Scent of a Woman {KNJ romance}
Pairing: leopard hybrid parfumerie boss!Namjoon x female reader!employee
Genre: Hybrid AU. Romance. Smut. Pining. Slow burn. Angst. strong father themes. NOT DADDY-type themes. EXPLICIT 🔞🔞🔞
Warnings: super super eemootiionaaal sex- is that a warning? No breed-you-with-my-pups here. Leopard-style sex, which just means, really, he comes in from the back ( I watched Nat Geo to make sure LOL). Mirror sex (so that they can look at each other @ralypenny this is part of your ask that I finally fulfilled).
Summary: In this hybrid AU, hybrids are rich and powerful. You are fully human in form and in weakness. Too bad you’re falling for your hybrid boss. And mayhaps he’s falling for you.
Word count: 10k
Special thanks: @hobi-gif for being a kick-ass beta reader with 56 edits that I never knew I needed. You read this while you were so tired, and took the time to encourage me. I'm so grateful.
Much appreciation to the following who have read it in some point of draft form and encouraged me: @httpnamjoonie94reads @jinfizz, @bonvoyagenoona @bangtanmademedoit @lcksndkys @xjoonchildx
——————————
“Stupid human,
Homo sapien
Little Alien
Tiny Cranium
Eat uranium
Poop Titanium
Homo sapien
Stupid human.”
You know the chant by heart.
Even now, more than twenty years later, the tune, the cadence, the leering faces that surrounded you are hauntingly familiar.
One glance at your comparatively smaller build, your simple clothes, your plain, singular-species face was obvious enough to announce to anyone that you’re fully human.
The hybrids of your time are often part of the super-rich. It’s no surprise considering their survival instincts for attracting the richest, biggest, smartest, and fastest mates are well-honed from centuries of evolution.
Imbued with stronger genes than full-blooded humans, the hybrids live longer, look prettier, work faster, breed better, and probably fuck harder too.
So you were expected to count yourself lucky your mother worked as a live-in housekeeper for a rich hybrid family. And you were expected to count yourself lucky that their residential address allowed you to benefit from the most exclusive school districts in the country full of wealthy hybrids.
But you weren’t lucky.
Everyone knew you as the housekeeper’s daughter, as if that were more dignified than your name. Everyone made fun of you for being smaller, slower, shorter. More human.
And every day, you trudged to school, walking down the halls feeling like prey waiting to be fed to a room full of predators.
So you suffered alone through elementary, middle, and high school, always as the housekeeper’s daughter, always the butt of their jokes, always ready with fingers curled into hard fists to fend for yourself.
With each passing year, three things became clear to you:
You could never work for a hybrid.
You would never date a hybrid.
You should never, ever fuck a hybrid.
(Unless he was really good looking.)
————————
Kim Namjoon feels a little disconcerted.
He’s always been uber confident in his decisions, single-minded in his pursuit to establish the city’s most sought after bespoke parfumerie.
But lately, he’s doubting his choice to hire you as his shop assistant.
Your presence in his parfumerie disorients him. At first, it’s how the shop’s minimalist decor was suddenly disrupted by a burst of colour when you snuck in an inelegant bunch of flowers and placed them in a little jar of water, tucked away in an inconspicuous corner.
The old florist at the corner couldn’t sell this yesterday was your excuse. The petals were starting to droop, leaves yellowing with age, stems weak and insipid. And though the red gerberas clashed with the pathetic little violets, they held his gaze whenever he passed by.
Every day, a new bunch of sad-looking flowers would sit in the same jar, in different leftover color combinations. And every day, he found himself looking forward to them. Today it’s bright pink carnations mixed with orange marigolds, vulgar in their color but intriguing in their scent. Yesterday, it was half-dead roses mixed with a bright yellow peony.
He’s used to perfection— precision even —not this explosive mess of color and smells. By his standards, he should not even think these haphazard flowers are pretty. But here he is, admiring the furl of the carnation petal, thinking how silky smooth it feels despite its ragged edge. It’s almost… beautiful, nevermind the little brown flecks from its over exposure in the sun.
He doesn’t know why he quietly lets you bring this visual chaos into the calm monochrome of his shop. Or why he stops breathing a little when you brush past him to dust the corner of the shelf. (The shop has never been cleaner since you arrived.)
He can’t fathom why it’s suddenly hard to finalize the top notes of a perfume for one of his most important clients. Or why he finds himself wondering about the shampoo you’re using because the fragrance is driving him insane with curiosity.
But here you are, tying your buttery yellow hair ribbon on the door handle because it looks pretty like that and you heard an old country song on the way here and there’s no old oak tree to tie that around so the door will have to do.
He grimaces a little at your prattling, not trusting himself to speak. Because, truth be told, he wants nothing more than to rip off that ribbon and let his nose linger all over the satin fabric. He wants to, no, needs to, break down the entire fragrance profile which teases him every time you’re near.
It’s only logical since he’s in the perfume business.
At least, this is what he tells himself as he clenches his knuckles white to stop himself from reaching out to touch you.
Only logical.
----------------------------------
Sometimes, you wonder what it’s like to be thoroughly fucked by the Kim Namjoon.
But of course, as your boss, he’s off limits like everyone else you’ve been attracted to. Let’s see… there was your brother’s best friend, your best friend’s ex-boyfriend, your science lab partner whom you later found out was gay and actually pining for the guy across the aisle.
You have a niggling feeling that you’re living in a strange fanfic universe full of well-trodden tropes but you banish those thoughts just like you banish your thoughts about Mr. Kim.
You remind yourself you are just a shop assistant and you desperately need this salary. That you have three rules regarding hybrids: one which you’ve already broken, two which you wish you could break, and all three with Kim Namjoon.
Sigh. If only you didn’t need this job, then there would be no rules to break. Your degree in art was a total waste of money in terms of finding a job after graduation. And when you walked by the swanky, modern storefront which advertised for a shop assistant six months ago, you ventured in without hesitation, desperate to pay off your college loan after another failed interview.
Entering the elegant interior, you went quiet for a moment as you spied a man suited impeccably in black, his gaze intent on the glass beakers of oils set on the counter.
It really had been too long since you studied a man who was not Cezanne or Matisse. With his sleek, sinewy build paired with a breathtaking side profile, he looked like a very tall, and very delicious glass of dark rum and Coke: sweet, smooth, and altogether dangerous.
