The Wedding Arrangement

The Wedding Arrangement

You are in love with your best friend, the only man who matters, Kim Seokjin.

Unfortunately, he’s just gotten engaged to someone who isn’t you. Even more unfortunately, he expects you to help plan the wedding alongside Kim Namjoon, his other best friend and, based on your first meeting, just another judgmental jerk.

Putting aside your distaste for the sake of your friend’s happiness, you both set about giving Seokjin the wedding of his dreams. Following a rough and satisfying affair at the caterer’s, you strike an unusual deal: you and Namjoon will be enemies with benefits until the wedding is over. And after six months of wedding planning, you both just might learn that weddings aren’t usually the end, but a brand new beginning.

Pairing: Construction Contractor Namjoon x Physician’s Associate Female Reader

Genre: Romance; Enemies(?) with Benefits; Enemies(?) to Friends to Lovers; Smut

Word Count: 44,200+

Warnings: Profanity; Alcohol; Depiction of giving birth; Psychological distress caused by a strained parental relationship; They literally aren’t even enemies ya’ll, just kinda pissy for a minute; Explicit sexual content; soft dom Joon if you squint, biting, scratching, fingering, oral (male and female), protected sex, stupid amounts of kissing cause ya’ll know my brand

Note: This story features a black reader-character

Commissioned by namaslaylife on Twitter. You watched the entire insanity of my writing process and I can’t thank you enough for your patience and trusting me to tell your story 💜

Music: Zayn - TiO, Giveon - For Tonight, James Arthur - Can I Be Him, Ella Mai - Naked, Why Don’t We - 8 Letters, Kiana Lede - I Choose You

If you enjoy my writing, please consider buying me a ko-fi or purchasing a fic commission.

Read on AO3

KTH x Reader| The Art of Tenderness

Title: The Art of Tenderness

Rating: Explicit 🔞 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Pairing: apprentice!KTH x master’s daughter!reader

Historical AU (handmade mochi / chapssaltteok store)

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Smut

WC: 9.3k

Warnings: patriarchy, gender discrmination, badly researched cooking techniques and historical inaccuracies. PLEASE, suspend your disbelief. 

Smut warnings: unprotected sex, sweet and urgent and you know me, there is a baby somewhere…

Note: chapssaltteok is the Korean version of mochi, a soft rice dough wrapped around some kind of sweet / savory filling. 

Inspired by: The Princess Bride by Wiliam Goldman– the three famous words “As you wish” make a feature appearance here. 

Summary: KTH lands at your doorstep as an apprentice, ready to learn from your father the art of making chapssaltteok–rice flour confectionery wrapped around sweet and savoury filling. Yet, he learns a whole lot more, as do you—about the art of tenderness.

Made possible only by: Julie @thatlongspringnight, Em @miscelunaaa and Ana @xjoonchildx - THANK YOU Jules for giving me the encouragement, Em for looking through with a fine-tooth comb, and Ana for the reassurance that I didn't go too wrong with this. Also special mention to @hamsterclaw who has heard me bitch ad nauseam about my fickle writer's indecision - finally settled on the 4th AU. LOVE YOU ALL SO SO MUCH.

For the very lovely @sugalaritae - I hope you like it!

Happy Possumversary!

—----------------------------

It’s been a long eight months, and he’s learning as much as he can, as fast as he can.

“Pounding the warm rice dough adds–?” your father asks Taehyung, testing him. To help with the large palace order of chapssaltteok as part of the queen’s birthday celebrations coming up next month, Taehyung must prove to your father he has mastered all the fundamentals of pounding chapssaltteok dough. 

“Elasticity,” Taehyung answers the first quickly. “Texture. And…” What was that last one? Taehyung’s mind races frantically. 

“Tenderness,” you say, rolling your eyes. 

Your father shoots you a look. Be respectful. You nod quickly, though you're still unable to hide the disgust on your face. 

“Tenderness is everything,” your father continues, eyes stern on Taehyung. “Chapssaltteok without tenderness is like a bird without wings. No one likes overly chewy dough, do you hear?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Do you remember how to hold the wooden mallet?” your father continues.

“Two hands, overhead, mallet in the middle of the back of the spine. Arc it over the head, bring it down like the curve of the new moon, hit it in the center of the dough, Master.”

“Good man. Now remember, every upswing is a pause for Y/N to reach into the trough to turn the dough. It also gives the dough a second to rest and build elasticity before being pounded again. Do it just like this.” Grasping his favorite wooden mallet, your father proceeds to show Taehyung again how to heave the mallet up just before the downswing. 

Quickly, your hands dart into the warm dough, turning it. 

Within a split second, your father’s mallet comes swishing through the air, pounding on the dough where your fingers had just been. 

“And, that’s how it’s done,” your father says with proud satisfaction. “Of course, a strong man like you can do it on your own, albeit, it’s more arduous, more painstaking. That’s why in our family, we have a saying, ‘Chapssaltteok made by one person tastes bitter, chapssaltteok made by two tastes better’.”

“Yes, Master,” Kim Taehyung says, head bowed.  

“Now, your turn with the wooden mallet,” your father offers Taehyung his prized mallet, passed through five generations of your family’s storied legacy as chapssaltteok makers for the royal family. 

Kim Taehyung is nervous as hell. 

You glare at him, daring him to make a mistake and hurt your precious fingers.

He’d have to time everything right or else, he’ll be out on the streets once more.

“Ready?” he asks you, tentatively.

“Yes. Just hurry up already!”

