MSBY Black Jackals My Beloveds

curly hair merman geto suguru

karaoke session

sukuna the cool uncle

Gojo's battery

I pictured it better in my head (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

Curse King Sukuna Breeds You All Night

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, slight dub-con, breeding kink, marathon sex, creampie, overstimulation, rough sex, dom!Sukuna, double-dick!Sukuna

A/N: Could not keep up with him for the life of me but a girl can dream.

"Where you think you're going huh? I didn't say you could get off my dick yet." Sukuna's four arms all pulled you back on his dick, well one of them anyway, the other one was busy sliding through your folds, shooting cum across your stomach like the first one shot cum into your womb.

"Please... I'm tired." Your mind was so muddled from multiple orgasms that you didn't know which one you were on. Was still going? Did you just come again? What time was it even? How long have you been getting fucked by the King of Curses? "Sukuna, I can't, I'm a human. I need... rest. Please, just an hour."

He didn't seem interested in what you were saying, not while his cocks were still hard. His hands kept you in place while he filled he room with fast, hard thrusting sounds, skin against more sensitive skin, fingers leaving imprints on your hips and shoulders and upper arms. With no other choice your pussy was left at his mercy, made to come on his cock again while you squealed and whimpered underneath him, it was too much, too soon, too... too good.

"Finally being honest with yourself. Knew I'd make you into a fine whore." He locked his arm around your neck and pulled you to your knees, his muscles bulging, two hands on your hips, the last one your breast, twirling your poor abused nipple. From this angle you could feel every inch and vein of his demon cock ramming itself into your pussy, making it soppy and wet, "I didn't think the Sorcerer's would give me one of their finest as a breeding bitch. Don't lose your mind yet. I need you to get pregnant and birth me some heirs first."

"Is that... possible?" It just occurred to you how much cum he shot into you already. If pregnancy was a possibility then yes, you were most defiantly gonna end up pregnant.

Sukuna grinned against your shoulder, "Nothing is impossible for me." He drove his hips upwards, causing your vision to go white, a toe curling orgasm ripping through you again, "Come, that's right, be a good cumslut for me. If you do a good job I'll impregnate you over and over and over again."

You didn't notice when you did it but your hand reached down to stroke his cock, spreading the cum over your fingers, urging him on, "Please, please, I- I'm begging you!" Begging for what? Rest? More fucking? More cum? You weren't sure. You knew that you'd pass out soon but your body bucked against his with so much energy, you craved more. Sukuna's laughter mixed with your moans, louder then your moans as he released his seed into you, onto you as well, insuring once again that you would end up pregnant.

If you thought that was it then think again. His cock was barely done pulsing when he lifted you up and pushed you onto the other one, slick with your pussy juices. He moved you so easily. Deep down you knew it when you first steeped into his castle, now you accepted it fully. You didn't have to move anymore, didn't have to think about anything, you were there to be used by him as he wished, as many times as he wished.

⪩ levi ackerman

summary->modernAU, you’re teasing levi all night at a work event and he shuts you up with his cock. the beg is sort of from levis perspective warnings->18+ dom!levi, blowjob, creampie, teasing, facefucking & more word count -> 1.2k

The deafening sound of music and the buzz of conversations filled the air as you stepped into the party, hand in hand with your boyfriend, Levi Ackerman. It was an event for Levi's work, where important figures from various industries had gathered to celebrate and network.

Halfway through the night Levis glare was fixated on you. He was annoyed with how innocent you were acting, laughing along to some joke his boss was telling. How dare you feign innocence when you were being such a brat tonight.

It all started with your outfit, he knew you’d picked it to drive him nuts. The way it hugged your curves so perfect, how short it was. You’d done it on purpose, just to fuck with him. Then when you got to the party, lightly gripping Levi's arm, you had leaned in close and whispered, "You look so hot tonight, Levi.” Gently blowing in his ear, he can remember the shiver that coursed through his body at the action.

"Are you planning on causing a scene?" He had asked. You’d denied it of course, but he knew better. He knew the game you were trying to play and he’d been determined not to let your stupid little games creep in and overtake his mind.

But then you’d all sat down for dinner and you rested your hand on his thigh, although in his mind you were way to close to his cock. Rubbing him through his pants like a needy little slut, he thought. Did you really think it was that easy? That he would crumble just because you rubbed his thighs a little?

No. He wouldn’t crumble, he wouldn’t give in. This was just how you are, always being so annoyingly flirty with him. If he didn’t love you so god damn much he wouldn’t put up with it. But for some reason, that he couldn’t work out in his mind, he did love you.

Then, of course you being you, you needed to fix his tie. It was crooked you said, you’re just being a good girlfriend. But the way you brushed up against him, making sure your thigh pressed up against his cock was making him sweat a little.

“Stop being such a brat.” He demanded grabbing you close to whisper in your ear.

“I don’t know what you mean?” You’d said, in your stupid innocent little voice like you weren’t purposely driving him insane.

The icing on the cake was when he was talking to some figurehead from another company, he was trying really hard to focus on what the woman was saying but you’d walked by and silently put something in his blazer pocket. When he reached in he felt lace, it was your underwear and the wet spot right at where your pussy had been made it impossible to focus on anything at all.