Suddenly remembering you were here for a job opening, you were determined to make a first good impression.
“Hi—” you try your brightest, chirpiest voice.
“You’re hired,” he declared, without looking up.
“Excuse me? Wait. What?” you asked, heart racing.
“You’re obviously not here to buy perfume, so you must be here for the job opening. You’re hired. Starting today.”
You glanced at your plain black and white office attire that you’ve worn to hundreds of interviews. This was a high-end boutique but you didn’t think you looked that poor.
“If you really want to know, it’s not the outfit, it’s the desperation,” he said, eyes still focused on each drop of amber liquid he’s releasing into the glass beaker from an oil dropper.
“D-desperation?”
“I smelled it. Heard it in the thudding of your heart the moment you’d walked in.” He said it like he was talking about his coffee order (iced Americano, venti). “You’re desperate. And I need someone. Don’t usually take a full-blooded human. But I’ll take you.”
He finally lifted his eyes and you saw their slight but unmistakable fiery glow.
He’s one of the big-cat hybrids. They always seem so sleek and sophisticated, so sure of themselves and well, confident. It’s the money, it’s the superior genes, it’s everything... you’re not.
“Um, yes. I’m desperate for a job. Mister...?” You were nervous as hell. He was making you nervous as hell. Perhaps he was toying with you, like how a cat likes to play with a mouse.
“Kim. But call me Namjoon.”
That Kim Namjoon. The one in the tabloids for all the wrong reasons.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m the right candidate for this position. I’ll just see myself ou—”
“Wait. You don’t have to worry about that. My hybrid interests are rather, you might say, specific.” He smirked, as if he would ever be interested in you, full-blooded in human form and human weakness.
Okay. You’re not his type. Got the message loud and clear. “Uh, the monthly salary?”
Lips curled in a triumphant grin, he announced, “5 million won.”
Holy shit.
And so that’s how you find yourself here, days peacefully filled with dusting between crystal flasks and glass beakers, fetching blotters and flacons for Mr. Kim, sweeping the shop floor and making everything sparkle.
Your daily tasks also involve decanting perfume oils according to your boss’ specifications for sampling. By now, you’re used to arranging the vials of oil on a little movable bar cart for his signature bespoke sessions with each client; always paired with a glass of bubbly for Miss or Madam.
Cleaning, dusting, decanting are all easy parts of this job.
The hard part is dealing with the disdain, and sometimes, even disgust, you get from his clients—all female hybrids of some variety. They flock to this boutique because for the longest time, it’s been taboo among the female upper class hybrids to carry the scent of their hybrid ancestry.
You feel like you should pity them; after all, they can’t help it if they smell like horse and hay, like wild game or cat piss.
But it’s difficult when they never grace you with a second glance when they enter the shop; harder still when they brush off invisible dirt from being infected by your presence when they leave.
With their impossibly high cheekbones, noses yet higher in the air, they show not an iota of kindness. To them, you’re just staff. And well, you of all people know the hybrids are used to treating their staff a certain way.
You remind yourself the salary is worth the dismissive tone, the scornful glances.
That you can and you will carry yourself with dignity even though you weren’t born into money like them.
That the only difference between you and them is that they’ve held the attention of Kim Namjoon for hours at a time.
That he has listened to each one talk about her favorite childhood memories, her favorite meal, her hopes and dreams to get a feel of what she’d like in a personal fragrance.
That when he works on a new fragrance for a client, she’s all he thinks about, always quietly brooding about the fragrance profile until a rare smile breaks across his face because he’s got it.
That he’ll smell the inside of her wrists, inhale a breath behind her ears to see if the scent combination worked with her skin. The top note. The heart note. The base note.
He’s just doing his job. You tell yourself.
It’s not a big deal. Not at all.
Then why do you wish that you could just be one for them, just for one day?
--------------------------------------------
Kim Namjoon just can’t get this right.
He’s been building Eau de Parfum No. 1071 for a client for some time now. The complex fragrance was going well with its symphony of sandalwood, vetiver, oud and oakmoss. The top notes of orange flow like a kind, generous invitation, the base notes carried mainly by oakmoss and sandalwood are strong and supportive, but the heart note, the heart was missing.
On a whim he tries a bit of vanilla. Too flighty.
Maybe a bit of neroli. Too serious.
He thinks for a moment and then looks over his files on this client. Perhaps something floral. Or fig?
It’s here where he works his hardest, commanding oils to mix and mesh, to meld into a message. Sometimes it’s longing, other times, it’s innocence. This client wants sophistication, and Kim Namjoon always delivers.
Yet, something about this fragrance profile of No. 1071 puzzles him. It seems a little too masculine for the client in question.
Perturbed, he approaches you. He almost never asks for a second opinion, but he can’t stop his feet from stalking quietly out of his private office and onto the shop floor.
Nowadays, he finds himself relishing the split second before you sense his presence.
It’s when he can breathe in your entirety, undisturbed. He misses nothing, not the perpetual slight tilt of your head like you’re listening to some invisible music of the spheres, not the impish grin of your lips like you’re in cahoots with those god-awful flowers you bring in everyday. There’s the serious eyes, the sometimes sassy mouth. Smart and sexy like a mix of heaven and hell.
It’s a while before you notice him, and his heart skips a beat when you ask in that quiet, serious way of yours, “Yes, Mr. Kim?”
“I need you to smell this and tell me what you think,” he says, voice a little crackly.
“Well, Mr. Kim, that would be an extra twenty thousand won per hour,” you quip, a little smile peeking below your serious eyes. “But, honestly, I don’t know much about the accords and notes and...”
“Just use your instincts. Just feel.”
He holds out the testing strip to you, thinking himself a little stupid for asking for help.
He looks carefully at how your hand moves closer and closer to his. How the inches, then centimeters bring you nearer to him; fingers almost touching.
Shit, Namjoon sees a slight tremble in his hand. He’s sure you see it too. Why the hell is he so nervous?
He expects you to take the tester from him. But, eyes closed, you lean in to take a whiff. He wonders fleetingly if you look like this when you kiss. You’re quiet, nose hovering just above the tester, just over his fingers, the light touch of the in-and-out of your breathing feathering his skin.
Fighting to hold still, he focuses on you as the scent begins to hit you in different ways. A look of complete and utter longing flits across your features, and he sees you’ve surrendered completely to the heart of the fragrance. “What does it smell like?” He’s desperate to know.