“As you wish.” 

And so he takes the first stroke, a smooth upward arc which looks promising. You hurry to turn the dough in the trough. But Kim Taehyung takes too long on the downswing, he’s too soft, too gentle.

“Harder,” you tell him. “Go harder!”

He tries again. But again, he’s too afraid to hurt you and decelerates every time he brings the mallet down.

“Remember, you have to make the dough submit to you,” your father says, taking over the wooden mallet. “Like this, Kim Taehyung.”

Your father shows him again how to pound the dough into pliant submission. Immediately, you slip into a rhythm both familiar and comforting, a father-daughter dance you’ve mastered since you were a wee little girl. Pound. Turn. Pound. Turn. 

Now and then, your hands dip into the water bowl to wet the dough so that it remains soft even in the dry air. You’re just about to turn the dough once more when a sharp cry from your father rings out.

“Appa!”

With a loud crash, the heavy wooden mallet slips from your father’s grasp as he tumbles backward onto the ground.

“Don’t just stand there!” you order Taehyung who was looking dumbfounded, “help me get him up!”

Snapped out of shock, Taehyung rushes to your father’s left side while you take father’s right. “Master! Can you feel your legs?” 

“My back!” Your father’s breath comes out in short, painful gasps. “I think I might have sprained it!” 

Your mind races at what this could mean. Appa always had a weak back, but nothing that has made his whole face pale and ashen like this before. Oh no. What about the large order for the queen’s birthday?

Another groan from your father draws you back to the task at hand. Together, you and Taehyung lift your father and carry him gently into his bed, stopping now and then to adjust him to make him as comfortable as possible. 

“My daughter,” your father says with strained effort, “the palace order for the queen’s birthday…” 

“Shh… Appa. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll help her,” Taehyung adds quickly. 

“I’ll take care of it,” you say sharply. 

“ENOUGH!” your father barks, bringing on a fit of coughs. “This is an order that we cannot fail. You have to work together! Is that clear?”

“Yes, master,” Taehyung answers quickly, the two words familiar on his tongue by now. 

“But Appa–” A stern glare from your father forces you to agree. “Yes, Appa,” you reply obediently. 

“Now get back to work!” your father rasps urgently. “The rice dough must have dried out by now! Better throw it out to the pigs. Soak a new batch of rice and start over!”

He dismisses you and Taehyung with a wave of his hand before closing his eyes. 

“But he doesn’t know anything–” you whisper, hoping to get a word in to your father as Taehyung leaves the room. 

“Then teach him,” he breathes out, breath ragged and shallow, before turning his head away.

Sighing, you head back out into the courtyard only to see Taehyung heading to the east gate. 

“Hey! Where are you going!” you call out.

“I’m going to get something!”

“Come back here! Appa said we have to start on a new batch!”

“You can do it on your own!” he answers hurriedly, voice disappearing as the gate slams behind him.

Angrily, you go measure out a new batch of rice. What kind of apprentice is he? Gone at the first sign of his master’s injury? He’s probably going to the village for soju or for gambling or maybe even for-–women. You don't know why, but your face heats up as you think of that last thing: Kim Taehyung. With women. 

After measuring out the rice, you quickly put it in the earthen pot to soak in the water from the mountain spring. Bringing the sticky, doughy mess to the pigs, you wonder if Kim Taehyung will even come back. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You can, you will handle this entire order on your own! 

It’s almost dusk before he returns, hands carrying a cloth bundle. Without a word, he goes into the kitchen, starts a cooking fire and grabs a claypot. 

“What are you doing? How dare you just come in like that without a word!” you scold.

Ignoring you, he continues to fill the claypot with water before inserting a smaller pot within. You watch him, incredulous at his audacity to completely disregard you. 

“Need thin linen cloths,” he finally says. “It’s a poultice for your father’s back. Hurry before the swelling worsens!” 

Unwrapping the cloth bundle in his hands, he reveals a bunch of wild ginseng, medicinal pine needles and a mossy green tree bark you’ve not seen before. It must have taken him all day to gather these hard-to-find herbs on the mountain slopes. 

“Where did you–” 

“I watched a medicine woman prepare it for my mother before,” he answers, eyes completely focused on washing and soaking the herbs in the inner pot. “Get the linen cloth. I need to wrap it around the boiled herbs and place it on the master’s back.”

A little awed by his voice of authority, you move quickly, getting the strips of linen cloths from the wooden medicinal chest. Dumbly, you hand the cloths over and watch as Taehyung deftly wraps the boiled herbs into neat rectangles. 

You follow Taehyung into your father’s chambers, anxious to do whatever he says is necessary to ease your father’s pain. “Loosen the master’s robes. We have to get the poultice on his bare skin,” he orders quietly. 

Sound asleep from the exertions of the day, your father hardly stirs as you uncover his back. Thankfully, he likes to sleep on his side which makes it so much easier to undress his torso.

Making sure it’s not too hot, Taehyung begins to press the warm poultices along your father’s spine. 

“The swelling has already started, but this should still help speed up the master’s recovery.” 

The quiet confidence with which he says this brings you comfort. Your father has always been as strong as an ox. But lately, you do realize he tires easily–you can tell by his weakened grip on the wooden mallet that he's getting on in his years. It’s scary to see your father like this—so vulnerable.

“Thank you, Kim Taehyung,” you whisper gratefully. 

“I’m sorry I left you to do all the work,” he says, dark eyes imploring you to believe his sincerity. “Had to make sure I reached the summit of Saraksan to gather the herbs before dusk.”

