all of his might.
The spider hisses as the fire grows, the sick smell of burning flesh filling the air as Taehyung keeps shoving, ramming against the doors with his shoulder. They come apart just a bit, enough for Taehyung to squeeze his torso through the opening, dragging his battered legs behind him.
And when he finally manages to stagger to his feet he turns back, just long enough to see the flames start to overtake the roof.
Then he runs.
As fast and as far as his legs will take him.
💀💀💀💀💀💀
Taehyung wanders the thick woods for two days.
He limps his way beneath the canopy of the trees, searching desperately for markers, ears attempting to isolate any sound of rowdy men or gunfire. His swollen ankle seems to have a heartbeat of its own, pulsing miserably inside the stressed leather of his boot. The charred skin on his shins rubbing painfully against the rough material of his pants.
Two days he goes without water, without food. Two nights he goes without sleep, refusing to shut his eyes for even one single second.
Never again will he allow himself to let down his guard. Never.
It takes two days for Taehyung to stumble onto a stream, slowly shuffling his way along the bank in search of men camped near the source of water.
He’s close to collapsing from exhaustion and dehydration by the time he spots a bright blue blur through the thick of the trees.
He follows the blur, heart in his throat as it slowly gets closer, clearer. Limping faster with a reserve of energy he’d not realized he could conjure until this very moment.
And when he staggers into the very edge of the Continental Army camp he does collapse, only to be hoisted to his feet by unfamiliar men.
“He’s one of us,” one of them declares, looping Taehyung’s arm over his shoulder and helping him towards a tent. “Looks like he’s seen some shit, too.”
Taehyung would laugh at the absurdity of that understatement if he could only muster the energy.
💀💀💀💀💀💀
The campfire puts off a comforting heat, and Taehyung scoots a bit closer to the flames.
Most of the men are drunk tonight, singing and dancing as though there’s not an entire war going on around them. It’s the kind of reckless behavior that would have set him on edge not long ago, but tonight Taehyung can’t bring himself to care.
A soldier settles into the space beside him, extending a shabby tin cup of ale which Taehyung quickly accepts.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, before he turns back to stare into the flickering light.
“You’re welcome,” the man grins, tipping his cup in a salute before he drinks. “Whole camp’s talking about you. They’ve come up with some wild stories about how you got separated from your men.”
Not wild enough.
“It’s not something I care to recount,” Taehyung shrugs.
“Yeah well, thing of it is that you’re the sixth man to disappear into thin air, from what I’ve heard. We got reports from regiments as far away as New Jersey of soldiers vanishing just like that,” he says, snapping his fingers for effect. “Only you’re the only one who’s come back.”
Taehyung’s stomach lurches, like the ale has spoiled inside his belly.
A memory comes back to him in that moment.
It’s the memory of all those tiny little spiders on the porch, crawling over his boot. He’d been able to beat back the ones he could see, but beneath that bush there must have been hundreds more.
Perhaps thousands more.
Taehyung shrinks into his tattered overcoat to hide the way he starts to shiver.
And he doesn’t say another word.
hi there! are you mad at me? please don't be! i'd love to hear from you about this story 💕you can send me an ask here.
also -- in case you're wondering where i pulled this twisted plot from, i have an explanation for you here.
god this was exactly the kind of story i was looking for during the spook season and leave it to @xjoonchildx to deliver. historical fics (from any era, any nation, and any point) utterly fascinate me (probably because we can predict the future by looking into the past but thats a convo for a different day) and the american civil war setting here really made the energy and flow of this story palpable. i appreciated the first minutes we meet oc, her unforgiving nature, the way the woods are equally unforgiving. it was not just the people the soldiers fought, but the landscape and the challenges it presented. these details emerged within the first few paragraphs of the fic and i enraptured from the first moment.
but then!!!! you get this really scintillating, tentative romance that blossoms even with taehyung being so uncertain - about her, his surroundings, the spiders in her yard, the fact that he is effectively deserting - the fact that he even wants to after such a short period of time. there is an undercurrent of uncertainty and fear throughout the entire fic, and you can blame it on the setting (a war that made even the ground you stood on uncertain) but i found it most in the things that went unsaid. ana does an amazing job balancing the dialogue, in which taehyung is bursting with questions (why is he injured? how did he get here?) and yet chooses to discuss something else. i found myself reading their conversations going ah, nah...there’s something amiss. and the fact that taehyung knows theres a problem and still!!!! lets himself remain there!!! hell! i loved it.
i dont want to spoil too much because the journey of this fic is the most refreshing ive had in a long time. i came to kpop writing as a horror writer, and finding really great spooky fics that chill me is probably the most fun i have in fandom. this was such an incredible fic - so much gets told in a short amount of time, which is a testament to @xjoonchildx‘s brilliant mind. UGH read this!! spook season is everyday if you try hard enough!
blurb: It had 100% accuracy on matching couples. You and Jung Hoseok might be the first to ruin the perfect percentage.
warnings: smut in the form of unprotected sex, first time sex, fingering, some language, hoseok just being hoseok,
This is a commission from the ever talented and ever lovely @xjoonchildx for the ARMY for AAPI fundraiser! Click here for information on donating for such a worthy cause.
her prompt: Wordcount: 3k Pairing: hoseok x reader Summary: arranged marriage AU. NSFW. no limitations, but i have a particular weakness for angst and/or awkward misunderstandings
a/n: i hope i did your prompt justice, ana. thanks to @hobi-gif for beta-ing.
Notes:
The Stream is like the internet and CCTV etc, all together
EternaMate is a matchmaking machine
anti-Streamer is someone who lives off the grid
——-
The first time you’re alone with Jung Hoseok, it’s evening and you’re in the bedroom. He plops himself down on the edge of the bed, eyes blearily looking at you.
You don’t think he even registers who you are.
“I’m too tired to fuck,” he says before gesturing to his crotch as he falls back on the bed. “Just get on.”
You wonder if this is truly who EternaMate had chosen for you. You know your parents spared no expense, and surely neither did his.
The machine had no flaw, every match was guaranteed. Humans make mistakes, but not the machines.
You are trying to remember that currently. Your husband (!) looks up from his supine position, confusion marring his features. “No?”
This is exactly why you told your parents that marriage was no longer necessary. They’d insisted that the partnership is worth it. No one should be alone.
He sits up when you don’t respond, rubbing the back of his neck. It’s a complete shift from his previous manner, almost like he’s uneasy.
You are still wearing your superfluous dress from the ceremony. It’s purple, for your family’s history and trade. He’s in an orange suit, for the Jung name and their history of work in media.
Orange and Purple. You believe EternaMate could very much be wrong.
oh gosh this is exquisite. so many fics focus on the female participants first time, and while that’s important (because so many women read fanfiction, and every woman deserves to see how a first time does not necessarily come with immense discomfort or pain) it’s so important to see the inverse. to see what it’s like for a man: how short they last, how sensitive they are, how uncertain they can be - how so much of what makes up a man is the bravado of false masculinity. hoseoks tender honesty in this was just so incredibly special and made the smut so much more intense and beautiful.
the way this was written was extraordinary, and the pacing set the perfect tone for the setting. i’m so curious about so much of this world - how it looks, how it feels in a city vs how it feels in a town, what advances in politics or technology (or even, what regressions) have been made. i’ve watched so many different shows with this kind of idea re: march making services (the one that immediately came to mind was Osmosis) and this one is so fascinating to me.