For a long while, you can’t answer him.
“It smells like...” you murmur, “like my dad. My dad.”
Your father would twirl you round and round under the orange tree in the greenhouse at sunset when his day’s work was done; your nose buried in his plain cotton shirt, every warp and weft woven with the fragrance of the flowers he grew. The hands that lifted you and tossed you in the air were hands that carried the smell of the earth, rich with moss.
He was a gardener for the wealthy, and while he grew flowers, he raised you until… until you were not old enough.
“I miss him. He left too soon.”
Kim Namjoon doesn’t know what to say. Words like I’m sorry; words like I’m sure he’s proud of you; those words are not enough. He wishes he could touch you, pull you into him, shelter you with an umbrella against the grey sky of grief until light breaks through.
But he’s your boss. He can’t.
Wordlessly, he hands you a tissue.
“Thanks, I’m fine, really,” you sniff. “I’ll get back to work now, Mr. Kim.”
Namjoon hears the steely strength in your voice even though your breath is shaky. “The shelves don’t mean anything, Y/N. Not today. If you need time…”
“I’m okay. I miss him. That’s all.” Squaring your shoulders, you go back to wiping down the shelves.
But the sudden thought of the paper tester cradling the scent of your dad in its pores dumped unceremoniously in the trash stops you. “Mr, Kim, if you don’t want the testing strip anymore, could I have it please?”
“Of course.” Namjoon leaves the strip on the edge of the counter, careful not to contaminate the part holding the fragrance.
Back in his office, Kim Namjoon sits down and opens his leather-bound ledger. It’s where he records every perfume he has created for clients over the years. A new fragrance will be entered in its pages today. The sample vial sits quietly on his mirrored desk, waiting to be named.
When he’s done, he slips quietly into the backroom where you keep your bag and places the tiny bottle of perfume oil beside it.
Written on the label is his small neat script:
Dad. For Y/N.
Eau De Parfum No. 1072
By KNJ
No. 1072 will forever be yours now.
-------------------
You’re so embarrassed.
You’ve never been late before. Not for work. Not for school. Not even for your expected date of birth, arriving right on the dot at the stroke of midnight, quietly triumphant of your punctuality even as a little babe.
You shudder at the confluence of all the bad luck that happened today.
The one day you forget your umbrella is when a sudden burst of rain catches you unprepared. Traffic was snarling as the slippery roads caused a car accident along the way.
As the rain wreaks havoc on your dress, you scold yourself for wearing your glasses today instead of contacts. You can hardly see a thing as you hurry up the path to the shop from the bus-stop. And what a stupid choice of an outfit today. A fitted white linen dress? You might as well be wearing nothing at this rate that you’re getting wet. Even the flower seller by the corner knew better than to put out her bouquets at the shop front this morning. You better hurry. You’re so late.
Without warning, you find yourself lurching forward over the cobblestones, balance completely fucked as your last coherent thought mocks you: you should not have worn your stupid pair of wedges today with the shitty grip. Bracing your arms out in front of you for the impact to come, you’re surprised when you find yourself in the strong, safe grasp of… your boss.
“Easy there,” he murmurs. Kim Namjoon must be a leopard hybrid of the highest order. You neither heard nor saw him a second ago. And now, he’s steadying you with his arm around your waist, his umbrella over you.
God. He’s so close.
Namjoon knows he held you for a second longer than he probably should, but it’s a second that he will cherish and play over and over again in his mind later. “You should remember your umbrella next time,” he says, trying to distract himself from petrichor, the smell of rain, mingled with the scent of a woman— your scent.
“I should,” was all you can reply, too affected by how your shoulders and elbows are bumping against each other underneath the umbrella to say more. Were you imagining the reluctance in his fingers when he let go of your waist just now? You shiver at the thought. It can’t be.
Namjoon sees it and thinks you’re cold, the wind picking up speed now. He wonders if he should take off his suit jacket and drape it around you temporarily; at least until you get to the shelter of the shop. But then his jacket would smell like you and he’s not sure if he would be able to concentrate for the rest of the day after that.
His own instinct for survival kicks in and overtakes his heart. No, his jacket stays on.
“Glad I went out to get a coffee earlier or I wouldn’t have seen you.” He’s trying to explain why he’s here, beside you; trying to hide the fact that he saw your lithe figure struggling up the hill, and how he worried when he spied you without an umbrella.
He can’t believe he’s lying.
So he doesn’t say anymore, just gives you his arm to hold while you negotiate the slippery sidewalk. It’s wiser than holding you; letting go of you for the second time would prove to be difficult.
You’re quiet, rendered blind by your rapidly fogging up glasses, deaf by the drumming of raindrops, mute by the closeness of his presence, and crippled by your stupid, stupid shoes.
But you can smell, and you can feel.
And, dear reader, he smells amazing. Like strength and trust. And somehow, it makes you feel quite, quite safe.
----------------------------------
Inside the shop, he grabs a towel from the back and gives it to you. You murmur a word of thanks as you quickly fumble open your satchel to take out a sketchbook, groaning when you see that the rain has soaked through the pages of the book. You try to dab away the damp pages with the towel, but the water damage is already extensive.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kim, could I lay these out on the counter? I know they don’t look like much, just pencil sketches really, but I hope I could dry out each page before they stick to each other. It’s just—I spent so many hours on—"
“Go on.” It amuses him that you didn’t even bother to dry your dripping hair, nor the soaked dress wrapped around your body.
You carefully take out each sketch and lay it across the glossy surface, every art piece precious, every penciled stroke so intimately a part of you that you know its when, where, and why.
It feels like you’re laying bare yourself to a stranger. You wish he weren’t here, wish his prying eyes weren’t raking over the drawings.
But for the sake of your sketches, you soldier on, murmuring an apology to each naked sketch, unpainted and unfinished, as you thrust it on the cold glass of the counter.
Namjoon loses count of exactly how many drawings there are, every picture inviting him to see the world through your eyes.
The ladybird, quiet and brooding with the weight of the world on her shoulders as she considers a leaf.
The field of daffodils like a class of eager children waving their stretched hands to answer an easy question from the sun.
“When do you find time to draw?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the sketches, moving slowly along the counter to admire each one. He knows if he looks at you, he might do something fucking stupid after catching a glimpse of your body under the sheer, translucent dress.