“It’s fine. I’m glad you can help Appa. But tomorrow–” your words trail off. You’ve never asked for help. You can’t. You won’t.

“Yes. Tomorrow, I will help you,” he pauses. “Let me.”

His gaze on you makes your skin flush with heat and you feel the pores in your skin gasping for breath. 

“Fine,” you say, your words coated in reluctance. “See you first thing, tomorrow.”

“As you wish,” Taehyung seizes the opportunity to take his leave and bows to you.

You’re confused as hell. You want to hate him, but you can’t.

It’s not fair that he’s always so calm and collected. Not fair that his very presence riles you. 

Not fair how his eyes look so serious and solemn and his mouth like it’s always ready to stretch into that devastating smile every time he says as you wish.

It’s not fair at all. 

—----------------------------------

The next few days pass by like a blur for Taehyung. 

Heaven knows he has tried to act honorably in his master’s absence. Tried. How many times has he honorably torn his gaze from you in the day only to be plagued by your image at night? 

Damn you. You infuriate him. You always had to demonstrate how to do everything just right. 

Yesterday, you couldn’t just tell him to correct his handling of the rice dough. No, you went ahead and wrapped your hands around his to push against the dough. 

“Feel that?” you’d asked. “The pressure? You can’t be too gentle. You gotta do it like–” Exasperated, you went ahead to position yourself in front of him, putting yourself between him and the table. 

Without thinking, you grabbed his wrists, wrapped his arms around you, then laced your fingers with his before bringing his hands on the warm rice dough, showing him how to pull a single portion of dough with just the right pressure, and then flattening the dough into a perfect circle on your palm. 

Ask him again about the pressure he should use to flatten chapssaltteok dough on the palm of his hand and Kim Taehyung would be forced to admit he’s forgotten everything you taught him. 

All he remembers is your breath–warm and sweet–-feathering against his neck when you tilted up your lips to ask him Feel that? 

Yes, he feels that, all right. He feels your fingers curled between his own, as if they’ve always belonged there. Feels the hardening of his loins every time you look at him with those fiery eyes of yours.

Every day is torture as he rises again for another day of apprenticeship with you. 

How is he supposed to bear the brush of your body against his when you reach over to adjust the amount of filling he puts in the dough. Or the way your hands are so soft in his as you insist him to feel the dough, the texture, the elasticity.

Closing his eyes to force himself to sleep, he tries to breathe evenly, wishing the hardness in his cock will just go away. You consume his every brain cell—he dreams of your curves. The softness. The silkiness. 

Feel. You always tell him. Feel. Feel. Feel.

It’s not fair. 

—————————————————

“Remember to keep a firm grip on the upswing!” you shout out as you watch Taehyung lift the heavy wooden mallet and take a few practice down-swings. 

As he heaves the mallet up into the air, he lets out a low sound that’s a cross between a growl and a grunt. A strange thrill thrums down your spine and you shiver inwardly–it sounds so…so… primal. 

Willing yourself to concentrate, you watch him until you’re satisfied that he won’t smash your fingers when you turn the dough in between the poundings of the mallet.

“Ready?” he asks, this time, with more confidence than the first. 

“Yeah, hurry up! Remember, don’t go soft. Go hard. Go fast. The chapssaltteok needs it.”

“As you wish.” 

You signal for Taehyung to start. He swings the mallet down perfectly with a loud thwack. He heaves it up again, and just at the right moment, your hand flies into the trough to turn the dough. 

Thwack. 

Turn.

Thwack,

Turn.

Surprisingly, he has gotten it. The strength, the momentum, the cadence. Soon enough, you and Taehyung find an easy rhythm and you feel the familiar elasticity forming on the dough. 

While the pounding takes a longer time than when you are doing it with your father, you’re impressed that Taehyung is never off beat, maintaining a smooth, easy arc on the upswing and downswing. You think he would tire by now, but he keeps going, demonstrating an impressive stamina. 

Finally satisfied with the dough, you stop him. “Feel this?” you ask as you proffer the dough to him. “See how it’s still slightly warm? Feel the bounce?” Taehyung puts down the mallet and tentatively reaches for the dough. Impatiently, you wrap your fingers around his, pushing them deep into the soft, warm dough. “It needs to yield to your touch, like that.” 

He makes a noise in his throat, unable to trust himself to speak. 

You mistake it for a sign that he doesn’t understand. So you pull his hand closer to yours, pressing it more deeply into the dough, your fingers intertwined with his. 

“It’s ready when the slightest touch can make an indentation on the dough’s surface,” you lecture. “Press deeper and you feel some resistance. That’s actually good because we want the dough to be able to contain the filling–whether it’s red bean or sesame or lotus paste–nothing should ever ever leak out.”

Well. He wishes his cock can contain itself. Wordlessly, he nods to you. Better to be silent than to speak words he should not utter. 

“Come on. We have just two more days to go before the palace delivery,” you sigh, worried that your father will not heal in time. “Back to work.”

“As you wish,” he says, in that tender, quiet way of his that makes your insides go all queasy. 

Damn this man and his infuriating as-you-wish-es.

—---------------------------------

Your father’s back is healing nicely, but he fears that the journey to the palace on horseback will trigger another sprain. 

“I’m sorry, child, but it looks like Kim Taehyung has to go with you.”

“But, Appa, I can make the journey on my own! I went with you last time!” 

“It is not safe for a woman to travel alone. What if something happens to the chapssaltteok along the way? What if something happens to you?”