@btsarmy9593 created such a mature story. i’m so drawn to this because it feels so intensely adult and Lived Through. ugh i’m in love
this is absolutely exquisite. probably one of the best pieces of writing ive read in quite a long time. the descriptions in this story are absolutely lush, and the language and syntax used was so poetic i was completely invested the by the end of the first paragraph. i devoured this, couldn’t look away.
the characterizations in this were extraordinary. i find myself so interested in lys - her motives, her obvious disdain for her father, her familiar relationships, her desires. she appeared only a few times but her violence was palpable and intoxicating. the tone between yixing and minseok was so well paced, i find myself wanting to know more about them. i want a full history about yixing and what it means for him to be a dragon. i want more details about the sort of things baekhyun had to do with them all these years. but even still, so many historical details were laced through im so impressed this was only 8k words. it felt like an entire novel.
i cant wait to go through @sooibian‘s masterlist to devour the rest of this literary gold. ill be thinking about this for the rest of the day, no question.
⇢ prompt Let’s make it forever.—sequel to greatest gift
⇢ pairing chanyeol x female reader
⇢ word count 14.3k
⇢ genre fluff & smut
⇢ warnings explicit sexual content, small dirty talk, fingering, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms (just 3 don’t get excited), unprotected sex, creampie, mild cumplay?, i think that’s all this is basically pwp but somehow 14k words
⇢ summary It’s been a little more than two years since you and Chanyeol started dating and you have never been so happy. Perhaps you are just blinded by love, but things are perfect and you cannot help but think it has something to do with having the love of your life always by your side. You also cannot help but think this kind of love lasts forever.—established relationship!au
⇢ a/n ok i really wasn’t planning on writing a sequel to greatest gift but then like 1 person asked me to & then i was inspired by 170727 kokobop chanyeol watch the fancam dudes that’s the exact outfit he wears in this & have been listening to forever religiously & really just wanted to write pcy saying ‘nice skirt’ so here we are. u don’t need to read greatest gift to read this but u will have more background info ab characters & relationships. ok that’s all from me, i really spilled my heart out into this one & am very proud so i hope u love satori as much as i do! ♥︎
In the midst of your monotonous Pinterest scrolling, the unlocking and opening of the front door tears your attention away from the video that so enticingly grasps your attention, no matter how badly you wish it to finish. Glancing up, you first look to the television, where your fourth episode of Property Brothers drones on, flickering light into the otherwise dark room. Then, it is Toben who catches your eye, head lifting from his position by your feet at the sound of the door clicking shut. So quick is he to abandon you, excitedly leaping down from the sofa to greet his human. In all honesty, you do not blame him; he simply is not as lazy as you are on this dreary Friday night.
Well, perhaps not so dreary anymore. Sure, the unremitting, hazy rain and grey clouds beyond the warm confines of your apartment beg to differ, but inside, the sun itself has entered.
“You know what’s sad?” You call out to him, lips quirked in amusement.
i read this ages ago and its been sitting in my recs spreadsheet for so long ive had to read it again just to refresh my comments. not that this is a problem. because i adore this couple and this chanyeol. and i swear to you i had to stop myself immediately just smashing reblog and shouting ‘HE LOVED THOSE RACCOONS SO FUCKING MUCH’ with nine thousand crying emojis. BECAUSE HE DID. HE LOVED THOSE RACCOONS SO MUCH I FUCKING??? he just!!!!! wanted to be a raccoon dad so much and that one little comment early on in this fic just sent me into a spasm of longing. ANYWAY.
uhm idk man what do you want me to say? i love him? i do. this is so tenderly chanyeol and highlights some of my favorite parts of his personality. like 3am just to order blue contacts? as someone with insomnia i relate so much and it feels so normal. me too, i night shop more than i should just because ‘who needs sleep when capitalism.’ but hes pink in this. hes pink with his silly little contacts and his shower singing and his pancakes and his tender little smiles across the room and ??? how? is anyone capable of reading this and come away not head over heels in love with him? not to be me, but id give every chanyeol the absolute fucking sky and this one is no exception.
@wonderlustlucas what have you done to me? im so in love and sad its not my wedding, not really, i love him so much. you owe me so much money in damages to my tiny heart :(((
summary. you and hoseok have taken the ‘friends’ out of friends with benefits, but exclusivity has its own perks.
genre. fwb turned lovers, pwp｜fluff, smut
word count. 3.2k
warnings. (rating: 18+) oral (m. and briefly f. receiving), mild face-fucking, possessive dirty talk, mild degradation, pet names, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie kink (bc it’s me), mention of cum eating, they’re grossly in love (bc again, it’s me)
notes. thank you to @jinpanman @coepiteamare and @gyukult for encouraging me 🥰 my brain is fried so it’s unedited…and if it sucks let’s pretend it never happened!
i should not have read this during a new york heat wave. truly this was so hot and this was so good, i cranked up my ac and thought about this the rest of the night. im such a huge sucker for car smut and semi-public smut or smut in public spaces and !!! this!!! ticked so many boxes. good heavens.
i wanted to smooch hoseok so badly for trying to be romantic. he put such a good effort in, too: a nice romantic dinner, a nice car, trying to be so sweet and gentle. but when a lady knows what she wants, a lady gets. and honestly i side all the way with oc like...pls...cant keep my hands to myself.mp3. and even in the heat of things he STILL wanted it to be romantic and about her like hello??? i loved this man through and through, what an amazing boyfriend.
ah im so invested in this couple. and id love to see more of them but this was just so perfect. seeing the differences of being a couple vs fwb is so important. the kissing, the touching, the lack of a condom - so many important little nuances, i was glad to see the shift. i will be thinking about this well into the morning.
pairing: hoseok x fem. reader (+ lowkey yoonjimin)
word count: 14k
genre: pg15, fluff, friends to lovers au, teacher au, coworkers au
warnings: a lot of awkwardness, excessive blushing, drinking, some non-explicit nsfw (dirty thoughts, brief mention of boners, hoseok blurts out wanting to put babies in you😌)
synopsis: An accidental confession throws your years-long friendship with Hoseok into disarray.
a/n: my first finished fic in 2 years!!!!! WOW. from what started out as a literal dream months ago to a 3k monster of illegible scribbles to a 9k mess to this. thank you to the BSH members for being amazing and helpful and oh so wonderful. thank you to Connee @writerly-love for being so lovely and encouraging uwu she writes so check her out y’all 💖 and the biggest BIGGEST thank you to my beta reader Melissa @hauntedlilies for doing me the biggest solid and helping me with 31982 things in this fic. you have been the best help and your advice and commentary is invaluable to me. thank you for encouraging me and thank you for loving my idiot characters! she draws and writes btw. check her out!!💖 i hope you enjoy this story, dearest reader 🥺🌱 (edited 05/2021)
yoonjimin drabble: It’s You 2.0
Is it normal to be so endeared watching your students jumping with excitement around your colleague?
You love your students, you do. Why else would you have become an after school teacher? Sometimes, though, there are days when you’re scrambling to come up with an activity hours before the kids flock in from their day class. It’s tiring to always have to be on your toes in order to meet the needs of your students—which change at the switch of a light every day!—but it’s a welcome weight in your life.
You’re thankful that you don’t have to do it all on your own. Every other week you collaborate with other teachers at the school to foster friendship and camaraderie outside of your student’s usual age range. Today your class is combined with Hoseok’s, and they are all too excited to see their favorite Mr. Hobi. Not that you blame them.
Hoseok claps his hands, drawing the attention of your students whose loud chatter lowers to a hum, albeit still excited. The students flock to him like little ducklings to their mama and you absolutely cannot help but giggle at the sight. He has such a natural chemistry with children and choosing a life as an educator fits him so well.
Your eyes wander to where your colleague is situated in front of the class. He instructs the students to raise their hands along with him and together they stretch for a good minute. His face is scrunched in a goofy smile as his head tilts, causing his glasses to slip down his nose. Would he mind if you walked over to fix his glasses?