“Here and there. Sometimes after I finish dusting here at the shop. Sometimes when I go home. Or even on the bus.”
He senses your apprehension with the last pages of your sketchbook that you’re clutching to your bosom. “Don’t hide them from me. They’re beautiful,” he says gesturing to the rest of your pictures. “Let me see, please.”
At his request, you offer the last two pieces to him. His gaze is intense as he zeroes in on the clever curve of the leopard’s tail on your paper. He stares at it, instantly recognizing his own steely gaze in the big cat, the signature scowl on the left side of his jaw drawn to perfection.
And then, there’s the picture of the fig tree—its trunk, leaf, and flower etched as if by the hand of god. Lost in his thoughts, he’s clutching on the two sketches a little too tightly than you like.
“Mr Kim. Mr. Kim. Um, could I have it back please?” Any moment now and he might tear it. It might be just a sketch but it’s still a piece of work that you treasure.
He snaps back to reality and finally notices his fingers are almost ready to crumple the flimsy paper bearing your sketch. “Shit. I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” he apologizes. “Here. Don’t stop drawing. They’re perfect. Just, uh… don’t stop. I’ll be in my office. Let me know when my ten o’clock arrives.”
You nod quietly, glad to have some time to clean up and get dry, but also a little puzzled as to what came over your boss.
————----------------------------
Namjoon bursts out into his office, glad to sink into his chair, comforted by the familiarity of his desk and surrounded by his array of pipettes, testing strips, glass bottles, and vials. They are uncomplicated things, precise and emotionless. Dependable. Predictable.
For a cat hybrid, he is more a lone wolf than anything, preferring the solace of his own company, the solitude of his thoughts. The memories of his dad had almost suffocated him out there on the shop floor. Emotions are not his forte.
The picture you drew ushered the smell of figs to him, bringing him back immediately to that fateful evening where a plate of freshly cut figs lay ignored on his father’s mahogany desk.
“Son, it’s time to stop the fucking around and take your place in the company.”
“I’m sorry, but my answer is still no. It’s just not me. I can’t report to a dozen board members, to thousands of shareholders.” And most of all, if he cared to admit it, he couldn’t report to his overbearing father.
When will his father ever understand he prefers the calm of sandalwood to the clamor of the boardroom? That he loves the complexities of jasmine, and fucking hates the backstabbing in the corporate world? Even with his fancy Sloan School MBA which his father had insisted on, his interests surely lie more in perfume than price projections for the quarterly report.
“Namjoon, walk out of here and you will amount to nothing. You hear? Nothing. Your duty is here. Your legacy is here. Your future is here. I’ve planned it out for you. It’s yours for the taking. Stay here. Stay home.”
He remembers how he took the house key out of his pocket and placed it next to the plate of figs. How he felt free when he turned and started for the doors. His dad did not follow him nor call after him, but it was the scent of fig which pursued him, saturating his pores, tempting him to walk out of paradise with shame and regret like the first sinner in the family.
But no, he had stalked out of there, head held high, finally a master of his own destiny.
Namjoon wishes he didn’t have to revisit these memories brought on by your drawings. But oh god—your drawings.
Who knew his pretty little assistant could draw so well?
Your style is a little raw, a little wild; unrestrained yes, but also, lively. He’s intrigued. He wants to find out more—because, he tells himself, because, he’s an art collector. His interests are purely business.
Really.
----------------------------------
The next day you arrive at the store to set up for the day’s clients when you notice a stack of Strathmore sketch pads of thick, heavy paper and Caran D'ache sketch pencils wrapped in satin blue ribbon. Written simply on the card, were the words Don’t stop.
It looks expensive as hell and you know it’s meant for you, but there’s no way you can accept it. Better your one-dollar pencil on recycled paper than a debt owed to a hybrid family you cannot repay.
And so you leave it at the corner of the glass counter, its shiny mirrored surface mocking you for your prudishness for not accepting his gift every time you glance in that direction.
Oh but fuck, how your hands itch to test the glide of smooth graphite on the cream of the paper. You know you cannot. You know you must not. Your mama has taught you never to be indebted to anyone or anything. There’s danger written all over that gift. The sample vial of perfume was different. That was something he would have thrown away. But this—this is different.
With a sigh, you take out the polishing cloth, determined to finally deep-clean his desk and office chair before he comes in. He’s usually in by this time, already hard at work in his private office. It’s a good thing you can give it a go today.
Mixed in the grain of the dark, rich leather chair, you catch a whiff of his scent. It smells of power, tempered with a softness you’re surprised to detect. You can’t help but press your nose into its plush cushioned back a little more.
It reminds you a little of the sweetness of hay mixed with the musk of the stable horses on your grandparents’ farm. You rub the polishing cloth all over the leather chair, dreaming of those carefree days. How good it felt to go barefoot in the soft earth, dandelions spread across the carpet of grass like rich, yellow butter.
Next, his black mirrored desk.
You use the special glass polish for this, making sure not to smudge the desk with your fingers.
The mirrored surface is unforgiving, and you see the tiny scar above your lip, the one the bully gave you at the playground (for which you returned a black eye) when you were six.
And there there’s your non-hybrid eyes, looking entirely plain, and completely uninteresting. You sigh. If only to be born a hybrid. Imagine the riches, the privilege, the—
you catch his eyes in the mirror of the desk.
“Mr. Kim!” you gasp, “Shit, you scared me!”
“Sorry. Didn’t expect you here. You’re usually out at the front,” he says.
“I—I just wanted to give it a clean,” you say. “I apologize—”
“No, it's fine. I’ll just head out and come back later—” he says.
“I’m actually done here,” you offer.
“Great. Thanks.” He watches as you gather the cleaning supplies and leave, his gaze never intrusive, but never leaving your retreating form.
“About the pencils and paper—” he begins.
“I’m sorry, I can’t accept such a gift,” you apologize.
“Well, what if I say, I want you to draw whatever inspires you in the shop and we can consider which ones to put around the shop or use as graphics for new labels for the perfumes?”
He senses your hesitation, so he ploughs on, “I’ll put it in your job description so it’s not like you’ll have a choice.”
Draw? As part of your job?
“Mr. Kim. I may be a poor employee, but I always have a choice,” you say quietly.
He takes a moment to savor the shape of your words and their quiet dignity. “Well damn. I apologize for being out of line. I hope by now, you know you are anything but a poor employee to me.”