So now here you were, laughing and joking like you had been driving him crazy all night. You keep playing with the straw in your drink with your tongue, and every single time you do you it you look at him. His cock is throbbing in his pants at this point. He can’t stop watching the way your tongue flicks against your straw, his fingers are absentmindedly in his pocket on your panties and he’s thinking about all the things your tongue does to him.

Finally, he can’t take it anymore. He can’t take the sexy whispers in his ear, the grazes up against him, any of it. He suddenly gets up, grabbing your arm. “Let’s go get a drink from the bar.” He said, you smiled at him…your annoying little smile and followed him.

You walked right past the bar. “Levi?” you said, and he kept walking. “Bars right there ba-.” He cut you off, dipping around a corner and putting a hand over your mouth.

“Shut up.” He looks at you with his icy glare. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks as his gaze trails down to your lips.

Before you can answer he pulls you into the bathroom and locks the door. “On your knees.” he commands, his voice is husky and low and he wastes no time unzipping his pants as you do what he asks.

“You’re such a little slut you know that? Always acting like such a brat everywhere we go.” He pulls his cock out, and you notice how hard he already is. It’s sitting so pretty in front of you and he doesn’t have to say anything before you’re giving him little licks up his shaft.

Levis hand takes a handful of your hair, forcing you to look up at him. “Don’t tease me, you’ve been doing that all night. You want my cock than take it.”

You smile up at him and he thinks he could cum right there, you were always so fucking eager and willing to do whatever he wanted and it drove him absolutely mad.

You use the flat of your tongue to lick his shaft one more time before your lips wrap around the tip of his dick. You softly suck, smiling against him at the breathy moan that escapes his lips before he uses the hand in your hair to shove you further down his length.

The way your lips fit so perfectly around him, the way your tongue slid all around his base as you bobbed your head up and down him, was causing needy little groans and breathless whines to come out of him. Fuck you were good at this, he thought.

“Fuck, yeah just like that. Take me all in like the whore you’ve been acting like all night.” He hips started to buck, fucking your face as he shoved his cock further and further down your throat. You look up at him and there is pleasure on his face looking down at you as you choke on his cock, eyelashes brimming with tears.

“Fuck…you’re so needy.” he says as you squeeze his balls in your hand. You remove your lips for a second to get air, a string of saliva dripping down your chin but he pushes himself back in your mouth.

“Don’t even think about it, I’m almost there. This is what that pretty little mouth gets when you act like a whore.” His hips are thrusting into your face relentlessly, his breathy moans becoming almost loud. His fingers are still laced in your hair and your fingers sink into the skin of his thighs as his tip repeatedly hits the back of your throat.

He can’t stop watching you, your swollen lips are just so fucking pretty.

Suddenly he pulls out and swiftly picks you up off the floor before bending you over the sink, he wastes no time sinking his cock into you. You clench around him and it doesn’t take long before he’s cumming inside you, finally letting himself release.

He turns you around, propping you up on the sink. He takes your panties out of his pocket, “you can have these back”, he says before he’s bent down, watching you as he slowly slides them back up your legs. When he’s face to face with your pussy he leaves a kiss on it, his hot breathe against your heat causing a shiver. He’s still looking up at you from between your legs, never breaking eye contact as he guides the rest of your underwear up.

“Gunna act like a little slut than you can walk around with my cum inside you like one.” He says before adjusting himself, grabbing your hand and leading you out of the bathroom and back to the party, his cum threatening to drip down your leg for the rest of the night.

taglist: @satorizz, @roseofdarknessblog, @belfiguevel, @chilichopsticks, @deepzombieyouth, @svftackerman, @cassiefromhell also tagging people who commented: @leviismybby, @humanitys-strongest-bamf, @123totallyab, @beestsss, @imlevisoneandonlywife, @kaylacinderella, @dont-f-with-moogles, @unadulteratednachowolf

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PUSSYCAT-PRIMADONNA gojo satoru

SUMMARY: gojo visits his local strip club out of boredom. yet it’s his surprise to see the top paying girl is no one other than his pretty best friend, you.

WORD COUNT: 6k omg

CONTENT: f! stripper reader, modern! au, lap dance, dry humping, overstim, brat reader, dumbification, degradation, praise, f! receiving, size kink, impact play, unprotected, manhandling, semi-public, pussywhipped gojo, prone bone, cowgirl, pet names: (baby, princess, angel)

NOTE: old request. this entire fic was inspired from buttons by the pussycat dolls, sadly gojo doesn’t die this time :/ ty @omgeto for beta reading some <3

It was your final shift of the day— one more session and your day would be over, the music throughout the club blared, booming throughout the speakers of the entire place. Some fast paced song played in the background as you glanced at yourself in the mirror— using the very pad of your thumb to rub some of the sheeny polished gloss that resided on your lips.

Dragging your feet across the sleek, smooth porcelain like floor— you started to make your way towards the private room where your customer was waiting. The very back of your heels clanked against the ground over and over, and you enter the room to see the man already waiting.

“Hi. If you can specify how many minutes you’d like—”

And you pause once you look up to see your best friend of years, Gojo Satoru— sat manspread, in nothing but jeans and a tight fitted shirt, staring right at you— he’s just as surprised as you, and he can’t help but let his eyes wander and roam your body, your exotic attire of lingerie, he’s never seen you dress like that.

“Satoru?” You furrowed your eyebrows in utter confusion, he hated strip clubs.