You know he’s right. It’s just that wanting to prove yourself has been your battlecry for so long that it’s almost instinctive to protest anytime he tells you to do something with Kim Taehyung. 

And so it’s settled. Together, you will head to the palace with the prepared chapssaltteok tomorrow. 

Taehyung busies himself by packing the supplies for the fresh chapssaltteok that will be made onsite for the royal family. By order of the palace, preparation of every morsel that will pass through the lips of the royal family must be supervised by royal courtiers in case of an assassination attempt by poisoning. 

The entire journey will take a full three days. You worry how your father will cope without you as you fill stacks of polished wooden boxes with neat rows of chapssaltteok. These ready-made chapssaltteok will be for the guests and palace attendees, not the royal family. Still, they need to look presentable, and so you wrap each box with beautiful colored silk. 

“Did you embroider this?” Kim Taehyung’s voice startles you. Turning to him, you watch as he fingers the singular cherry blossom sewn on each of the silk cloths. 

“The queen’s favorite color is rumored to be pink. So I thought I should add a pink cherry blossom on each piece of silk,” you answer, cheeks warming. “I spent all my summer nights on these.”

“It’s beautiful.” Taehyung looks wistful as he outlines the delicate thread of the cherry blossoms. “My mother embroiders—waves, peaches, flowers. Her eyes are no good now. But still she tries. She does it by feel. I don’t have the heart to tell her that sometimes her peaches look like the Biseondae rocks, all jagged and sharp. Or that her flowers look like chickens!”

You burst out in laughter. It’s a full, rich laugh that bubbles out of you without warning. 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you laugh,” he says, a glint of delight in his eyes. “And you look so pretty when you laugh.”

Kim Taehyung winces inwardly, wondering why the hell he said that.

The shock of the compliment stuns you into complete silence for a moment. There were some suitors here and there but you’ve never really cared for them. No one you’ve met has been so… so forward as Kim Taehyung.

“Your presence here hasn’t been exactly an occasion for me to laugh about,” you confess, “it feels like…”

“Like what?” he asks, curious.

You swallow hard, because the truth sounds so childish. 

“Like you’re trying to take my place,” you say, a little too vulnerable than you’d wish. Damn. Why do you feel compelled to be so honest with him? 

Clearing your throat, you snap yourself back to reality. “And. For your information, I’m actually pretty all the time,” you say evenly. “Too bad, you haven’t noticed.”

Kim Taehyung turns a shade of red at your chastisement. Oh he’s noticed, all right. Noticed too well. Too often. Too much. 

“Go to sleep, Kim Taehyung. We set off early tomorrow,” you wave him off, hoping you looked bored and uninterested. 

And again, Taehyung says those three little words that always seem to mean something else—exactly what, you don’t really know.

“As you wish.”

—-----------------------------

The journey to the palace is long, but thankfully, uneventful, helped by the expert care Taehyung gives to the horses. 

After reaching the palace grounds, you and Taehyung are ushered to the common courtyard, lining up with other artisans and craftsmen bearing gifts for the queen’s birthday celebrations.

“Y/L/N chapssaltteok makers! Please follow me!” shouts out one of the courtiers who struts the courtyard like a peacock—one which has his head stuck firmly up his ass. Together, you follow him to the servants’ wing. “Here’s your room! Kitchens are just round the corner! You’re scheduled to make the chapssaltteok at noon tomorrow! Don’t be late!”

“My apologies,” you say, eyes demurely lowered. “May I enquire if there’s an extra room? You see, my father unfortu—”

“Woman! I have no time for this! All servant quarters are full! You hear? Full!” With a dismissive sneer, he marches out, hurrying out to deal with accommodation for the next in line. 

The room is bare and unfurnished with a pile of straw sleeping mats in the corner. Worriedly, you look at Taehyung, unsure of what to say.

He clears his throat. “I um, I can sleep with the horses. In the stables.”

You snort. 

“Have you even seen that place? You need your rest Taehyung. I can’t let you sleep in the stables! You would hardly be in any condition to do the pounding tomorrow!”

“But wouldn’t people talk? I worry about your reputation–”

“Let them think whatever they want,” you say airily. “For all you know, they think you’re my father. Or husband.” 

Taehyung’s eyes meet yours briefly. Husband. Why on earth does that word sound so loaded with meaning? 

“As long as you don’t get such ideas, I think we will be just fine,” you say firmly. 

Taehyung nods dumbly, wondering what has come over you. How could you even bear to sleep in the same room as him? Didn’t you hate him?

“The chapssaltteok must come first,” you say authoritatively. “We are only here because of the chapssaltteok.”

Your family name is at stake. You will not fail now. You shall not. 

—----------------------------------------------------------

Dusk falls by the time all the food and supplies have been unloaded and deposited safely in the kitchens. 

Small outdoor fires dot the courtyard are tended by servants who take turns to watch over pots and cauldrons of simmering broth and stews that require overnight cooking. 

You meet noodle makers from the north. Fruit merchants from the south. The atmosphere is celebratory but an undercurrent of unease hums within you. You won’t be able to fully relax until the chapssaltteok for the royal family are finished. 

After a meager meal for the guest servants provided by the palace, you and Taehyung proceed to soak the rice grains for tomorrow’s chapssaltteok. Later, he heads off to check on the horses, while you hurry to prepare for bed.

When you return to your room, you find that Taehyung has already laid out the sleeping mats. He gives you the corner furthest away from the door, where the winter draft is least likely to get to you, stacking three mats on each other, while leaving only one for himself. 