He doesn’t know what the hell he means by that. It just slipped out. “Just… do whatever you wish. You should know by now that I trust you. If the daily duties are done, you’re free to use the time as you see fit.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kim. I appreciate it.”
“For the hundredth time, it’s Namjoon.”
“Certainly, Mr. Kim,” you say, the corners of your mouth lifting into a wry smile. You’ve never called him Namjoon and never will. He should know that by now.
He smiles back, genuinely, dimples winking as he breaks into a little laugh.
The tension subsides between the both of you and somehow the air in the shop feels a little lighter than before.
———————————————-
Soon after, you begin to realize that you have less to do in the day. The perfume oils for sampling by each day’s clients are already decanted into the little vials when you arrive for work. And then, the black marble floors seem to look effortlessly clean. Plus little corners of the shop shelves seem to have had a dusting before you could get to it.
All of a sudden, you have so much more time to spend on your drawings (though you’re still not using any of the art materials he bought).
What the hell is going on?
You have a theory, and to test it, you decide to deliberately leave your scarf behind when you head out of the shop after work.
Twenty minutes later, you return to the shop. Through the glass windows, you spy the back outline of his form, mopping the floor as elegantly as a leopard hybrid would.
You hurry to unlock the door with your key and step onto the shop floor.
“Mr. Kim. What are you doing?” you ask, voice trembling. “Did I not do a good job?”
He turns to face you and actually looks guilty.
“No. No. I, uh, I just wasn’t hungry for dinner yet, so I thought I’d work on the floor,” he says. For all the confidence he exudes, he looks like a little schoolboy right now, hand caught in the cookie jar.
“You’re not very good at lying,” you say quietly. “Are you doing this so I have time to draw?”
Kim Namjoon wishes he doesn’t have to answer this but you’re staring at him and staring at him and suddenly he feels a little weak. “So, why are you back?” he asks, hoping to gain back some control over the rapid unravelling of the evening.
“I—I, ah, forgot my scarf.” God, that sounded pathetic.
“You’re not that convincing either,” he muses.
And then you’re looking at him and he’s gazing at you, and you wait for words that always come so easily to you but none arrive.
“Listen. It’s getting late. I know this little cafe two streets over. Do you...”
“Mr. Kim.” God. Why do you sound so needy? With great difficulty, you pluck the words one by one from your mind instead of letting them flow from your heart. “You’re right. It’s late. I—I better go.”
You turn quickly to go before you stop yourself. Any moment longer and you might actually say something stupid.
As you step out into the cold, you remind yourself that he’s part of the hybrid ruling class. Hybrids that look at you scornfully when they walk in. Hybrids that speak to you like you’re stupid. Hybrids that use a sanitizing wipe for their hands after you hand them their bottle of bespoke fragrance.
And lest you forget: you’re not his type.
He’d said so himself.
Didn’t he?
—————————————
After a while you get used to sketching and slowly move on to watercolors when it gets quiet at the shop, drawing inspiration from the scents around. The oud smells of longing, the geranium of innocence and wonder, ambergris reminds you of regret, while the coriander reminds you of mayhem and mischief.
Namjoon sees how the lines on your sketches are bolder, stronger. Your play with the color palette has become more adventurous, brushstrokes surer than before.
Just earlier today, he complimented you on the color blending, said your little painting reminded him of Sargent’s work. You blushed, proud that the wet washes and sponging you used caught his attention in the best way possible.
When you return to the shop, you’re surprised to hear an unfamiliar male voice coming from his office, the door uncharacteristically open.
“Namjoon, don’t you think it’s time to end this charade of yours? You are our only son. Come home and do the right thing.”
“Come home to marry someone I haven’t even met? For the sake of the family company? Like I’m part of a business deal? I’m done with that shit.”
“Is there someone else?”
“I’m not going to even answer that question.”
“So there is someone. She better be a hybrid. You’re going to regret this. What will this shop amount to? Nothing. What will you, on your own, amount to? Nothing. But come home and I guarantee you will have everything you want.”
“Everything I want? You can’t even give me the one thing I need.”
You know you should not eavesdrop. That this is a private matter between your boss and his father. You’re just about to turn around to leave when the elder Mr. Kim steps out of the office and saunters to the front doors, pointedly ignoring you.
When he finally reaches the entrance, he turns and gives you a disdainful once-over which makes you feel uncomfortable as hell. You feel like a piece of meat he’s inspecting, one he finds terribly lacking. But, still he waits. Then you understand he’s not going to open the doors himself to exit the shop.
In an exaggerated show of duty, you rush there and hold the door open, bowing deeply as he makes his departure.
“Asshole,” you mutter under your breath, making sure he hears you before you quickly close and lock the door behind him. The elder Kim looks back and glares through the glass panel. You return the glare with an indifferent shrug only to turn around and bump right into your boss.
“I heard that.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kim, I couldn’t resist.” You’re not sure if you’re truly sorry, but it just felt like the polite thing to say to your boss after he catches you swearing at his own father.
“I was never good enough for him, you know,” he says quietly. “I went to the best schools, topped the class, graduated with summas, but still, he was never satisfied. And when I took over operations and turned it around, it was still not good enough. I had to walk away.”
There’s a glimmer of hurt in his eyes, a little catch in his throat. You wonder if you could comfort him with a hug. Whether his chin might press on the top of your head. Would you pull away first or would he?
He, surely. He’ll never see anything in you.
“Sometimes, walking away is the best thing we can do ourselves.” You’re about to reach for his arm to give a short, comforting squeeze but you decide against it at the last second, bringing your hand up awkwardly to smooth your hair.
Namjoon noticed how your hand lingered for a split second over his and swallows hard, not knowing why he even held his breath.
“You share the same name, Mr. Kim. But—but your heart is different. You’re not him.” It’s hard for you to walk away, yet you must.
As he watches the back of your silhouette disappear into the stockroom, he wishes he had the courage to ask you to stay to talk, just for a while. He wants you to reassure him again.
But he’s been a loner for so long that those words can’t come to him anymore.
At night, in the darkness of his shop, he sits alone in his office chair and weeps.
----------------------------------------------
It’s 8 p.m., closing time, and you’re rearranging the last row of crystal flasks of perfume when the door flings open violently, a gust of cold air blowing into the warmth of the darkened shop.
“Where is he?” the icy voice demands.