“Hey . . .” Is all he says before he spreads his legs just a bit, and his eye contact remains on you, and that’s when your eyes trail down towards Gojo‘s lap to see it. His hard boner that didn’t fail to make itself visible underneath his jeans.

“What are you doing here?” You spoke after a long awkward silence— eyeing him a near perplexed look, eyebrows slightly parted the more your eyes remained on his.

Gojo leans back, and for some strange reason— it was as if his eyes were stuck on your body, the lingerie you wore, hugged your body in all the right places, you almost forgot, you were quite literally nearly if not practically half-naked in front of your best friend. He leans back against the velvet red cushioned sofa before speaking in a soft yet somewhat of a coy playful tone.

“We’ve been friends for how long, and you never told me you were a stripper.”

“You never asked.” You replied, walking towards him— and he slightly raised his head up to face you exactly, and a smile pressed against his pink glossed lips.

Gojo swiftly shrugs. “Yeah, as if I’m supposed to guess you dance for a living,” and then he rubs a hand back against his neck, his eyes still roamed and his gaze— it was so dirty, the way his stare remained for so many seconds at a time, it was as if time stood still for a moment, his eyes went up and up and up, glancing at your curves, your hips, your entire pretty physique.

“. . . Sooo,” he hums, slowing his words purposely before a near chuckle leaves his lips. “You gonna gimme a lap dance or what?”

You peered at him, your eyes rolled back as you made your way right in front of Gojo— taking a seat right on his lap.

Gojo‘s completely fixated on you the entire time, he’s annoying, haughty half-grin remaining on him as he swiped a tongue against his lips, his eyes gazed right into you as you straddled him abruptly.

“I can’t believe I have to give you out of all people a lap dance.” You grumbled, throwing your arms around his shoulders, a soft sigh leaving your nose as the music started to play in the background— it was slow, a perfect setting and rang across the entire dim-lit room.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Gojo clicks his tongue with a soft laugh, and that’s when he brings his rough big hands towards the sides of your hips before you smack them away and he winces.

You raise your eyebrows as you start to grind against him slowly. “No touching policy, Satoru.”

“You’re so boring. I touched you before.” Gojo replies with a snarky tone.

“Hugging doesn’t count.” You mumble, matching the sheer sarcasm in his voice. Gojo doesn’t reply, and instead he moves his eyes towards your hips, watching you start to move— back and forth against him and a soft grunt leaves his lips, he’s so hard that you could feel it. Feel him poking out from underneath your lacey protected panties.

Gojo leans back, and he grows silent as you give him the lap dance, he studied you the entire time, your movements, it was insanely insatiable in a way, your hips were just nasty— rubbing against his clothed jeans, Gojo‘s stopped talking which is a surprise— he’s keeping his entire focus on you, you’re all into the mood, the music guiding the way you went against him it seemed, somewhat motivating you.

“. . Fuck,” he groans, watching you move yourself back and forth against his thigh— teasingly getting right up close and personal to his face, the sweet saccarhine coated scent of your fragrance drives him dizzy, your smell was purely enticing, soft breath fanning against his neck— and Gojo couldn’t handle how much of a tantalizing little thing you were.

You had your hands propped onto his broad shoulders, swaying against him— and Gojo’s quietly breathing through his nose, your hips were just impossible, you drove him crazy. It was a coincidence, sure, but if Gojo knew you’d be a stripper working here, he’d surely be asking for you everyday.

“You’re being a tease,” he scoffs, growing slightly irritated once he sees you stand up from his lap suddenly, grazing your hands down slowly all over your body, doing an entire perfect figure eight stance with your body— sensually moving to the repetitive constant beats of the music.

“No I’m not,” You hum, maintaining a good sensuous rhythm. Each beat from the sound, your hips matched perfectly— you were completely in sync throughout the entire time it played, sashaying towards him again before smiling. “You wanna touch me, Satoru . . ?”

Gojo nearly starts to pant— and he’s growing more and more impatient. You get on his lap again— this time your back’s facing him and you’re just casually moving yourself up and down against him, nice and slow, he can’t take it— you’re so cruel, he’s just getting harder and harder by the moment.

“You know I wanna touch you,” He repeated, his voice was low, and he sounded frustrated— it was somewhat adorable. Gojo’s eyebrows were furrowed together, and his face grew a bit flustered throughout you grinding yourself against him over and over again. “Brat.”

You smile to yourself, bringing Gojo’s hands up to your hips— and he stares down, watching you guide his rough hands to squeeze against your waist, feeling against the sheer thin straps of your lingerie set. The room was dim— the purple fluorescent lights shined just barely, it was a bit dark in the private room— Gojo could only just about make out your pretty face and that cute smug grin compressing against your glossed lips.

Moments later— the ten minutes were up, and much to Gojo’s disappointment, just as you were about to get off his lap, he held your hips in place before huffing out a needy, “. . Waittt.”

“Ten minutes are ov—.” and that’s when you pause right mid speech, feeling the very hard tent underneath his pants poke right beneath your panties.

You’re still sitting on Gojo’s lap and then he grunts. “. . . Can’t . . . leave me with this damn boner, princess. You got me all hot and bothered after dancing all over me like that.”

“You’re dramatic,” You rolled your eyes, still straddling his lap before staring directly at him, and Gojo returned the look, his hair was slightly messy, ruffled and he looked heavily attractive, even while primarily dressed down. “What do you want then, a kiss?”