“Kim Taehyung, are you sure? We can go two mats each.”

“I'll be fine,” he says quietly. “Have a good night.” Pulling the thick bedding over himself, he turns his back away from you respectfully and faces the door.

You’re grateful that for once, Kim Taehyung didn’t follow your suggestions and say the usual as-you-wish. The winter winds are brutal. Three straw mattresses may not seem like much but it’s better than nothing. 

Snuggling under the thick blankets you’ve brought from home, you fall into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of making the best chapssaltteok tomorrow; chapssaltteok fit for a queen.

—---------------------------------

Kim Taehyung has a hard time sleeping. It’s profoundly cold and the winter draft snakes between the layers of blankets and soaks into his bones. Shivering, he tries to distract himself. Turning so that his back towards the draft, his sensitive nose picks out a familiar scent. 

It’s how your hair smells, like the pine trees near the sea, which Taehyung has only been to once. 

Groaning quietly, he distracts himself from the cold with images of your warm body close to his. He sees you pressed up against him at the work table in the kitchen, your fingers brushing against his as you show him the way to close the seam of each chapssaltteok. 

He shudders when he remembers how you’d leaned over to correct the placement of the sesame filling in the rice dough, your chest brushing sweetly against his arm under layers of cotton and silk.

He wonders how soft and warm you’d feel under him, welcoming him into your slick heat, how you’d take him in so well, legs wrapped tightly around his hips, ankles crossed around his back urging him deeper. You’ll cry out his name, over and over, moaning for more, begging him to go harder.

Kim Taehyung is sure if his master knew his dreams of you, he would be out on the streets in no time. But by the fires of hell, he’s not in the position to dictate his dreams. He’s so hard now, that it fucking hurts to just lie there. 

Opening his eyes, he lets his eyes get accustomed to the dark room illuminated faintly by moonlight. He can just about make out your sleeping form, rising and falling under the layers of blankets. 

But he also hears a quiet chattering. Realizing that your teeth are chattering from the cold, he gets up and gives you his thickest comforter his mother had sewn for him when she could still see. 

The gold silk cover is embroidered with a beautiful peach tree laden with ripe fruit. He lays it gently over your sleeping form and then goes back to his own sparse bedding, willing for sleep to come.

He hopes you’ll be warm.

—----------------------------------

Dawn creeps quietly into your consciousness. You stir, thinking how strangely cozy you feel. As you sit up, you discover an extra thick comforter piled on top of your blankets.

Fingering the embroidery, you realize that this must be Taehyung’s. You glance at the door, expecting to see him still sleeping, but he’s no longer there. 

Today is the day to make the chapssaltteok for the royal family! Last year, some of the young princes and princesses came to watch your father and you pound the rice flour, cheering you on. 

This year, you’ve remembered to pack a clean set of clothes. It’s so cold but you know you’d feel better with fresh underclothes. Disrobing quickly, you are just about to shrug on your base layer when the door bursts open.

“Ahhh!” You scream trying to cover yourself.

“Ahhhh!” Taehyung averts his eyes.

“Why didn’t you lock the door?”

“Why didn’t you knock?”

You accuse each other at the same time.

“Leave! You m-mule!” you sputter.

“I can’t. The royal courtier is right outside the door! He wants us to start! I’ve come to tell you we’re up now!”

“J-just turn around then!” This was not expected. Last year, everything was planned meticulously to the minute but this year seems to be a lot more chaotic. 

Taehyung turns obediently around. 

“D-don’t look!” you warn.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He turns around, closes his eyes even. But he sees you, sees every curve of your hips and breasts and thigh, sees the slant of your shoulder, sees the dip between your cleavage, the valley between your legs. 

He tries to think about the kindness of his master. Tries to think about honoring his parents. About anything, really, except how he wants to touch you. Right now.

Swallowing hard, he pleads, “We have to hurry. He says the banquet master wants a sample.”

“I’m hurrying!” 

After securing your robes, tie the belt around your jacket, you take a deep breath at the door next to Taehyung. Nervously, you smooth your hair. 

Taehyung turns to look at you. “You look nice,” he says reassuringly. “I heard some of the royal family will come to watch us.”

“Well. Let’s give them a good show then,” you say, determinedly. 

He grins, his smile wide and genuine. 

“As you wish.” 

—----------------------------------------------------

It turns out the royal courtiers are incredibly short-staffed today. After they sort through your ingredients and equipment, and search your sleeves and pockets for possible vials of poison, they leave you and Kim Taehyung alone. 

Not so, the royal family. You’re aware that every eye is on you as you pour the steaming rice dough into the trough. The young royal children are here along with the crown prince with a few of his companions, a tight crowd of rowdy men, laughing among themselves. You can’t really hear what they’re laughing about, but you feel distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Are you all right?” Taehyung asks, concern written on his face. 

“Yes, I’m fine.” You brush off the unease of having the prince and his companions leering at you. 

“Ready?” he asks, heavy mallet high in his arms.

“Ready,” you say. 

And so it starts. Taehyung gets into the rhythm immediately, and you match him at each upswing of his mallet. Somehow, he seems stronger than before, faster, each stroke precise and sure. The children clap and cheer as they watch this lovely display of skill. Inwardly you grin, proud of your heritage, feeling the dough turn pliant under your fingertips at every handling. 

You indicate to Taehyung that the dough is almost ready. “Last one!” you call. With a last, loud satisfying thwack, Taehyung delivers the last blow on the dough. 