You recognize the face. A newish client, she’s absurdly beautiful, golden eyes, long-limbed, and perky in all the right places except in her demeanor. You remember how she was late for her own appointment and was extra demanding. Bitch would be completely inappropriate since she is a cat hybrid.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We’re closed now. Could I pencil you for an appointment with Mr. Kim tomorrow?” You keep your voice low, respectful.
“I want to see him. Now.” She strides towards his office at the back of the shop. You hurry to keep her from barging into his office.
“I’m so sorry. He’s not available at the moment. Perhaps I could offer some assistance?”
She looks you up and down with disdain. “And what do you think you can offer me?” quiet scorn dripping over each word.
“I am his assistant. Mr. Kim has deemed me fit to assist you,” you say, just as quiet, just as lethal. She backs you into the door of his office, eyes flashing with anger. Like hell you’ll give in to this self-entitled hybrid trash.
“I know what people like you want.” She reaches into her bag and pinches out a crisp fifty thousand won note between her delicate fingers, perfectly manicured. “You’re all the same.” Sliding the corner of the note to your cheek, she snaps it, each lightning quick thwack eager to remind you of your poverty. “I want. your. boss.”
“That’s enough,” his voice, dark and thick, slices in. The heat of his body is suddenly behind you, and you feel a measure of comfort that he’s now here.
“Namjoon—” she purrs, a smile, sweet and sickening, consumes her entire face.
“It’s Mr. Kim,” he says.
“Namjoon, this… this thing—" she points at you “—said you weren’t available. But you prrromised I can come to you anytime.”
“It’s Mr. Kim, and yes, anytime within office hours. Unfortunately, office hours are over, as are my services for you from now on.”
“My, my. So prrrrrotective over a little staff?”
“Out. Now.”
The tight clench of his jaw is unmistakable.
“Jooooonieeee, you know I didn’t mean it. I can play nice,” she purrs, suddenly playful.
“Out,” he says, resolute.
“It’s true then,” she smirks with a triumphant smile. “Daddy says your father told everyone this shop won’t amount to anything. That you won’t amount to anything. That you never know a good deal even if it were right in front of you.” She sighs airily, “Pity. I did like those samples.”
“I’m glad you did. You sure took enough,” you retort.
She turns to you, glaring. “Pity about the face.” With lighting reflexes, she raises her hand and scratches the side of your cheek with a single, freshly manicured nail.
The sting of her nail barely registers as you start to throw a punch back at her, but suddenly remembering your own dignity, you thought better of it, lowering your fist as fast as you raised it. It’s not worth it. She’s not worth it.
“OUT.” The snarl he emits reverberates within the shop and she flinches. Actually flinches.
Slinking off, she saunters toward the door, swaying her hips, pert nose in the air, sure that he’s watching her. “Get her trained prrrroperly,” she announces before slamming the door behind.
Namjoon turns to look at you.
You’re burning with anger, shame, disgusted with her and with yourself. You’ve never raised your hand against someone after the playground incident so many years ago. Today, you'd almost lost control.
A single drop of crimson slides down your cheek.
“Fuck. She hurt you,” he murmurs as he cups your cheek.
“I’m okay. Really.” You’re flustered by his tenderness, suddenly so close to him.
With something that can only be blamed on animal instinct, he leans into you, and licks up the side of your cheek, catching the bead of blood on the tip of his tongue.
He feels warm, wet, and just the tiniest bit rough and you moan on reflex, tilting your head back, not knowing why or how as you bare the smooth expanse of your neck to him.
“Mr. K—Kim.”
Namjoon does not hesitate often. But he does for a split second. “It’s Namjoon. It’s always Namjoon with you.” He’s breathing so hard, nostrils flaring from effort to not devour you completely. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
Oh shit. This is just like in a fanfic.
You take a deep breath and say the word which dances across your dreams at night, the name which you forbid yourself to say in the day. “Namjoon.”
He’s no longer Mr. Kim. He’s Namjoon to your Y/N. Everything in him is fully awake, completely alert. He leans in and licks the little cut on your cheek again, but this time, he doesn’t just stop there. This time, he continues to trail his tongue down the curve of your jaw, and up the other side. “Need you,” he whispers by your ear, arms curling lightly around your shoulder to anchor his hands that want to run all over your body.
You tell yourself you don’t need him; no, not the way he needs you. You only want him. And wants come and go. Wants don’t always get fulfilled. You of all people should know that by now. Today, you’ll have your fill. And that’s enough.
“Just for today,” you whisper. “Only today.” You repeat it again, for yourself, because there won’t be a tomorrow of this anymore. There’s no way he would need you again.
“Only today,” he echoes, lying to you and to himself.
He licks your earlobe, sending thrills across your spine, teeth nipping lightly against your skin. He’s eager to mark you, the leopard instincts from his hybrid heritage returning in full force. He noses your clothed shoulder, fingers deftly working off the buttons on the front of your prim, starched shirt.
Feeling shy, you're sure that you can’t compete with the models he must have dated. Clutching tightly to the two open halves of your shirt, you’re afraid to disappoint him.
“Don’t hide from me. You’re beautiful. Let me see, please.”
With shaky fingers you let the halves of your shirt part, revealing the curves of your breasts to him.
Beautiful. Slowly, he lifts your chin with a finger. “Look at me.”
You’ve always shied away from meeting his gaze straight on, always wary that you hunger for more than just the touch of his eyes.
But now, at the command of his voice, you can only obey.
“You're beautiful. And you're strong, stronger than anyone I know. You’re strong for me. And—" Namjoon swallows. Growing up, his father had always stressed the Kim motto: Always First. Always Strong. Always Right.
“—and I’m weak for you,” he finishes, the realization finally out in the open.
“Just for today,” you remind him, trying to blink back tears. “Be weak for me. Only today.” It’s better this way, with no hope of tomorrow to disappoint.
Namjoon knows he will be weak for you today and tomorrow and every day after. He takes you to his desk, the place he finds himself daily, because he knows he’s going to want to remember this every fucking day for the rest of his life.
Gently, he sits you on the mirrored surface, marking the curve of your shoulder with his kisses as he eases off your shirt. Laving at your skin, he nips against your collarbone, trailing his tongue lower and lower to your covered breasts, easing the cup of your bra to the side as he licks the soft, full flesh there. “Can’t stop tasting you,” he murmurs against your skin.