The herbal tea he brought you before class warms your hands as you stand in the back to observe. The steam from the cup brings out a lovely smell of peppermint which you inhale happily. Despite being a strong advocate for coffee and knowing next to nothing about tea, he somehow knew the exact type of tea you liked to drink. You take a long sip and listen to him entice the children with one last hour of fun before they have to go home.
PLEASE what do i even say about something this cute!! oh my god i loved every moment of this. i want so much more form this couple. i want to watch them awkwardly go through life and phases of their relationship together. i adore fics where couples take their time and talk out each new step. if im honest i quite like how the friendship to partners shift was handled in this. its terrifying to be confessed to by a friend when you hadnt even given much consideration to your feelings before. and yes, it can go badly. but seeing the way this went so well and progressed carefully was a sheer absolutely delight
the authors note at the end said isnt hobi just a dream?? and YES. yes he is. hes so precious and sensitive and funny and warm in this and so often it felt like glimpses of the real him. im so sad hes not my real life friend i want to spend everyday with him. UGH @jinpanman this was SO CUTE
kanalia | jhs x reader | chapter one: hands and knees
banner by the amazing @kimtaehyunq 💕
⚜️summary: secrets and uncertainty plague a young queen in her arranged marriage to a kind but distant king. the farther she drifts from her husband, the closer she gets to one of his most trusted men.
⚜️pairing: queen!reader x royalguard!hoseok
⚜️rating: mature, 18+
⚜️genre: royal AU, historical AU, smut
⚜️warnings: infidelity (it’s complicated, y’all) mentions of pregnancy, fertility issues. OC struggles with depressive thoughts and episodes.
⚜️word count: 8.6K
⚜️notes: this fic is part of @thebtswritersclub fic exchange and is as such dedicated to the lovely @birbdae. i can't thank enough all the amazing peeps who helped me as i plotted and wrote this: @sahmfanficbts @ladyartemesia @btsarmy9593 @hobi-gif 💕 this story is very different from anything i've ever written and i truly hope you like it.
Men could be cruel, your mother had warned. Particularly powerful men.
They could be selfish creatures, single-minded in seeking their pleasure. Slaves to their sexual appetites. Capable of taking what was theirs by right without care or concern for a woman’s comfort. There was nothing to do, she’d explained, but pray that your new husband was not a cruel man.
Nothing to do but your duty.
And so off she’d sent you to your marriage bed, armed with little more than her whispered warnings and your grandmother’s locket.
In the few fleeting moments you’d already shared with Kim Namjoon, he’d struck you as quiet and kind. He was nothing short of polite throughout your extravagant wedding ceremony; courteous -- if a bit stiff -- during the celebrations that followed.
But as you’d awaited him alone in your chambers, washed and perfumed and dressed in nothing but a thin nightgown, your mother’s warnings rang in your ears. What kind of man was Kim Namjoon behind closed doors? Did a cruel man lie behind the well-mannered façade?
There was nothing to do at that point but wait and see.
And wait you did, until the hour grew late and you feared the King would never come. Feared that all your anxiety and preparation had been for a naught. But then he’d slipped into your chamber, quiet as a vapor. Handsome face shrouded in shadows as he’d stood before you in his night clothes.
Kim Namjoon did not come to you that night with an insatiable sexual appetite.
If anything, he’d come to you with a strange kind of reticence, almost sheepish as he’d assured you there’d be no need to undress and that he’d do his best not to hurt you.
You’d been confused by his complete lack of passion, his strangely sedate demeanor. But you’d still been prepared to honor the vows that you’d spoken on behalf of your family that night.
Prepared to do your duty, no matter what was to come.
And so you’d dutifully followed his gentle instruction when Namjoon had asked you to get onto your hands and knees. You’d stayed dutifully still as his fingers brushed against your most private place, leaving behind something slippery and smooth. And you’d remained dutifully quiet when he’d murmured a hushed apology before pushing inside you.
You’d barely had time to adjust to the discomfort, to the foreign feeling of being breached so intimately before Namjoon’s quiet breaths started to go ragged. Only a few moments to acclimate to the dull throb inside of you before the slow cant of his hips stuttered to a stop.
And you’d stayed obediently unmoving, propped up on rubbery arms and legs as Namjoon had carefully pulled away from you. Breath caught in your throat as you felt his seed slowly drip down your thigh.
The King had said something to you then, something kind judging by the soft tone of his voice. But you couldn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything beyond the confusion and noise in your head. The loud thud of your heartbeat in your ears.
And then he’d left.
Namjoon quit your chambers as quietly as he’d come, leaving you breathless and bewildered in his wake.
With a strange kind of ache between your legs and another deep inside your chest.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
In those early days, you wished only for Namjoon to see you. You hadn’t been so naïve as to hope for anything as generous as love.
Love was far too lofty a goal of any marriage agreed upon by a pair of aging rulers and not a pair of young sweethearts. You’d understood from the start that your union was strategy -- an arrangement to strengthen the might of Namjoon’s kingdom and fatten the coffers of yours.
A political ploy, no more and no less.
But you’d still foolishly assumed you would share something with your husband.
You were married to the man and yet knew little more about him than the people who worked his lands and tended to his interests. His visits to your chamber always followed the same strange, removed ritual of your wedding night. You in your nightgown, up on hands and knees. Feeling him inside you without ever being able to see him or touch him.
His ire, his rage, his fury -- in those early days, you would have gladly taken any of it just to have some indication that the King was capable of feeling for you at all. Anything but the polite distance he’d maintained from the first moment you’d stepped foot on his land. This maddening, incessant nonchalance better suited for a stranger than a spouse.
You came to resent the even timbre of his voice and his serene smiles. The quiet composure and genial disposition his people adored him for started to vex you to no end. You could not understand why the King did not care to know you and why he would not allow you to know him.
So just a few months into your marriage, you stop wishing for your husband to see you.
You stop wishing for his attention or his affection or his wrath.
You stop wishing for anything at all.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“You take far too much sun every day, Your Grace.”
Hyeri is fussing at you the moment you return to your chambers, cheeks flushed with afternoon heat. She flits around like a hummingbird, pulling you towards the wash basin as she wrests the basket from your hands. “One day you’re going to swoon out there,” she frets, pressing a cool cloth to your forehead, “And no one will be around to catch you.”
There is Namjoon’s spectacular aviary -- the place you’ve taken to stealing away to each afternoon. There had been no such extravagance back home. You could sit for hours in that quiet haven, shaded by the trees, just watching the birds fly overhead.
It is there in the aviary that you’ve started to hide away every afternoon with your books and sketches, far from your husband’s puzzling behavior and far from Hyeri’s constant nagging about practicing your needlework.
You detest needlework.
“Fresh air is good for me,” you argue, taking your first unencumbered breath in hours when Hyeri looses your corset. “And I much prefer it to being locked away in this castle for all my waking hours.”
Hyeri tuts under her breath as she helps you step out of your dress and into the prepared bath. You sink into the water, glad to find it a bit tepid.
“An afternoon bath,” you sigh happily, inhaling as the handmaid adds peach oil to the water. “You spoil me. To what do I owe this indulgence?”
“The King has called for dinner in the great hall tonight,” she explains, rubbing soap into your hair. She drags her nails across your scalp and you curl into the touch like a contented cat.
“What is the occasion?”
There’s a beat of silence before Hyeri answers, a fleeting moment of hesitation that sends a bolt of awareness up your spine. You open your eyes to find her regarding you with a soft gaze.
“The birth of Lord Min’s new babe, Your Grace,” she says quietly.