“More than that,” Gojo murmurs in a near low voice, and you gasp— feeling his fingers brush against the thin straps of your attire, it pops against your skin lightly before he brings you towards him, and his lips are just against yours. “I want you.”

You hum, inches apart from kissing him before smiling. “Kiss me then, Satoru.”

Gojo couldn’t wait as soon as you said that, he pulled you into a deep and needy kiss— you remained idly sat propped up on his lap, teasingly starting to grind yourself against him as your lips pressed against his. He grunts in your mouth from that, and you nearly moaned, feeling his rough hands roam quite everywhere around your body— feeling and tugging on your straps, desperate to just rip it off your body already. Gojo tasted sweet, you could taste some tangy light liquor on his tongue yet you couldn’t really make out the flavor— it was rich, savory and definitely candied.

You brought your hands onto both sides of his face, stroking his cheek as you kept straddling him— swaying your hips back and forth against his brick hard boner that tuck underneath his jeans and he was about to lose it— you heard his breath get caught in his throat before he squeezes your ass with one hand. You whine, and that’s when Gojo lifts you up.

“S- Satoru,” you moaned, and you sat back against the fat cushioned sofa— he’s staring at you and he was panting, his pink sheeny lips now practically covered and coated with your sweetened lip gloss. He licks his lips swiftly and slowly, and that simple tiny gesture had no reason being that attractive.

“What time do you close?” He huffs out, standing over you— blue eyes focused on your sprawled out body the entire time.

You catch your breath slightly, sliding your inched stilettos off before replying in a soft-spoken voice, rubbing your lips together. “Um . . in about half an hour, why . . ?”

Yet— his answer to your question was with simply his tongue. Face shoved right between your pretty plush legs.

Gojo starts off slow as you’re laid down on your back, softly planting a plethora of kisses, wet kisses near the very inner part of your thighs, he’s making his way up— and he teasingly bites down on the cute g-strip you wore, his teeth tugging on it before pulling back and it lightly smacks against your skin and you whimper, staring down at him.

That’s when he starts to softly drag his tongue up and up until it reaches towards the middle part of your panties, Gojo stares at it before giving the soft fabric part a kiss— and he feels you throb and it brings a pompous grin on his lips, only to swipe his tongue against your panties to taste your already slightly drenched clit that hid underneath the clothed undergarment.

“. . . F-Fuckkk,” you gasped, your nerves practically getting the best of you. It was even worse once you felt Gojo blow against your pussy, easily moving your panties to the side before dragging a thumb down your dampened folds, hearing how pre-soaked you already were, and he hums to himself. The sensation tickled, yet it made you pulsate— yearning for more throughout each second that went by.

You swallowed— staring up at the drywall, feeling your best friend’s tongue just graze and drag against your sheer sweet skin. You bite down on your lip once he finally brings his tongue towards your folds, making a tantalizing slow stripe lick and you get shivers.

“Do you—” You nervously giggle, panting as you look down at him, and he looks up at you once you speak, pausing his motions. “Do you even know how to eat pussy, S-Satoru..?”

He glares at you, and it’s cute— yet it’s not cute anymore once he brings a spank towards your cunt and you whimper, despite that, that simple gesture turning you on a lot more than it should have.

“Shut up and spread your legs.” He mutters.

“. . . ”

You remained quiet and he lays his tongue flat down against your cunt, dragging it slowly up against you, and you shake a bit, shivering as if the room suddenly got cold— Gojo couldn’t wait, he broke away for a brief moment before gathering a good amount of spit, and you feel him spit right on your pussy— rubbing a thumb to smear and coat the glistening wad of his own saliva against your folds before digging straight in.

Gojo was so sloppy with his tongue, absolutely filthy. He’s trailing his tongue slowly and sensually against your nub— circles, shapes, letters, an entire multitude of things.

The kisses he made turned into straight sucking at one point and it wasn’t long before your head slumped back against the velvet cushioned sofa, your legs were practically shaking by now— quavering and trembling within his firm hands gripping down on your thighs.

“Sa—toru,” you’d pant out in short staggering breaths, he’s focusing towards your clit— his eyes were closed, pretty lashes fluttering every so often as he was deep between your thighs, continuing to stimulate you. The music playing in the background was loud and insanely raucous, some slow jam playing, it rang throughout the dim dark private room. You let off a loud abrupt whimper, feeling Gojo’s tongue brush against the very opening of your clitoral hood and he hums, bringing a sweet nibble to it and you grip hard onto his hair.

“Mhm,” he hums— making sure to create pressure all against your pussy with his tongue, he’s slow but incredibly sloppy, it doesn’t take long at all before your slick is happily coating Gojo’s chin. The noises he made— all from his mouth, it was so lewd, his pink lips were dampened with his own spit along with your own sweet taste covering his mouth, he couldn’t get enough.

Gojo was definitely pussydrunk by now— your taste . . just so glacé, his tongue ran and dragged against your folds, you couldn’t stop squirming— coming to the realization your best friend of years was face first shoved between your legs, eating you out the starved man that he was.