He inhales the scent between the valley of your breasts, trapping his nose between the smooth curves of silky skin as he draws a low moan from you. Fingers roaming your back, he unhooks your bra to tongue gently at your nipples. You press his head closer, arching your back towards him, wanting more of his mouth on the tight, tender flesh. He complies, and angles you back a little more, hears you crying out with pleasure at the gentle scrape of his teeth on your breast.
“Feels so good. Oh god.” Panting with want and lust, you plead, “Let me touch you too.”
“Go on then. Touch me.” Namjoon steels himself not to move as you explore him, fingers outlining the sides of his face, his jawline that’s so familiar by sight, yet strangely unfamiliar by touch. You’re wondering if he feels this hard, this strong everywhere.
Seared by the heat of your hand cradling his face, Namjoon noses the inside of your wrist immediately. He wants to breathe this in too. Wants the scent from your wrist all over his body, your fingers everywhere on his skin.
But your fingers are already going over each button, helping him shrug off his shirt, tracing the faintest of leopard markings under the skin of his torso. It’s a mesmerizing pattern. You brush your fingers over his pecs, around the dusky disc of his nipples, down the line of his abs.
Your artist’s eye sees his beautiful, sleek proportions, heavy with muscle and sinew.
Uncertainly, your fingers hover over his belt, the dark bulge of his pants a strangely erotic sight. There’s no turning back once you go there.
“Don’t you stop now,” he whispers. “Don’t give up on me.”
His words give you the confidence to continue. When you finally undress him, pants and boxers pooling around his feet, you’re overwhelmed at his naked vulnerability. “Should I—Can I?” you ask.
Namjoon almost chokes at the way you stare at him with innocent wonder. “Just use your instincts. Just feel.” All other words are impossible the moment you wrap your fingers around his flesh. He braces his hands against the desk on either side of you lest he comes apart too soon, allowing you full access to explore him. He grunts tightly as you stroke him, circling the sensitive opening at the tip.
Instinct says taste. You drop down to your knees. Palming his throbbing length, you lick the liquid beading around the head of his flesh.
“What are you doing?” His fingernails are digging desperately into the unforgiving surface of the glass desk, but there is no relief to be found. “Oh god. Please. Please, take me in.” He remembers how he’d found you kneeling before his chair, putting your nose in the leather as you cleaned it, how for a fleeting moment, he’d pictured you just like this, rosebud lips wrapped around his cock.
On your knees, you feel powerful, making this man speechless and wordless; your tongue, throat, and hollowed cheeks rendering him breathless with desire.
His large hand is warm and soft against your face as you slide his length into your mouth again and again. “No more,” he gasps, “not for our first time.”
Supporting you in his arms, he pulls you up to meet his gaze and you swear his hooded eyes flash a brighter yellow for just a second.
“Am... am I doing something wrong?”
Bringing his lips right against yours, he confesses quietly, “I am. I’m doing everything wrong.” With slow brushes of his lower lip between yours, he urges yours apart. “I shouldn’t kiss you,” he whispers as he traces the curve of your lips with his tongue. “But I am.” The kiss is long and languorous. He takes his time, lets you explore him, noses bumping as you taste him and he drinks you.
“Shouldn’t undress you.” He reaches for the back button of your skirt, and unzips you, easing the material down. Unhooking the bra to let it fall off softly, he fingers the waistband of your panties, eyes questioning if it’s okay. Silently, you place your hand over his to slide it down your thighs. “But I am,” he says, eyes trailing down your entire naked expanse.
“Most of all, I shouldn’t fuck you here at my desk. But—”
“But I want you to.” Pressing your naked flesh against his, you curl your arms around his neck, face hiding in his chest in your desperation. “I want you to.”
This time, there’s no more rain to give him an excuse to hold you, no more umbrella to pretend he wants you close. He pulls you into him; moulding you to him, melding him into you. With flesh against flesh, there’s no denying now the liquid heat between your legs. “You’re so wet. How is it you want me? A man who will not amount to anything?”
It’s there again. The hurt. Unlike the cut on your face, his wound is much, much deeper. “That’s him. That’s not you.” Still pulled flushed against him, you place your palm over his pounding heart. “You’re different. Here.”
Namjoon shuts his eyes at your words. “Say that again.”
“You’re different from him.”
He is not his father.
A great relief washes over him. It’s something he couldn't say to himself until you said it. He is not his father. He is not his father. He is not his father!
He kisses the top of your head, grateful for the day you stumbled into his shop, grateful that you want him like this. The fragrance he cannot have enough of fills his senses. There’s ylang ylang. There’s jasmine. A hint of bergamot. He inhales deeply, sighing, “How are you so good for me?” Sliding one hand down your thigh, he lifts it up to his hip so that you feel the hardness of his cock against you. “Let me be good for you.”
“Please. Please don’t let me wait anymore.” A dull ache throbs within you, and the searing of his skin against yours has steadily pooled arousal in the apex of your thighs.
“I won’t let you wait. I’ve waited long enough. Turn around.” Reluctantly, he unhooks your leg from him and stands behind you. “We are going to do this the proper way.”
Bracing a strong arm around your waist, he bends you over his mirrored desk, your nipples hardening even more when they brush across the cool surface of his desk. “So sensitive,” he whispers against the back of your neck, “I saw that.”
A shower of sparks shoot down your spine as he kisses the back of your neck, the other hand fondling over your breasts; the front of your body on full display in your reflection. You lean your head into him, writhing at every slow lick and hot breath and soft kiss on your neck.
His hands dip between your legs, easing them apart. “Let me prep you. I bet you’re so tight, bet I can’t even put in a finger.” He’s probably right. You know you’re wet, embarrassingly so, but it’s been so long since you’d been with someone else.
“N-Namjoon, please go slow. It’s—it’s been a while.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. Never. Can you trust me?”
You nod, too overtaken by the sensations of his fingers playing along your folds to speak.
“Just use your instincts,” he murmurs again into the shell of your ear.
Instinct says to feel.
With teasing fingers, he continues to draw low whimpers from you, before he goes on to circle your clit gently. Sliding a finger in, he feels you shudder. “Easy there. Breathe for me.” He feels your legs clamping around his fingers like a vise, the tremors beneath your skin as your breath gets shorter and harder.
You’re dripping a little now, making a mess between your legs. It’s getting harder to stand as he hooks two fingers into you, rubbing softly. “Oh my god.”