“Ah,” you murmur, “Yes, of course. How wonderful.”
The pang of envy that slices through you is so sharp it steals your breath. It’s shameful and petty and beneath any well-bred woman, most of all a queen. Embarrassed, you sink below the water to hide yourself from Hyeri’s knowing eyes.
You long for so many things these days.
You long to ride a horse like you used to back home, before you’d come to this kingdom and learned that was not something women here do. You long for your sister, the horrid brat, because if she were here she would listen and help shoulder the burdens you’ve carried alone since your arrival. You long for your mother’s cream cake and for your brother’s secret fencing lessons and for your favorite reading perch beneath the grand oak.
And you long for none of those things as much as you long for a child.
A child would bring purpose to the seemingly endless string of empty hours and days that stretch before you. A new life would breathe new life into you; give you a place to pour your love and have that love returned. A child would solidify your place in this kingdom, on this throne. It would give the people here a reason to love their foreign-born Queen.
But every month, the King’s nighttime visits to your chambers become more infrequent.
And every month, you bleed.
By the time you come up for air, you’ve managed to erase the stricken look from your face. You manage a weak smile for Hyeri which she matches, reaching one wrinkled hand out to wipe water off your cheek.
Then you rest your head on the edge of the tub and let your eyes fall shut, unwilling to let her see any more than she already has.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“You look very well this evening, Your Grace.”
You barely hear the King’s quiet compliment over the commotion in the great hall. At the long tables below, the men and women are already well into their cups, the sound of their raucous laughter bouncing off the rafters.
You bow to your husband before taking your seat beside him.
Perhaps you had taken a bit more time with your appearance tonight. Hyeri had feigned annoyance as you’d taken your time about carefully selecting a gown and fretting over how best to style your hair. You smooth your hands down the burgundy silk bodice of your dress, ensuring everything is in place once you’ve settled into your chair.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” you return evenly, turning to take him in. “As do you.”
Beside you, the King looks handsome in his tunic embellished with intricate purple and gold beads. His dark eyes sparkle with laughter as he tips his head in the direction of the loudest table.
“I imagine Lord Min will be quite worse for the wear come morning,” he muses. “That’s his sixth tankard of ale, by my count.”
At the long table below Lord Min holds court, accepting kisses of well-wishes from the women and hearty slaps of congratulations from the men. His pale cheeks are red with drink, face split into a wide smile.
“Yes,” you laugh quietly, “I imagine he will be.”
Your gaze passes over each of the men by Lord Min’s side -- the men who are almost always by the King’s side. All of them members of the Royal Guard, trained alongside your husband since childhood. Your eyes move from the tall, broad eldest Lord Kim to the charming, boyish Lord Jeon, to the sleek, proud Lord Park. But they come to rest on the one man you could not describe as neatly as his peers.
Something about Lord Jung makes you nervous, though you’d be hard pressed to name it.
You examine his sculpted profile from a distance, eyes sweeping from his strong brow to his high cheekbones to his delicate mouth. And it is that same mouth that quirks into the ghost of a smile when he suddenly turns, dark eyes meeting yours from across the room.
You flush and immediately avert your gaze.
“It’s a girl.”
You snap your focus back to the King.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“The baby,” Namjoon explains, “Lord Min’s child. A little girl.”
“How wonderful,” you breathe, “And is there word of his wife’s condition?”
“Healthy, I’m told. Mother and child both resting.”
You study your husband’s face in the torchlight. His expression gives nothing away, but that does not stop a seed of doubt from taking root inside you. Surely he must have questions about why his young, healthy wife is not yet with child. Surely he must be growing tired of waiting for news that never comes.
You know it is only a matter of time before the King runs out of his seemingly infinite patience. Only a matter of time before he realizes you’re as ornamental and useless as one of his pretty birds.
Suddenly your bodice feels tight. Too tight.
“I understand you’re quite taken with the aviary,” Namjoon says after a long moment. “Hyeri tells me that’s where you’ve been spending your afternoons.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” you respond carefully, whetting your dry throat with a sip of wine. “It’s quite beautiful there. I find the aviary a rather peaceful place to read and sketch.”
“I’m glad of that,” he says. “I wish I could spend more time there myself, but the days have a way of getting away from me.”
“Yes, of course,” you murmur. “These things cannot be helped.”
The King reaches for his ale. As he drinks, you can’t help but wonder how many tankards he’s enjoyed over the course of the evening. Namjoon is in a rare mood tonight, more talkative than you can recall him ever being.
“I think I’d like to have a desk placed there for you,” he says, turning to face you. “Somewhere comfortable for you to sit and sketch. Would you like that?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” you breathe. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
“Good,” he says with a soft smile, “Very good. I’ll arrange for it.”
At the tables below, someone calls out to him above the low roar of cheers and laughter. The King rises to his feet, shaking his head with a smile.
“I suppose I ought to see to my people now,” he says apologetically. “Before they’re all too drunk to conduct a proper conversation.”
“Certainly, Your Grace,” you reply. “Go see to them.”
The King turns on you to leave but abruptly stops and turns back, causing your pulse to jump. You take a deep breath when he clears his throat before speaking, as though summoning the courage to speak the words that come next.
“There is one more thing I want you to know,” he starts quietly, “I wish to see you content here. If you want for something, you need only come to me. I will see to it.”
You stare at Namjoon for a long moment, stunned into silence by his consideration. By his candor. Not once has he ever been unkind to you, but not once has there been a moment when he’s made you feel like this. Like you are something he thinks about beyond the spectre of duty.
“You are very kind, Your Grace,” you exhale, when you finally gather your wits to speak. “And I will.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
The summer heat sweltering just outside the doors to the Great Hall must feel like a cool breeze in comparison to the conditions on the packed floors of the great hall.
All around you, people are drinking and dancing and carrying on.
You weave your way through the crush of bodies, donning your most engaging smile, and do your best to keep up with the calls for your attention. You stop to inquire about the quality of Hak Dohyun’s wheat crops and you make sure to ask after Lee Ara’s twin girls.
Slowly, you make your way past the farmers and stablehands and cooks and wash women, offering each kind words and soft greetings. And before long, you come to the table where Lord Min and the rest of the Royal Guard show no signs of tiring from the celebrations.
Min nearly knocks over his ale in his haste to stand and bow. The other men follow suit, albeit much more smoothly.
“Your Grace,” he exclaims, with the kind of exuberance only a man well into his cups can display, “I have a daughter.”
He beams at you, every inch the proud father, and you smile through the twinge of guilt you feel for your first reaction to his good news.
“Indeed you do, Lord Min,” you answer brightly, pretending not to notice how unsteady he is on his feet. “And we are so glad of it.”
“Don’t get too drunk, Min,” the younger Lord Kim teases, cheeks rosy like he’s matched his elder drink for drink. “You’ll need to work on bringing home a son or you’ll remain outnumbered in your own home.”
“Well I, for one, can think of far worse fates than being surrounded by pretty women,” Lord Park smirks.
The men explode into drunken laughter that you can’t help but join. It’s impossible not to be swept up in their merriment.
“Your Grace.”
The voice that cuts through the noise is calmer, deeper than the others. And you know who it belongs to even before you turn your head. What you do not know is why it makes the fine hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end.
“Lord Jung,” you murmur, bowing your head out of respect for his station. “Good evening.”
Whereas the other men are loud and boisterous after a night of drinking ale, Lord Jung looks the epitome of poise and restraint. He bows deeply before standing tall and fixing you with his dark eyes.
“Good evening. You look very well tonight.”
They’re nearly the same words the King had offered you just a short while ago, and little more than courtesy, to be sure. But something about those quiet words still sends warmth rushing to your cheeks.