He was just sloppy too, he raises his head just a bit to lick his lips— pursing his pink dampened lips together before watching his own saliva trick down towards your cunt, you whimper once you felt him drag two fingers down your folds, maneuvering miniature rotating circles against you— and you bite down on your lips, head going back and you were coming close, if anything you thought Gojo would be a virgin— he ate your pussy as if it was the only edible thing in existence.

Gojo has your legs raised up, and you‘re just laid flat on your back, he’s so greedy, his tongue just laps and laps against your folds, hungrily sucking against your nub to elicit that sweet cry from your throat, and it’s almost as if he knows you’re getting close— because that’s when he starts to grow a bit more rapid.

“F-Fuck, S—Satoru— gonna make me cum—” You babble, your voice was falling on deaf ears, your thighs shook and shook, joggling pathetically within his mean grip against your legs, you stare down at him and Gojo’s returning a glance—

. . a smug grin on his face, pretty lashes half-lidded as you watched him move his face from left-to-right at such a pace, his tongue roamed everywhere— it met every crevice, not missing any spot inside of your pussy. Gojo ate you out as if he was waiting his entire life for this moment.

“Oh my g—goddd— fuckkkk,” you whimpered, hitting the back of your head lightly against the fat velutinous sofa over and over again on repeat. Your legs felt like they were about to give up, Gojo’s tongue was insanely filled with pure lewdity and lunacy. He can’t help but spit down your slit each time, getting hard from the way it runs down your folds only to spank your pussy a few times to watch you whimper— chewing down on your lip as if it was candy. “I’m gonna cum— fuck..”

He doesn’t falter, his tongue still being occupied, you’re a complete mess— he’s digging in fingertips into your no brand named fishnets, your wetness completely coating the very bottom of his chiseled chin. Gojo grunts and that’s when you came— letting off the most whiniest shrill of an orgasm known. It has you panting— and he’s still eating you out after the fact, he was impossible.

“S-Satoru— okayyy . . okay—” you whined, your lip quivering, falling into such a sensitive state, your legs were just straight jello, benumbed as you felt the overstim wash over you, dragging you into such a crescendo.

You literally have to pry Gojo’s face out from between your legs— he’d probably eat you out for hours, he was so starved. As you hold his face up, Gojo slowly looks up at you with a coy smile, sliding his tongue swiftly against his lips to lick the sweetness of your own slick on his mouth. His eyelids were low— he was so drunk from tasting you and he only wanted more by the second.

“You moan really loud y‘know,” he snickers, leaning up close to you— and he pressed his body between your legs, bringing rough hands towards your thighs to make it wrap around his waist before he grins— watching you just lay dumbly all sprawled out against the sofa, still trying to catch your breath in short, quavering, breathy pants. “And you say you’re not allowed to fuck on the job.”

“. . . Shut up,” You swallowed, your body still rattled from your strong intense release— and that’s when Gojo leans close to you, and he’s got such intense eye contact, he brings a thumb up to the side of your lips— feeling the glossiness of your lip gloss against it, smearing it down with a swift motion before he brings you into a sultry kiss.

You moaned in his mouth, your head raising upwards a bit as his body started to grind against you, suddenly you felt hot, sizzling even from him being pressed against you— Gojo’s lips remained against yours, and he’s handsy a bit, you feel his hands trail down towards the straps of your lingerie, feeling the crumbled up dollar bills stick out from between them— and you feel a smile press against his lips, you could taste yourself on his tongue. It was so sloppy. Gojo was sloppy and he wasn’t ashamed.

You whine once he pulls away to drag you towards him, and he lays flat down on the sofa— and he pants for a moment before giving you a smug complacent grin, manspreading and he taps his lap with his palm, signaling your to come towards him. “Wanna ride me? I know you do, angel.”

“. . . ”

You don’t reply and he just chuckles, watching you get on his lap— unbuckling his dark black jeans, pulling it down with ease, and your eyes go straight towards his bulge, his boxers he wore was a bright cerulean blue color, and he was a packer for sure, there wasn’t a doubt about it. It was enough to make you lick your lips, just imagining how big your best friend was. It made your head just cloud up with such fog and want— need even.

“Stop talking, Satoru,” You grumbled— and he smiles, watching you pull down his briefs, springing out his length, and he was huge. Your eyes broadened for a bit as you stared at it. Gojo had a girth to him, he was well trimmed chiefly, a pretty pinkish-red tip at the top, and he was already leaning— he had a slight curve to him, and he was so tall and lanky — his dick just pressed against his tummy. You always suspected he’d be big, but nothing like this.

“I’ll stop talking when you put your hips to use, stripper,” he coyly grins— and you shoot him a glare, watching a breathy laugh leave his condensing lips. “I’m teasing. Although, I still can’t believe you hid this from me. You could have given me a lap dance this entire time without me paying, hmpf.”

You huffed out a vexed sigh— and he chortles, watching you with curious peculiar eyes, and he stares at the way your hand wraps around his length— you’re hovering over him, your g-string of your pretty lingerie set just moved aside by Gojo, and that’s when you start to sink down slowly.

The music throughout the private room bounced against the walls— each three minutes a new song would play on shuffle, the room was dim— you could barely make out Gojo’s face, just that annoying smug grin and those blue eyes that never left your pretty face.