“You getting there?”
“Y-yeah. Hold me. Hold me.”
Namjoon feels a surge of pride that he gets to hear you like this, gets to feel you come apart just from his fingers. “I’ve got you. Let go.”
The orgasm blooms through you—shakes you at your core, curls your toes—as you arch back into him. He’s as good as his promise, lending you his strength, supporting you completely as you fall into him.
He takes the opportunity to nuzzle into your hair again, alternating with kissing you along the nape of your neck, and catching a whiff of your scent behind your ear. “Can’t stop smelling you.”
Flushed and euphoric from your high, you don’t stop yourself from asking, “Tell me… tell me what do I smell like?” Your gaze shyly meets his in the reflection of the mirrored surface.
With his nose pressed behind your ear, the answer is clear to him. “Home,” he breathes, “You smell like home.”
His answer shouldn’t make you cry. But it does. “Then make your home in me,” you whisper. “Just today.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” He nudges your legs apart with a muscled thigh, groaning with satisfaction as he feels you wet arousal on him. “Coming in,” he murmurs, angling you lower so he can help you adjust to the intrusion of his cock into your core. You gasp at how thick and hot he is, how just a little bit of him inside you already feels so good.
“Goddamn. You’re tight.” He groans as he tells himself to slow down. He’s not going to rush this if he can help it. Breathing hard, he waits for you to accommodate him, stroking your back lightly and then your hips to reassure you.
You want more, and you push back tentatively, longing to feel completely full of him, but a little fearful if you can take a hybrid without falling apart. Grimacing at the inviting way you slide your ass backward into him, he thrusts shallowly, a gentle finger on your clit, coaxing you to take more of him.
Instinct says to meet him.
This time, you slide back to meet his thrusts, delighting in his thick girth filling you. “Feels good. So good,” you sigh.
Namjoon sees you’re ready and doesn’t hold back anymore. “You’re wrong. Nobody goes home for just one day,” he says with ragged breath against your ear as he surges fully into you. “They go home every day.” He pulls himself back a little, feeling the tightness of your slick walls squeezing around him to stop him from pulling out completely.
Shielding your entire back with his own body, he thrusts in once more, eager to bury himself inside your warmth. Bringing his face next to yours from behind, he says it again, “Every day.”
“Every day,” you whimper back.
He loves seeing your face in the mirrored reflection, how it twists with yearning when he’s all the way inside you. He relishes the arch of your neck into him, sweet mouth open and moaning for him at every thrust, eyes squeezed shut with pleasure.
“Don’t stop,” you cry. “Don’t stop, don’t stop dontstopdontstop.”
The words from him are now echoed back into his ears. Namjoon doesn’t stop. He won’t. He can’t. Thrusting into you, he feels a surge of power ripping through him. He wants to give you all his strength, wants to take all your softness for himself.
In the quiet of his office, your combined moans reverberate around the stark walls, the rhythmic push and pull of your bodies are the only other sounds that fill your senses as you focus on offering yourself to him.
“Look at me when I come,” he commands, his chin pressing on your shoulder. “Open your eyes, and see what you do to me.”
You open your eyes, and can hardly recognize yourself in the reflection on his desk. The little scar on your lip, the wound from just now, the plain face that you’ve always wished were more exotic are now inconsequential. There’s tenderness in the way he looks at you, a softness and desperation no one has ever looked at you with.
“Namjoon.” You feel a little pathetic at how much you want him, at how good his name feels on your tongue. You whisper it again because tomorrow, he’ll be Mr. Kim once more.
“I’m close. So close,” he moans now, dying to hold on this feeling as long as he can. He pants with effort as he fights to keep his thrusts slow and long and hard, before his instincts take over and he loses control. When you clench harder around him, meeting his eyes in your combined reflection, Namjoon feels a last surge of raw need rip through him, and he comes with a low roar, hips stuttering wildly into you.
You feel the hot spurt of his seed inside you, his deep groan of satisfaction thrilling you immensely. He’s kissing the back of your neck, across your shoulders, hands lazily playing with the globes of your breasts. He’s quiet as he pulls out, enjoying the sight of his cum and yours leaking down the inside of your thighs.
“You’re wonderful. Want you again,” he teases your earlobe, nuzzling the plump flesh there.
“Now?”
“Not now,” he laughs. “Give me a few minutes. But only if you do. Are you sore?”
How can I, when I’m wrapped under you? No, not today. Tomorrow, my heart will be.
“No. Not at all.” You’re strong. And greedy. You want him as much as he will want you today.
“Let’s go back to my place. I want to wake up next to you tomorrow.”
You feel vulnerable because god, you want it too. But if he wants tomorrow with you, you have to ask. “When your father asked you… if there’s someone else, and you didn’t answer him…”
“It’s none of his business,” he replies curtly. “But it is yours.” Taking a deep breath, he tells you the truth, “Because there’s been no one else. Not for a long while. And when you walked in that day with those flowers, there couldn’t be anyone else.”
And so, dear reader, there was tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after the day after tomorrow.
And of course, you broke all your rules about hybrids because you still worked with him after you were made partner. And you went on many, many dates with him. And you fucked him many, many, many times.
But you’re okay with it.
After all, your Dad had also said:
Rules are meant to be broken.
~The End~
-----------------------------------
Posted on June 30, 2021 by sahmfanficbts. All Rights Reserved © 2021 @sahmfanficbts. Please do not translate, post or upload this content on to any platform including YouTube without permission. This is a work of fiction.
Author's Note:
Dear reader,
How are you?
According to my therapist, one important thing fathers and parents can do for their children is to help them believe a) You are loved and are worthy of love. b) You are capable - you have what it takes!
My own father was too busy to help me with these things. I grew up constantly insecure, seeking affirmation and love with many different people and relationships, in many different avenues and endeavors, made many, many stupid decisions in the process just because I was craving and craving and craving.
Today, I've found genuine friends who, every day, in various ways, affirm these truths for me, as I also try to do for them.
And while some days, I can only see the broken, needy parts inside; more and more, I see parts of me which are healing and mending slowly but surely with these friends.
This Father's Day, whether you grew up with a father or parent who was good and kind and true, or someone entirely different, I hope you believe that you are worthy of love, and you have what it takes.
Truly,
Sam.
P/S if you haven't, pls check out the samsung parfumerie ad. Jimin and Namjoon are.... chef's kiss