You’re about to take the dough to the makeshift table to demonstrate wrapping the chapssaltteok with the red bean paste when a comment from the royal men drifts over to your ears.

“Who would want a chapssaltteok when you can have her instead?”

“Ahh… I guess we should take bets–does she have a salty or sweet filling?”

“Well, we will only find out if we each get a taste!”

“Who goes first?“

“I don’t mind going second, as long as I get seconds!” 

“As the prince, I abstain from all forms of sloppy seconds—”

Your face burns with embarrassment. Fists rigid with anger, you can hardly control yourself. Oh how you want to hit them! Fuming, you saunter up to them and look squarely at them in the eye.

“My apologies, Crown Prince and honored companions. I regret to disappoint your honorable selves, your servant is neither salty nor sweet. My father has always said I was born…spicy. Would you care to try?” The language is reverential, yet your tone is insouciant.

It’s a long moment before the prince and his coterie recover from shock at your words. He lifts a hand to strike your cheek, “You bitch! The audacity! Guards! Why you–”

“---Please forgive my sister! She knows not what she speaks!” Taehyung moves swiftly between you and the crown prince, bowing deeply, almost on his knees. “Father says she’s only good for making chapssaltteok since she was dropped on her head as a baby.” Turning to you, he says smoothly, “Little one, please hurry on the chapssaltteok. Only the best for the Queen and her family.” 

“Yes, brother,” you say, grateful for Taehyung’s intervention. You’re trembling partly out of anger but also out of fear. You could have gotten into very very serious trouble. 

“Well, you better teach her not to speak then! A woman should work quietly! Not speak!” the crown prince spits out. “Train her properly!” 

“Certainly, your highness,” Taehyung continues, bowing multiple times to the crown prince and to each of his companions until they are satisfied and saunter away. 

Your fingers are shaking as you pull the rice dough for wrapping. How dare they?! How dare they!

You struggle to encase the sweet red bean filling with the rice dough. Usually, you can do this with your eyes closed but today each of your fingers are mutinous. There’s no way you can do this well. 

“Kim Taehyung? T-take over. I can’t right now. This order is too important to mess up. For now, your chapssaltteok is  better than mine.”

A range of emotions flit across his face—Fear. Confusion. Panic. “Are you… are you not well? Because I need you—I can’t do this on my own.”

“I think I need a walk. Away from here. Just for a while. You’ll be fine. I won’t be long.”

Taehyung puts his palm over yours. “What if you meet the prince again? I won’t be there to protec—”

“Kim Taehyung, why do you even care? I’ll be fine,” you insist. “J-just start first, please.” Your voice is shaky, but you won’t cry in front of this man. 

He’s worried for you, but he knows it’s best to let you decide what’s best for yourself. 

“My chapssaltteok will never be as good as yours. Ever.” He looks around and sees no one watching, so he reaches out and gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “But… as you wish.” 

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

You walk in the servants’ courtyard. 

Each step you take, you imagine yourself walking further and further away from the prince’s leering gaze, further and further away from those despicable words. You imagine yourself putting whole mountain ranges, oceans wider than the earth between you and those terrible moments in the prince’s presence. 

You think of your father and how proud he is of you. How your ancestors, a long line of them before you nodding sagely, deeming you worthy to bear the family name and the family legacy.

You breathe in and out, letting go of the fear, the anger, the dirty feeling of being leered at and toyed with.

And you don’t know why, but then the picture of Kim Taehyung comes to you. You see his gentle eyes, hear his soothing voice, hear the words he likes to say—as you wish.

It dawns on you. It dawns on you that there’s no one else you’d rather make chapssaltteok with.

Chapssaltteok made by one person tastes bitter, chapssaltteok made by two tastes better.  

Gaining strength, you hurry back to your corner. It’s time. You won’t let your family down. Not your father. And not Kim Taehyung.

And you definitely won’t let yourself down.

———--------------------------------

“Kim Taehyung! Kim Taehyung! The queen loves your chapssaltteok!” you shout your happy news as you fling open the wooden door. You heard from the dishwasher who heard from the royal table’s servant girl who heard from the banquet master that the entire royal family wa smitten with the chapssaltteok. 

Hastening to tell Taehyung the news, you stumble over the step into the room, causing you to fly across the room. You would’ve hit the floor face first if not for how Kim Taehyung catches you in his arms. 

Deliriously overjoyed and not caring about the awkward position you find yourself in—his arms right around your waist, your hands clasping his neck—you beam at him. “She loves them! They love them!” The words tumble out with pleasure from your lips.

“Who? What?” he asks, smiling to see you so exuberant. 

“The queen! Everyone! They loved your chapssaltteok! You did it!”

“We did it, Y/N,” he says, humbled and grateful that it has turned out all right.

“We did it. We did it!” In your exuberance, you squeal with delight, arms still looped around him. You accidentally pull on him, causing him to lose his balance and tumble on top of you, your back thankfully landing on the pile of mats and comforters.

Noses bumping, you’re suddenly so very very close.

It’s too much for him. To have you pressed against him so intimately, so softly and warmly. Quickly he averts his eyes and tries to push himself up. Any second longer and he will drown in the deep pull of your gaze.

Heart racing wildly, you reach up to the side of his face, you ask him quietly, “Why can’t you look at me, Kim Taehyung?”

“Because I can’t,” he says, staring resolutely ahead.

“Why not?” 

He would not speak. The words would be an abomination if his master were here. 