“F-Fuck,” you sibilated through your teeth, lowering yourself down on his cock. He stretched you out so good it hasn’t even been a few seconds— Gojo grunts, watching your hips stutter a bit, the crown of his cock throbbing into you, and your eyebrows furrow just a bit— a tiny moan leaves past your lips, and his girth only added more pleasure towards your sweet needy entrance. “Why are you so— . . f-fucking big, Satoru.”

“Don’t ask dumb questions, princess,” he hums, bringing a hand towards your ass— taking one of the remaining twenty dollar bills that was stuffed between your straps, rubbing it against your skin. His voice was a low raspy— yet a mixture of playfulness at the same time.

You intake a sudden sharp breath— and he’s halfway in yet it feels like he’s balls deep, your mind is just racing, Gojo’s length was just simply enticing, salacious— incredibly dirty. You moaned, as he held onto your hips with a firm grip, giving you a flashy half-assed smile, before a hand reached down towards your ass to spank it. “Move, baby.”

Not even at a pace yet and you felt like you were gonna cream down his shaft— it was embarrassing, he was all the way in now and you started to move, attempting a somewhat decent rhythm with your waist— rolling and sloppily lurching your hips against him—

and he finds it cute, he’s studying your facial expressions as if he was studying some sort of college course— you’re just trying to maneuver your hips, adjusting to his size but god was he just extending out inside of your cunt as if it was just nothing.

“Uh— fuckkk,” he grunts lowly, a slight groan leaving his throat, you start to sway your hips, biting down on your lip— your bottom lip that was glossed and covered with your lip gloss, your hips started up a pace, leaning back, and as you stared at Gojo, you could see his ripped jacked abs pierce through his shirt— it was just purely mouthwatering. Gojo’s entire body was flavorsome. “Ride me just like that, good— good girl.”

You lean forward just a bit— and his hands roam and roam, up and down your waist, you whined, his touch was so sweet yet a sting of roughness— feeling you up throughout each second he got, tracing down your curves with his fingertips— he lets off a low sigh, feeling the head of his dick kiss against your sensitive pulsating nub that was stuffed between your folds.

You’re in the right perfect angle and you can’t stop moaning, your sweet babbles was so cute to him, to think you were being a bit of a brat earlier and now you’re starting to turn into a complete mess all because of his hefty size— churning up your insides, and then Gojo grunts. “Touch yourself while you ride me, pretty girl.”

“O—Okay…” You stammered, continuing to rock your hips against him, and you bring your hands towards the near straps of your set that was just barely about to fall off your skin, you were practically without any clothes on— and he brings a hand towards your chin before speaking in a sly tone.

“You’ve always been so bad with keeping eye contact, but I want you to keep those pretty eyes on me, Y/N.” He mutters, stroking your chin with his thumb.

Your move your eyes towards Gojo and he has a smirk pressing against you pink sheeny lips, growing flustered with the way your hips rutted against him time after time—

He was stuffing you full of his thick inches, you feel like you’re floating, in a more lewd filthy way. He watches you with superlicious haughty eyes, watching you continue to feel all over yourself— your hands sliding down your body, rocking your hips back against him and you bite down on your lip again— his dick just stretching your pussy out, he groans, feeling you just clamp and clamp down on him.

“No touching policy but you’re fucking your customer,” Gojo sneers— his rough hands slide up and down your body, attempting to guide your hip movements, thwacking the thin striped straps repeatedly against your skin as you tried to compress your sweet moans. Your earrings that hung that your lobes just dangled and dangled, as you gave him a glare. “I’m starting to think you like me more than just a friend.

“…Shut up Satoru,” you moaned, feeling the very crown of his cock continuously prod against your sweetened savory spots— your eyes just flicker and roll, you’re growing dumber and dumber by the second— it was like Gojo’s dick had you addicted, the walls were quite thin and you tried to be quiet but with his size rearranging your insides— you weren’t sure if that was possible. “F-Fuck I’m gonna c—cummm.”

Gojo grunts, feeling your hips swivel and buck, all against his lap— the stretch had you completely starstruck. Each second he’d get he’d smack your ass again and again, squeezing it, caressing it—

it made him hard, each spank you whined from the slim sting, you’re wanting more— and you place your hands on Gojo’s shoulders, and he stares at you with a weary smile pressing against his glistening lips. “Already angel? You sure do cum pretty quickly, hehe.”

He was so annoying— you wanted to smack him, but you couldn’t really do that with being stuffed full of his dick— he had the smuggest grin on his face, watching the way your pleasurable expression forms into a slight scowl— your hips move and rotate before you end up cumming anyway. Your hips twitch, and your lips slightly part as the ache between your legs took action.

You felt warm as you creamed all down his shaft— your nerves were just going crazy, you’re spasming and babbling, abruptly leaning into Gojo’s neck, whimpering sweet mumbles of “O—Oh my fucking g—goddd.”’s.

“. . . So sensitive,” he purrs, holding you close to him, sliding a hand down your back— peeling off your lingerie, and you hear a soft laugh leave his lips as you’re still trembling, your orgasm hit you like a truck— it was that good that you had to take a second to breathe and recollect your thoughts. “There there. I’d be like this if I rode myself too, heheh.”

“…..”

You really wanted to smack him, you really did.

“Hm, how about you lay down on your chest, princess. I wanna admire you from the back.” Gojo says, a cheeky grin going against his mouth, slight dimples poking near the sides of his pink lips.