The bodice of your dress goes tight. Again.
“Thank you, My Lord,” you manage weakly, covering your embarrassing flush with a laugh. “Forgive me, I think this heat is making me lightheaded.”
“I should think we’re all a bit lightheaded,” he chuckles, eyes raking over the tankards scattered across the long table. “I’d be surprised if we had any ale left in the stores after tonight.”
“And yet, you seem to be holding up well?”
“Well, yes,” he admits with a wry smile. “I do my best to keep my head when the others seem hellbent on losing theirs. Someone has to look out for them, you know.”
As if on cue, Lords Min and Park stumble over one another, falling inelegantly to the floor. The other men whoop and tease, but Lord Jung merely shakes his head.
The commotion draws the attention of the King, who stands surrounded by partygoers at the opposite end of the room. He locks eyes with you briefly, the corner of his mouth turning up in a diminutive smile. It’s strange, the way the simple gesture catches you off guard. Strange the way it makes you feel as though you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
“I think it best I retire for the evening, Lord Jung,” you say quietly, jerking your gaze from the King back to the striking man in front of you. “I’m afraid I’ll succumb to this heat if I stay much longer.”
“Yes, of course,” he says graciously, stepping aside.
He spots the King in that moment and you watch the men regard one another at a distance, exchanging silent nods of acknowledgement.
“Good evening, Lord Jung,” you murmur. “Best of luck keeping these men in line. You have your work cut out for you.”
The man’s pretty, bow-shaped mouth quirks into a quiet smile.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
You retreat to your chambers at the end of the long night with aching feet and a light heart.
You’ve tread carefully with Namjoon these past few months on account of the strange state of your marriage. But something about his demeanor tonight felt promising.
Something about it gave you hope.
So it is hope that has you carefully washing up once you’ve peeled out of your dress. Hope that makes you select your most sheer nightgown for the evening; hope that has you let down your hair instead of twisting it into your customary plait.
Hope that has you waiting patiently on the edge of your bed, prepared for the King’s arrival.
But the King never comes.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
In three days time, Namjoon makes good on his promise of a new desk.
Voices disrupt your idyllic afternoon read, stealing your attention away from the pages of your book. You look up to see a group of footmen in the distance, sharing the burden of hauling the heavy wooden piece. They move slowly as they make their way along the path from the castle to the aviary.
You study them from a distance. You don’t recognize any of the men tasked with carrying the desk, but you certainly recognize the man directing their steps.
Lord Jung.
You snap your book shut and stand to your feet as the group approaches, watching with mild concern as they struggle to slowly steer the weighty wood through the heavy gate at the entrance to the enclosure.
Lord Jung breaks away from the others, long legs making up the distance between you in just a few strides. You wind your hands into the sides of your dress as you watch him near, silently attributing the sudden warmth that spreads up your back to the summer heat.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he says, bowing before you.
“Good afternoon, Lord Jung,” you return, “Very kind of you to have my desk brought here.”
“The carpenters finished it a few hours ago,” he explains, motioning for the footmen to set the heavy load down. “The King asked me to see to having it installed.”
“Ah,” you breathe, “Might I have a closer look?”
“Of course,” he responds courteously, moving aside to let you lead the way.
You step forward to examine the piece and the footmen step back in deference. You smile kindly at them as you pass your hand over the dark wood, tracing one fingertip over the grooves of the ornate bird carvings that decorate the desk’s corners.
“Is it to your liking?”
You turn back to face Lord Jung, unable to suppress your smile.
“It’s stunning, My Lord,” you say genuinely, “Even more beautiful than I could have hoped.”
“Very good,” he smiles, mouth curving into a distracting heart shape. “Show me where you’d like it placed and I’ll have the men move it there.”
You’d already had some time to consider where to place the desk promised to you by the King. And you’d chosen the most private part of this space, a nook tucked away between the carefully maintained trees and flowered shrubs. Lord Jung walks alongside you to that secret spot, hidden deep inside the enclosure.
Overhead the birds flit from tree to tree, calling loudly to one another. The striking man looks skyward, sunlight streaming down over his face.
“Do you like birds, Lord Jung?” you ask, watching him as he watches them.
“I must confess I’ve not given them much thought, Your Grace,” he admits, eyes following the furious activity in the branches above.
“I suppose I never gave much thought to birds before coming here, either,” you concede, “But now I spend every afternoon in this aviary. I’ve come to learn a great deal about them.”
“Like what?”
Lord Jung lowers his head, one dark lock of hair falling over his eyes when his gaze finds yours. He brushes it back with his long fingers and you clear your throat, feeling the sudden need to look away.
“They’re social creatures,” you explain quietly, addressing your feet instead of the striking man in front of you. “They crave the company of other birds. It makes living in a cage more bearable, I suppose.”
“Strange to think of this lavish garden as a cage,” he muses wryly.
“A cage is a cage, My Lord,” you reply softly. “No matter how gilded.”
Lord Jung says nothing. When you finally straighten your spine and force yourself to look him in the eye, you find him regarding you with a solemn kind of curiosity. A single bead of sweat tickles a path down your back as he studies you, as you search in vain for something acceptable to say next.
Then one of the footmen is calling out to him.
Lord Jung turns his head in the direction of the interruption, raising one hand to wave the men over. At once, they take their positions at the corners of the heavy desk and start the arduous task of moving it again.
Lord Jung turns back to you with a soft smile, the unnerving exchange from just moments ago all but forgotten.
“Forgive us the intrusion for just a few minutes longer, You Grace,” he says, “And we’ll leave you to your pretty birds in peace.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
What should be one loop turns into two and then into three.
You swallow down the sound of annoyance that bubbles up your throat and jam your needle into the midst of the gnarled threads, pinning the unsightly lump in place.
“I saw that,” Hyeri grumbles, eyes never leaving the needlework in her own lap. Childishly, you turn your head to stick your tongue out at her. “That, too.”
“It’s no use,” you complain, tying off the twisted thread and pulling your needle free of the fabric. “I’ve no skill with a needle.”
Hyeri’s hands -- unlike yours -- move in smooth, practiced lines as she works with her quilt, the pretty border pattern taking shape. Every stitch in place, perfect and unmarred.
“These things take time, Your Grace,” she sighs, “You must be patient.”
Patience, you’ve found, is a virtue easier to profess than to practice. You turn the tiny sock over in your hand, frowning at the jagged design produced after an entire morning’s worth of sore fingers. Perhaps Lord Min’s wife will not notice the flaws in the needlework. Perhaps by the time your own child comes, you’ll have perfected the stitch technique.
Hyeri looks up from her quilt to find you staring unseeing at the sock, mind a million miles away.
“Your Grace,” she starts softly, “There is... There is something I want to mention to you. Something I think could help you in your -- ” she pauses to clear her throat, “ -- your situation.”
You put the sock down in your lap and look up at the woman’s kind, aged face. You don’t have to ask Hyeri what situation she’s making mention of. You nod without a word, acknowledging the unspoken understanding between you.
“There is a tea. My mother used to make it when I was a girl and the women in my village would swear by it. It’s been many years since I thought of it, but I’m certain I still know how to make it. And I thought maybe, if you wanted me to, I would make it for you. Maybe it would help.”
Emotion wells in your throat and tears well in your eyes. You stroke the pad of your thumb over the lumpy stitching on that tiny sock, feeling embarrassed by hearing Hyeri speak of your struggle so plainly. Behind that, there’s something else. Relief, perhaps.