“Tell me,” you whisper, breath held tight. “Tell me because I need to know I’m not the only one dreaming that there’s something between us.”

“I can’t look at you.” He lets out a long, low exhale. “Can’t look because then I would want to touch you. And taste you. And then—” he falters, “—then I’d want to feel you.”

“Kim Taehyung, look at me,” you whisper, urgent and needy, “I want you, too. Want you to do all that to me.”

Time stands still as the enormity of your words sinks in. “Really?” he asks, not daring to hope. It can’t be.

You refuse to wait any longer. “Feel me.”

It’s a declaration. It’s a command. It’s a promise. 

“As you wish.”

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

Kim Taehyung doesn’t know which is better. How you feel. How you sound. Or how you taste.

“Taehyung. Please.” 

You’re pleading for his fingers to stroke you again under your robes—loosened and dragging on the floor.

Skin against skin, his hands roam over you, between, below, everywhere, feeling you tremble and quake under his touch.

“You’re so soft, soft for me in all the best places,” he murmurs as he plants a kiss on your hip. “Soft for me, here,” he whispers against the curve of your breasts. “And here,” he envelopes a nipple in his mouth, his tongue toys with you, swirling the tight bud in his mouth, lapping at the hardening pleasure, teeth gently scraping across the soft skin of your breast. 

It hurts just enough to induce a moan. You clutch at strands of his hair, arching into him, “T-taehyung. Hnnnnnng.” You pull his head to your other breast, desperate for the hot brand of his touch and tongue there, too. 

“Can’t get enough, huh?” he smirks against your skin. Who knew the master’s daughter is so needy under the fiery personality, so deliciously ripe under her layers of cotton and silk. 

“N-no. Not enough,” you warble, as you feel his hand travels downward, parting your robes, fingers sliding under your underclothes, gently exploring the expanse of the silky smooth skin there. Then, lower, and lower he goes, his clever, clever hands rendering you dumb and stupid with every caress. 

Reflexively, you cant your hips into his touch. “F-feel me,” you beg.

“I’ve got you,” he says, mouth close by your ear now, drawling out each word like warm rice wine poured long and slow. He positions his lips behind your earlobe and drags his teeth across your skin slowly, back and forth, back and forth, in the same slow rhythm as how his fingers now dance right at where you need him most at the apex of your thighs. 

“Gods, Taehyung,” You're moaning at how good it feels, nipples peaking with anticipation, clitoris humming with the pleasure he’s working slowly into you, the dizzying dance of his fingers building a crescendo of pleasure. “Don’t stop,” you sob, heat building in your center. 

“Not gonna stop. Not when you’re so warm for me,” he shifts down your body to position his head between your legs. Locking eyes with you, he parts your robes completely, and kisses the inside of your thighs.

“Not when you’re so wet,” he groans, as he tongues his way into your most intimate place. The first lick has his cock straining ever harder against his own robes.

“Not when you’re so messy,” he says, mouth sucking on the soft skin here, teeth gently nipping at the flesh there, smearing his lips wet and glossy with your arousal.

“I need you, there. Right there,” you whimper.

Heavens. The way you sound. Goes straight to his groin. “Here?” he asks, sliding a tentative finger up and down the slit where you’re so wet for him.

“Y-yes.”

“You’re fucking tight,” he breathes against your your mound as he now intrudes a finger, then another, into your wet walls.

“Oh Taehyung,” you whine with pleasure as you feel him rub against the spot inside you. 

He works and works on you, learning the speed and tempo and pressure you like just by looking at the way your face twists tight with need: You feel everything – his fingers inside you, his thumb on your clit—rubbing, fondling, pleasuring you in all the right ways in all the right places, his tongue darting out, curling into you, flicking across and inside you.

“I-I’m cumming,” your voice quivers at the force of the quake you can feel rolling into you. 

“I know,” Taehyung is breathing hard now, his cock harder than ever as he sees you so responsive under his ministrations. “I feel you. You’re soaking wet. Come. Come.”

With limbs suddenly locked in pleasure, toes curled tight, your orgasm grips you, and you come—short, sharp gasps for air punctuating a litany of expletives that spills from your mouth. 

“Hell’s demons, you’re so wild for me,” he says as he drifts a longer finger down to slide up and down where your arousal has gathered in a sticky sticky mess. “So wild–” he says, bringing his finger glossy with your arousal to his lips for another taste, “so sweet. Like a wildflower.” 

You shiver at his words, it’s thrilling. Wildflower. 

“What do you need?” he drawls, as he brings it that same finger right by your lips. You can smell yourself, how desperate your body is for more of him. “I’ll give you anything,” he kisses your eyelids, your cheek, the side of your nose. “Anything.”

“Need you… need your cock,” you say, reaching out to palm his thick girth under his thinnest robe. He lets out a low hiss as you reach for him through his robes, feeling the rigid shaft, relishing its curve, its heat.

“Feel this? Feel how hard I am for you?” he grits out as your fingers trail fire in their wake. “I need you too.”

“Don’t wait anymore, then,” you say, reaching under his robes to cup his balls, stroking his solid length with your palm. Your finger traces the long vein, thumb smearing the drops of pre-cum around the head of his cock, over and across the slit at the tip, back and forth, every swipe drawing a choked moan from him. “Kim Taehyung,” you say as you slide down to your knees, “I want your cock inside me.”

“H-holy hell!” he gasps, as you ease your lips over him, tongue swirling over the liquid pearling at the top, tasting him, then sliding and spiraling down the shaft, slippery now with arousal and saliva; the glide easy because you are so hungry for him; hard because he’s thick and girthy as the weight of his cock sits heavy in your mouth. 