You did, pressing your cheek against the fat velvet matched pillow— the satin of the fabric collides against your skin and you intake a breath the moment you feel Gojo squeeze your ass, a tiny grunt slides past his lips once he rubs his tip against your folds, he grows quiet for a moment— watching your slick coat the head of his length and he groans.

“Oh damn, my best friend’s got such a sloppy pussy,” and you moaned, he was teasing you— each second he spent talking, he could have been fucking you—

but no, Gojo Satoru loved to fuck with you, he always have, straight blabber mouth.

He just wouldn’t stop talking.

“Fuck me already.” You stammered— a whiney voice coming out of your throat, his cologne was so loud it made you nearly dizzy— you were in such a dumb position, flat on your chest with Gojo behind you, staring at the way you cutely and patiently waited for him to just go inside again— but here he was, wasting time.

“Are strippers usually this hostile towards their customers?” He gasps, entirely dramatic— before he chuckles straight afterwards, and he’s just playing with your entrance, his very tip just prods against your slit and you kiss your teeth, mashing your lips together and an annoyed sigh leaves your mouth. “Ask me nice, pretty girl. Then I’ll give ya what you want,” and then he pauses before humming. “Ooh. Better yet, tell me pretty please. Yeah.”

“. . . Fucking—” You grumbled, and he brings a hand up towards your arms, pinning them behind your back to wait for your response— just a single thrust and you’d be fucked. He was so close, just a single inch and he’d be all inside you all over again. “Pretty— pretty please, Satoru.”

He lowers his voice a bit. “Pretty please, what?”

“… Pretty please … fuck me. I want you.”

“Oh, I want you too. I always have,” he smiles, and his voice just drops and drops with each moment he speaks, you could hear the slight bass in his tone, it was unintentionally sexy— just that alone made your pathetic cunt throb. “Good girl. I’ll take care of you, just arch your back a little for me and try not to be so loud. Wouldn’t want your co-workers to hear their top paid stripper being so slutty in this private room, now would they?”

You whimpered— feeling him finally start to go inside of you, inch after inch it makes your mouth water before you reply with a, “I don’t care if they hear me, S-Satoru.”

“Huhhh. Dumb girl, you’re not supposed to say that.” He rolls his eyes— before he presents you with a single thrust, gripping your hips and you moan— he’s finally fucking you again, Gojo groans, pressing his weight against your ass but he starts slow, tantalizingly slow to make a pout form on your lips— his strokes go slow at first, and he makes you feel it, really feel him—

Gojo’s stretching your pussy out profusely, he bites down on his lip, keeping his eyes on your back that arches just a bit, brushing his thumb against your hands— the bracelets that wrapped around your wrists as he had you in his grip— arms just pinned back.

His hips are slow and steady, you’re feeling every hit against you— within seconds later, another song plays on the near broken speaker that was above the two of you, boomed loudly, singing throughout the dim red-lit private room, your lingerie peeled off your body, just barely hanging on.

“Satoruuu— you . . fuck like a old man, god—” You whined, poking fun at his slow thrusts.

“. . Hey,” he smacks his lips— and that’s when you gasp, feeling his hips ram into you at once, taking you by surprise, and he’s pounding into you now, watching your head slightly raise up before he leans in to push your head into the pillow. “We both know that’s not true. I wanted to be gentle, princess. Seeing how you could barely adjust to my size when you rode me a f—”

“Fuck me and shut up.” You grumbled, his thrusts slamming into you sloppily now, you’re just starting to hit against the sofa repeatedly, bounce after bounce.

“Fuck me and shut up, Satoru,” he mocks, pitching his tone to your liking— and you whined, feeling his sheer hips pivot, dipping right into you, his cock, the girth of it is just bullying you at this point, it’s so mouthwatering, he’s got your mind spinning in circles at this point.

“That’s what I’m doing, silly. If I go any harder I’m gonna break you— not saying I wouldn’t love to see that.” He grins.

Your eyes were so stupid, making fun of you as they just rolled and rolled, Gojo‘s mean sloppy strokes were just nasty— his weight that hovered over you had you babbling complete gibberish, straight up nonsense. You’re practically being fucked into the sofa— and he grins, seeing you fail to keep a back arch, just laid flat into the cushions— whimpering and then he groans— his hips snapping into you now.

“Mhm— gonna cum, princess—” he huffs out in a short breath, white strands of hair hanging down over his face, occluding his vision by the second, he’s balls deep, smacking back against your ass with his pelvis to where you’re so loud— at this point you didn’t care who heard, your mascara started to mess up— sticking towards your lashes and you’re just completely stupefied by Gojo’s shaft thrusting in and out— driving into your soaked clenching pussy at full speed, you got goosebumps. If you knew your best friend could fuck this good, maybe you’d fuck him a long time ago.

“Where d—”

“Inside, S-Satoru…” You cut him off, immediately stuttering out, being hammered into the settee.

He hums, an overweening grin on his lips, you just wanted him to fill you— you didn’t care, just a dumb cock-drunken mess, whimpering his name over and over as if it was some mantra— it was quite a sight to see.

“Ooh. To the brim, yeah?” He pants, his hips were so mean— his thrusts, you’re throbbing, feeling that same pool of heat rise up within you and you nod your head yet Gojo leans up close to you, a hand softly going around your throat, as he’s maintaining his sultry strokes. “Words, baby. Use them.”