But Hyeri mistakes your silence for disapproval.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, I only meant to help. I don’t mean to speak above my station, I just -- ”
“No, Hyeri, please,” you beg, shaking your head. “Please don’t think me angry. I would very much like for you to make me that tea. I’ll do anything you think might help.”
Hyeri nods thoughtfully as she threads her needle.
“I’ll see to it,” she promises. “It should only take me a few days to gather the things I need.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, brushing the unshed tears away with the back of your hand. “Thank you for trying to help me.”
“You’re a good girl, Your Grace,” Hyeri says softly. “Kind. Smart. And I will do anything in my power to see you happy.”
She looks up at you, wrinkled face earnest when she speaks again.
“I want you to remember that.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
You find it far easier to sketch now that you have a place to sit comfortably with your journals and charcoals.
The canopy of trees above provide refuge from the sun and make it easy to lose track of time. Today, the afternoon gets away from you. You’re so focused on your sketch, fingertips stained black from drawing, that you never even see him coming.
This time, there is no warning -- no team of chattering men to alert you to the presence in your secret garden. This time, you look up from your papers and nearly fall out of your chair when you spot Lord Jung standing just a few feet away.
His dark eyes sparkle with mirth.
“I suppose I should have announced myself,” he chuckles, folding over into his customary bow, “But then I would have missed that rather endearing look of fright on your face.”
“That’s very cruel of you,” you grouse playfully, smoothing wayward strands of hair off your face. You have no idea what you look like after an afternoon of sketching in the heat, but you hope the overall effect is not entirely off-putting. “But good afternoon to you, anyway.”
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he smiles, revealing his perfect white teeth. “I hope I find you well today.”
“You do. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Lord Jung hesitates for a moment, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“I came to make sure all is well with your new desk. That it’s suiting you.”
“The desk?” you repeat, raising one quizzical brow, “The desk is fine, My Lord. I should think the King would have to find new carpenters if they couldn’t make a desk that could withstand a few days’ wear.”
“You’re right,” Lord Jung laughs, shaking his head with amusement. His eyes fall to the open journal in front of you. “Might I ask what you’re drawing?”
You look down at the messy sketch in front of you.
“It’s, um -- well I am not much of an artist, you see,” you say lamely, feeling a bit self-conscious about sharing your work. “It’s really quite amateur.”
Lord Jung steps closer to get a better look, planting his hands on the surface of the desk as he leans over it. “It’s very good, actually,” he commends. “You should give yourself more credit.”
You fight against the urge to shrink back, away from the man’s looming body and scent. His presence has the strangest effect on you. It makes you feel unsettled, never quite sure what to say or do.
“The King keeps cockatiels and finches here,” you explain as he studies the rudimentary likeness you’ve created, “But the canaries are my favorite.”
“Kanalia,” he murmurs, looking up at you with those impossibly dark eyes. “That’s what we call them here.”
“Yes,” you exhale, “Kanalia.”
Your cheeks warm as Lord Jung regards you, quiet scrutiny daunting.
You wonder what he must think of you, this young foreign queen struggling to find her footing in a place so far from home. You wonder if he thinks you worthy of this position you’ve been handed. You wonder what he would think of you if he knew that sometimes you feel like these birds. Perhaps you understand what it’s like to have room to spread your wings but not the freedom to fly away.
Without warning, Lord Jung reaches one hand out to touch you, fingers soft beneath your jaw as his thumb swipes at your temple. You blink dumbly at him as he pulls his hand away.
“Charcoal,” he murmurs, clearing his throat, “But it’s gone now.”
You nod, a bit breathless, “Thank you.”
“I should go,” Lord Jung announces, standing straight and taking a step back. “There is much to be done before we leave on survey and I’m sure Lord Min is cursing me as we speak.”
“Survey?”
“Yes, we’ll tour the north end of the kingdom. We ride out in a few days,” he explains. “Has the King not mentioned it?”
“No,” you answer awkwardly, embarrassed by the way the man’s brows crease in confusion. “He has not.”
Lord Jung’s pretty mouth presses into a flat line.
“I’m sure he meant to tell you about it,” he says quietly. “Perhaps it slipped his mind.”
“Yes,” you reply softly, “I’m sure that’s it.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
That night, the King comes to you.
You press your cheek into the plush bedding and screw your eyes shut, silently pleading to any deity that would hear you. Let this be the night, you think desperately. Please, give me a child.
The bedding passes much in its usual fashion, but on this night the King surprises you by lingering after the act is done. You turn over and sit upright when he makes no move to leave, nightgown falling back over your knees. He regards you quietly from where he stands at the end of the bed.
“Is the desk to your liking?” he asks in that low baritone of his, the one that makes you shiver.
“I like it very much, Your Grace,” you whisper. “Thank you again.”
“That’s good,” he murmurs, brushing the hair away from your face with his fingers. He leans close and presses a soft kiss to your brow.
He leaves you then, reeling from his unexpected touch — and without a single word of his plans to leave.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
Two days later, you find the courtyard bustling with activity on your walk back from the aviary.
Footmen scurry in and out of the castle’s heavy front doors, carrying neatly-packed bundles of supplies and rations. You squint as you near the fray, trying to make out the faces before you.
Lord Park and the younger Lord Kim work in tandem, sweating in the early sun as they load a cart with the parcels being carried from the castle. Lord Jeon crouches down next to one of the King’s fine horses, turning up each hoof and inspecting the shoes underneath.
And the eldest of the Royal Guard stand in a circle nearby, surrounding the King. All of them appearing quite serious as they discuss, no doubt, their plans to ride out.
It is Lord Jeon who notices you first, standing only so that he may go low again when he bows.
“Your Grace,” he greets politely. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Lord Jeon,” you return pleasantly. “I see you’re all quite busy today. Might I ask why?”
You know it’s rather poor form to put the young man on his back feet with a question you already know the answer to, but were it not for Lord Jung’s visit to the aviary you would have no inkling of the King’s plans. So you feign ignorance with a smile.
“Survey preparation, Your Grace,” Lord Jeon answers, an adorable kind of confusion crossing his face, “We’re -- ”
“ -- If you’ll excuse us, Jeon,” the King interrupts, “I’ll speak to the Queen about it myself.”
You turn your head to find the King walking away from his circle of advisors. He approaches with a cautious smile, holding out his arm to you.
“Please allow me to walk you inside.”
“Yes, of course,” you agree quietly, accepting him.
You look down at your feet as the King guides you past the other men, feeling a flush creep up your neck at the thought of them watching you walk by. You’re careful not to lift your eyes until Namjoon ushers you through the heavy wrought iron doors.
He immediately pulls you aside, into a quiet corner in the great hall.
All around you is a flurry of activity -- wash women carrying fresh sheets to the servant’s quarters, kitchen staff carrying produce to the pantry, maids sweeping away the dirt being dragged in by the many people coming in and out.
“Forgive me for not bringing this to you sooner,” the King starts apologetically. “I’m afraid my mind has been elsewhere.”
“That’s certainly understandable,” you lie. “You’re a very busy man. I take it you plan to leave, then?”
“Yes,” Namjoon admits awkwardly, “We leave in two morning’s time. It’s rather routine business as far as the kingdom is concerned, but we will be gone for a few days. A week, at the most.”
“I see,” you say tightly, though you absolutely do not see. It is beyond your understanding that any husband would not think to inform his own wife of his intent to leave.
Your cheeks burn at the memory of Lord Jung’s sober expression in the aviary, his confusion upon finding you completely ignorant of the King’s plans. And your complacent façade crumbles like a sandcastle, frustration bubbling to the surface.
“I do thank you for telling me before you took your leave, Your Grace,” you say without thought, “It would have been rather embarrassing for me to resort to asking the maids of your whereabouts.”