You choke out a soft, “c—cum in me, Satoru..”

He slides a free hand down your back, brushing his fingers against your skin— and he groans, his cock kissing against that dearest sweet spot that’s got you so feral, spitting out such whiny whimpers, encouraging him—before he shoots a load into your cunt, it feels wavelike for Gojo almost, contracting and throbbing everywhere—

his warm sticky seed just fills you up, and when Gojo cums, it’s a lot— he grows quiet again, slowing his hips down to make you listen with him, and he whines out a low and rapsy, “oh f-fuckkk..”

He feels warm all over— watching your pussy get stuffed full, he licks his lips, taking his length out, hearing the pop noise occur again once he’s out of you, gifting you with such velvety ropes of his own. Gojo stares dumbfoundedly, sweat trickles down the sides of his forehead— and he’s slowly panting, abs clenching and as he pulls out, he watches his own cum start to spill out.

“Oops. Looks like I flooded your pussy, angel.” He breaks the abrupt silence, flipping you over to face him, and he’s got a smug grin— despite being fucked dumb himself, he was pussydrunk most definitely, a wave of relief washes over him once he came, and he swallows, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.

“Y-You’re buying me new lingerie, Satoru.” You huffed out, sprawling your legs out a bit, your thighs were such a mess— you couldn’t lie, you wanted more.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair and watches him make himself decent— sliding his briefs back in before shrugging. “Yeah, I guess,” and then his body language changes for a moment as he stares at you, picking up your phone, and your eyes widen. “I love y—”

“. . . Hold on,” you muttered before sighing, sitting up from the sofa. “I totally forgot. Someone requested a session after you.”

He clears his throat, pretending he didn’t say what he was about to say. “Oh ummm.. who?”

You turn your phone towards Gojo with a dull expression, pressing your glossed lips together as the bright screen shined in his face— on the device, it was a man that seemed around the same age as Gojo— long dark black hair and a smug grin. “I don‘t know . . do you know him? Says his name is Suguru Geto.”

geto's new piercings<3

i dunnooo i feel like whenever you’re mean to yuji it turns him on, you’d be cursing him out nd he’d already be like half hard

I also feel like Yuji would beg to put it in😊

idk I just want him to throw me around

[cws] fem reader

[an] you get it!! i know it in my heart that yuji likes his partner to be a little mean :( a little spoiled, a little bratty! it makes it that much better when he finally gets you to be his sweet mushy baby that’s only that way with him !!

yuji knows that you have a bit of an attitude problem, and he knows that he probably enables it, never once chiding you for the way you speak and act with him.

you drag him shopping with you whenever the urge strikes, which is worryingly frequent, and shove bag after bag into his arms, not even so much as uttering a thank you, just fully expecting him to be your human pack-mule.

whenever he gives another woman his attention, even if for something as simple as giving out directions, you’re shooting daggers his way and refusing to speak to him, answering him with huffs and hmphs until you deem him worthy enough for actual words.

it’s mean, you’re mean, and he should really say something about it and get it under control… but he can’t deny that the spoiled, bratty act gets his cock hard and his brain fuzzy.

“god, yuji! it’s like you have a bunch of rocks up there or something!” your finger taps against his forehead twice as you bend at the waist, and he silently looks up at you, eyes lidded and cheeks flushed as his cock chubs up against his thigh. “it’s as if everything i say just goes in one ear and out the other, you never listen.”

you’ve got one hand on your hip, the other animatedly moving around as you talk a mile a minute, eyebrows scrunched together and eyes narrowed on him.

yuji has no idea what you’re saying, but he knows he’s heard this spiel a thousand times before and isn’t missing out on anything too important - at least, nothing more important than how badly he wants to stuff you full of his cock until you’re sputtering out apologies and drowning him in kisses.

you always get so sweet and pliant when he’s fucked you full—cunt full of his seed and hole left gaping. you make sure to cradle him close and kiss all over his face, hands running through his hair as you whisper i’m sorry’s into his skin.

“—doing it again! yuji, you’re not listening to me!” he zones back in just in time to see your hand coming towards him. “you’re so annoying. just go home—!” he snags ahold of your wrist, and with a gentle tug you’re falling forward into his lap, your hands shooting out to brace yourself against his chest, while his move to encircle around your waist, arms flexing and tensing as they pull you close, his aching cock pushing up into your cunt, thin layers of fabric keeping him from sinking inside.

“i’m sorry,” he rasps, your lashes fluttering as you give him a bewildered look. “let me make it up to you, yeah?” realization dawns after a moment, and you shake your head, hands weakly pushing at his shoulders.

“huh? no, yuji, i was—oh.” he rocks his hips into you, hands moving down to palm your ass, a cheek in each hand.

“please?” he croaks, cock aching and leaking and throbbing and begging to go where it belongs. “can i put it in? can i fuck you? can i make you come, baby? can i?” he rocks against you with every question, his forehead resting against yours as he holds your gaze. “let me show you how sorry i am, baby. let me make it right.”

and you give in, you always do, his sweet pliant girl. he just has to get his hands on you first, tell you what you need to hear, sit you on his cock and make you come a few times, maybe even get you to squirt depending on if he wants you to be nicer for a couple days.

it won’t last but so long, that little honeymoon phase you two go through every time yuji gets between your legs, but he’s already looking forward to the next time.

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~

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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