The King rubs his fingers over his mouth, looking chastened. “You’ve every right to be angry with me, I know.”
“I’m not angry,” you insist, though your tone and posture say quite the opposite. “I’m overtired from an afternoon in the sun. And as I’m sure you have much to do in preparation for your trip, I’ll take my leave.”
The King stares at you for a moment, lips parting and closing with an unspoken argument. But he relents, stepping aside to allow you room to leave. Your skirts rustle loudly as you brush past him without so much as another word or a look back.
Your heart is pounding as you make for the stairs, ascending as fast as your heavy dress will allow. You stop to catch your breath when you reach the top, right next to the window that looks down over the courtyard.
You turn to peer through it.
Below you the work continues, with men milling about nearly every inch of the manicured grounds. Your eyes move from man to man until they come to rest on him.
Lord Jung’s stark beauty is all the more apparent in the sun. The light streams through the dark strands of his hair, turning them a pretty translucent shade reminiscent of coffee. It warms his already golden skin, casting him in a bronzed glow.
And as you watch him, something odd happens.
Lord Jung stops still, head turning in the direction of your window. His dark eyes zero in on your wide ones, locking directly into your gaze.
You immediately startle, diving away from the window to press your back against the wall. And you stand there for a while, hand clasped to your chest as you wait once again for the furious pounding of your heart to subside.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
“You need only rise this morning, Your Grace,” Hyeri announces, throwing back the heavy curtains over the windows in your chamber. You groan as the morning sun washes over you, too strong and bright to ignore. “The shining part is optional.”
You wake feeling as though you’d never rested at all.
It was your strained conversation with the King, playing over and over again in your mind, that made it nearly impossible to fall asleep. You’d tossed and turned all night, thinking back on the exchange with great embarrassment. Were your mother to learn of the way you’d spoken to your husband, it would no doubt send her right into an early grave.
Hyeri nearly drags you through the steps of your morning routine, helping you wash and dress with an efficiency that speaks to years of experience. She gently instructs you to have a seat in front of your favorite chamber window and returns after a brief absence with a breakfast tray.
“Now, I’ll not lie to you, Your Grace,” she starts, handing you a teacup. “This tea serves a purpose and that purpose has nothing to do with taste.” The strong, herbaceous scent emanating from the drink wafts your way and you fight the urge to wrinkle your nose.
“The only way to drink it is fast.”
“Thank you,” you say graciously, lifting the cup to your lips.
The first taste is so bitter and pungent it makes tears spring to your eyes. At once your entire body is awake, revolting against the acrid flavor. But you do exactly as Hyeri instructs, drinking it down as fast as the drink’s heat will allow.
“You’ll soon become accustomed to the flavor,” Hyeri promises. You smile through watery eyes, tongue stinging with the acid aftertaste.
“I certainly hope so.”
Your stomach is still wildly unsettled by the time the two of you start in on the morning’s needlework, but you know the ill feeling cannot be blamed solely on the tea. The dull, gnawing guilt you woke up with lingers.
“I spoke sharply to the King yesterday,” you confess quietly, words cutting through the comfortable silence between you.
Hyeri tuts under her breath, smoothly tying off a stitch with one hand.
“Did he deserve it?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know,” you say, pushing your needle through the thick ribbing of the scarf in your lap. “But I feel rather guilty about it today.”
“Well, these things happen from time to time in a marriage, Your Grace,” Hyeri soothes. “And there’s no undoing what’s already been done. So I think it best that you don’t worry yourself over it. The King has never been the kind of man to hold onto a grudge.”
You stare down at the needle in your hand for a moment, wishing desperately that you could share in Hyeri’s certainty about Namjoon. It’s hard not to envy the way she speaks of his character with such confidence. It’s strange to think your handmaid likely shares a closer bond with the King than you do.
“I don’t know that I have any idea what kind of man the King is,” you admit, backing your needle out of a poorly-laid stitch. “I’m not sure that I know him any more today than I did on our wedding day.”
Hyeri sets her needle and thread down, looking up at you with kind eyes.
“The King is -- ” she pauses to sigh heavily, “ -- well, he’s a very private man. But the two of you will find your way. A half year is only a brief moment in the span of a lifetime.”
A lifetime. A shiver runs up your back.
You force yourself to think of the aviary, of the bright, happy color of the canaries. You think about your beautiful desk and imagine sitting in the sun and feeling its warmth on your face. You try to think of anything but that word that sets off a strong flutter of panic inside your chest.
And then you are thinking of him. Speaking of him before you can think better of it.
“Why has Lord Jung never married?”
“Lord Jung?” Hyeri echoes, tilting her head. “Why do you ask?”
“He came to the aviary with footmen to deliver my desk the other day,” you say with careful nonchalance, “And I find myself curious. He’s well into his marrying years, is he not?”
“Aye, Your Grace,” Hyeri murmurs, “He is. And he was married. Some years back.”
The needle in your hand slips, sharp point stinging the tip of your finger. One bright red bead of blood comes to the surface and you slide the wounded pad into your mouth, wincing.
“Was married?”
“His wife took ill very early into their marriage,” Hyeri explains, threading a new needle with ease. “Consumption. Poor girl couldn’t fight it.”
“Oh, how awful,” you breathe, “He must have been devastated. Was it a love match?”
Hyeri lifts her keen eyes from the ornate canvas in her lap, regarding you curiously.
“I have no idea, Your Grace,” she says after a long moment. “There’s no way to know what exists privately between two people. But I imagine that he cared for her, at the very least. Lord Jung is a good sort.”
“Yes, of course,” you say quietly, dropping your eyes back to the scarf in your hands. Across the room you can feel Hyeri’s gaze, but you refuse to meet it with your own.
Silence falls over the chamber once again, this one a bit less comfortable than the one before. You take care with your sore fingertip as you push your needle back through the thick knit of your scarf, laying down one perfect stitch that pulls through clean and neat.
You thumb over it thoughtfully, contemplating Hyeri’s startling revelation about Lord Jung.
The thought of the man mourning the untimely death of his young wife pains you. But for some strange reason, it doesn’t pain you nearly as much as the thought of him marrying again.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
The storm comes out of nowhere, cutting your afternoon in the aviary short.
Thunder cracks across a clear blue sky, the only warning before black clouds block out the sun and the heavens open wide. There’s barely time for you to gather your journals and charcoals before the first drops start to fall.
Your attempt to outrun the rain is futile, the sudden deluge drenching your mad dash back to the castle. Your feet are throbbing and skirts heavy by the time you manage to slog your way through the doors.
Inside, the castle is still, quiet as it always is at midday.
The footmen and maids take to their rooms to rest at this hour, a well-deserved respite ahead of the evening preparations. And so you tiptoe carefully up the stairs, mindful of the extra weight in your dress, mindful of your wet walking boots. It wouldn’t do to slip and fall to your death without anyone here to mourn you.
By the time you slink into your chamber, you are chilled beneath your wet walking dress and drained from the exertion of your run.
You suppose it’s the creaking that attracts your attention first.
In the stillness of your chamber you shut your eyes and allow your ears to isolate the sound, honing in on the repetitive whining of strained wood. It’s far too loud to ignore, far too rhythmic to be some kind of anomaly.
And deep down, some small part of you already knows what it is.
So you carefully slip out of your boots, skirts dragging as you pad quietly across the bare floor. The creaking gets louder, more pronounced, the closer you get to the door connecting your chamber to the King’s.
There’s a moment of lightheadedness before you muster the strength to open it. One dizzying moment in which you stand there with your heart beating violently in your chest, fingers trembling as they circle the heavy knob. A moment in which you recognize that once you open that door, there’s no turning back. No way to unknow what’s taking place on the other side.
But you can’t walk away without knowing.
So you press carefully against the heavy wood, mindful of the low groan that sounds from the hinges. You push the door ajar until there is just a sliver of an opening to see through.
But it’s more than enough room to see the lovers writhing together on the King’s bed.
From a distance, you can make out their intertwined bodies, pressed intimately to one another beneath the luxurious sheets. You can see the golden spanse of the King’s bare back, muscles rippling with effort as he holds himself over his lover. You can see the woman’s arms thrown around his neck, nails scraping at his nape.
He doesn’t have her on hands and knees. And as best you can tell, she wears no gown and the King wears no nightclothes. There is no barrier between them, physical or otherwise.
Just skin against skin.
It’s a wonder you can hear the desperate, airy sounds of their coupling over the pounding of your heartbeat in your own ears. The King’s breathless panting and his lover’s answering cries of pleasure echo across the stone floor in a private symphony. They moan together as he moves faster.
You should walk away -- God, at the very least you should look away -- but in that moment you find that you can do neither. Your legs refuse to move, rooted to the floor. And your eyes remain fixed to the illicit scene before you. So you just stand there, dumbstruck.
And watch your husband bed his mistress.
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
You wake to the sound of footsteps and voices outside your chamber door.
It’s not yet dawn but the entire castle is awake, buzzing with activity ahead of the King’s sendoff. Hyeri looks pleased to find you already stirring when she arrives to help you dress.
“We’ve less than an hour to get you ready,” she says, morning voice still raspy, “And we need to decide what you’ll wear. Though I’d suggest the purple dress. The King loves purple.”
Hyeri is too busy crisscrossing the room in search of your toiletries to notice the way your eyes narrow. You have half a mind to tell her that you no longer care what the King likes. That His Grace and His Preferences can go right to the Devil.
Instead, you curve your mouth into your most practiced, placid smile.
“I’ll wear the green.”
⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️
The castle staff part around you, making way as you cross the courtyard.
Much to Hyeri’s exasperation, you’d insisted on wearing your hair loose -- insisted on just a bit of rouge to go along with the color you’d pressed to the bow of your mouth with your fingertips.
Clearly, she thought it odd that you’d prepared for the King’s sendoff as though it was an elaborate party. But she’d kept any commentary on the matter to herself as she’d laced you into the green and gold dress you’d chosen and smoothed down your flyaway hairs with a perfumed balm.
You suppose your careful preparation is having the desired effect. The maids and footmen murmur as you pass by with your spine straight and head held high. You can feel them watching your every move, curiously studying you as you walk a determined path direct to the King.
And the King, perhaps, is the most curious of your onlookers. His dark eyes widen for just a moment as he takes in your appearance and notes the conviction in your stride. You keep your eyes on him, refusing to release his gaze for even a moment. Not even when the men of the Royal Guard bow as you approach.
“You picked the perfect morning to depart, Your Grace,” you say sweetly, artificially. “The weather looks quite good for a ride.”
The King’s mouth quirks into an inquisitive smile as he strokes one hand down his Arabian’s shiny coat. “That it does. And you look very well this morning. I take it you rested well?”
“Like a baby,” you return, wearing a smile completely devoid of warmth. “I’ve come to wish you and your men a safe journey.”
Around you, the men start to mount their horses. You can feel the weight of Lord Jung’s gaze bearing down on you from where he sits high on his mount, but you don’t dare chance a glance.
Not yet.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Namjoon says quietly, reaching for your hand. He takes it in his own and surprises you by lifting it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your fingers. “We’ll certainly do our best.”
You fall back as he hoists himself up onto his horse in one fluid motion, moving with a grace uncommon for a man his size. Seated on top of his mount, he looks ten feet tall. Regal and poised and powerful.
“Take care of yourself while I’m gone,” he directs kindly, turning his horse.
He trots forward and his men smoothly fall into formation behind him. Then they’re off at once, hooves beating down against the still-damp earth as they leave the courtyard behind with the King leading the way.
But it is not the King you watch as the men ride off.
Not the King you track with your eyes as they gain speed across the lush meadow surrounding the castle. It’s not the King you can’t take your eyes off until the entire group disappears into the thick of the trees.
And it’s not the King you wish desperately to hurry back.
i'd love to hear from you about this chapter! you can talk to me here. otherwise, i hope you enjoyed it and hope to have the second chapter up soon!
ooooooo boy. oh boy oh boy. i am absolutely obsessed with this and its only been a single chapter. this was quite possibly one of the most textually rich first chapters ive ever read. the pacing was truly immaculate. i cant even explain how invested i became after a few simple paragraphs. id have been quite happy reading this polite, detached dance namjoon and oc seem to be doing in their marriage simply because its so well written. it truly felt like i was reading a historical novel, and i cannot wait for more.
i appreciate the slowness in the way oc and hoseok are becoming acquainted with one another, or even interested. there are so many unspoken obstacles to this attachment, even beyond the obvious. but the tension!!! even with the slow burn of development the tension is at its peak from the moment they lock eyes.
what i also appreciate here is that @xjoonchildx doesnt over do the description. she gives just enough detail for me to fill in the rest, and as someone who sometimes is so flowery with my descriptions this was just an exercise in restraint and talent. i dont usually like to read series that are incomplete because i am both impatient and greedy, but this is one i simply cannot deny.
The Little Things [Yoongi x Reader]
⟶ Credit: @kimtaehyunq
⟶ Genre: Smut | 21+ | Slice of Life | One Shot
⟶ Warnings: pwp, boyfriend!au, multiple orgasms, domestic bliss, oral (f), small tit play, cockring, unprotected sex (wrap before tap please), fondling, small bulge kink, creampie, etc
⟶ WC: 5.4k+
⟶ Summary: When the present isn’t exactly enough for you right now, Yoongi is here for you through it all. He makes sure you know you aren’t alone and that it’s ok to feel alone.
⟶ Beta: To the amazing and talented @kithtaehyung, thank you so much for betaing my fic!
⟶ Teaser: “His voice comes out raspy as if it’s dry for water. Yoongi’s head tilts to the side, eyes closed, taking pleasure in his body’s current state while his hands continue to graze your skin.“
⟶ Author’s Note: Hello all! This fic features a complete domesticated, fluff of life. It appeared to me randomly (the idea) as I was in a slump for writing. But, I was excited to write something simple like this for people who enjoy comfort and potential relatable scenarios. 💡 Sometimes motivation is not there to finish a project, and that’s ok. Just like how sometimes people feel lonely, and that, too, is ok.
this was absolutely delightful and honestly i really needed something like this tonight. i’ve been in the same place as oc for a while. the stress of real life has well and truly gotten to me and unfortunately it was all things i’ve needed to be completely present for. the result is recently i’ve been exactly like this - empty, lonely, overstimulated, bored. all this at the same time and leaving me restless. i say all of that to say: it was so nice to just feel seen, and to relate to something so deeply. honestly, this was just immensely comforting.
this is possibly the most Yoongi yoongi i’ve ever read. @kimtaehyunq has done an extraordinary job capturing his personality: his wit, his tenderness, his sweetness, his snark. and that he is truly So Boyfriend in this was oddly delightful. at the end of reading this, more than anything i just want this yoongi as my friend. he’s such a safe and warm presence, and the way he’s written is so soothing. i’m Big Soft for this one ;~;
the shift from comforting conversation to smut was masterful, and i so appreciated the realism in dialogue. that’s perhaps one of my absolute favorite things in maggie’s writing. the conversations are always so honest and real, even during smut. it felt like life and boy oh boy did i need that. truly i love every moment of this.