He makes that low, primal sound again—the one that does something to your insides. Encouraged, you take him deeper down your throat. He glances at you, mouth choked full of him, hand caressing your jaw tenderly, “S-stop, wildflower. I can’t go gentle if you keep that up.” 

You feel yourself getting even wetter at his words. In one last grasp of heady euphoria, you pull off agonizingly slowly, relishing every groan of pleasure from him, your lips tightening into a vacuum as you near the tip, reluctant to let go of your position of power while his fingers curl tighter and tighter into your hair as he tries so hard to stop himself from cumming. 

“No more. No more. Please, take off all your clothes. Want you. Want you bare for me.”

“Want you bare, too,” you give an airy desperate whine. 

Quickly disrobing, he looks at you spread beneath him, naked on the layers of mats and blankets. He pauses a little, thinking how he’s imagined this over and over, but nothing prepares him for the real thing. In a tight exhale, he calls you, “Beautiful. Wildflower.”

“Beautiful and cold,” you say, the chilly air causing you to crave his body on you something awful. “Come inside me. Fuck me, please.”

It’s an invitation he cannot resist. Quickly, he positions himself over you, one hand quickly flicking a blanket over both your bare bodies. “Feel better?” he asks.

“Better,” you sigh, as you welcome the delicious heat of his body on top of you. “But not best. Not yet.”

“So impatient,” he chides gently as he slots himself between your legs. “Just get used to me first, all right?” He rubs his cock between at your center, feeling the lingering slick there, rocking his hips slowly into you, drowning in how good it feels because there’s nothing between you.

“I’m ready. I know I am. Please come inside me,” you cry desperately.

He kisses your jaw , then the column of your neck, then the slant of your shoulder, murmuring each word slowly while he sinks his cock tenderly into you:

as

you

wish.

You whine at the stretch, wince as you try to receive his thick girth, a shadow of pain flitting across your face as cunt swallows his length slowly inch by inch. “So big, Taehyung,” breath catching in your throat.

Finally, fully lodged inside you, his balls are flushed against your ass. “I’m inside you, wildflower–” he pants, awestruck, holding back as much as he can to not start thrusting into you and coming right this moment. “–all of me.”

“I feel it,” you pant back, “feel all of you.”

“Yeah? Feel my cock? I feel you too,” he grits out, thinking he might blow his load any moment. “You’re so tight. And wet.” Gods. He’s going crazy with lust. 

“Taehyung, move, I can take it. Want it. Want you.”

He starts thrusting, hitting deep inside you, pelvis rocking against your clitoris, drawing cries of pleasure from you. 

“Want my wildflower,” he says, eyes shut with effort, “you’re so perfect.”

You meet his every stroke, hips rocking against every roll and every thrust of his, crying out at every surge of his cock in and out of you. It starts to get hot under the covers, your skin sliding and slipping against the sweat of his skin until it becomes a little hard to grip on to each other.

“Too hot. Let me get on top,” you murmur. “Let me ride you.”

He nods, eager to slip back into your warmth again, however you want him, he’ll make it work. 

Throwing off the covers, you climb on top of him, skin flushed and heated, shiny and glowing with a sheen of sweat. With your full breasts swaying tantalisingly before him, you slide slowly on his cock, glad that he’s holding the base for you to take him bit by bit.

“This angle–gods, you make me so full.”

“Yeah?” he asks, mesmerized by the way you’re so beautiful sitting on him like that. With one hand on his chest, you start to move your hips against his, finding your own rhythm and position to suck his cock inside your cunt and slide it out, rubbing your clit against his pelvis. He feels you clenching even harder around him. 

It all feels too insanely good. The pitchy cries you make as you rock on him over and over drive him wild; your tight, slick cunt swallowing his cock. He feels his balls tighten, the end of the chase excruciatingly close.

“N-need to cum,” he groans. “Cum with me.”

“Go hard. Go fast. I won’t break,” you cry urgently as he starts thrusting in earnest. “Harder.”

With a low growl, Taehyung thrusts further, deeper into your sweet heat, hands reaching for your breasts, cupping their full weight, thumbing the peaked nipples, lightly pinching them as he feels your walls tightening him. 

When his lips tremble and his breath starts getting ragged, you know he’s close, you feel the cock inside you twitch, filling you impossibly full until his fingers fly to your hips and grip you to anchor you to him. “Take me,” he growls. “Take me.” He thrusts hard and deep into you, shuddering as he cums, pulling you tight into him. 

You cry out his name when you feel the hot spurt of his seed fill you in ropes of cum, clit swollen and tender from how hard you ride him.“Tae. Tae. Tae. Tae.” 

Limp, with exhaustion, you fall onto him, your head resting in the crook of his neck as he holds you, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and sticky with lovemaking.

Tomorrow, you will think about the consequences when you return to your father. 

Tonight, you will just enjoy sleeping in his arms—wrapped in him, and he in you.

—------------------------------------

The wedding celebrations last for three days. 

It comes right after the unveiling of the new wooden sign above the storefront. On the left panel by the door, is Kim Taehyung’s name as the new sole proprietor of the chapssaltteok store your father has sold to him. On the right panel is a beautifully etched carving of a wildflower, the eolleji—rare, beautiful and treasured. 

While Joseon custom dictates that a woman cannot own a business, Taehyung’s decision of having the wildflower take equal pride of place on the storefront is enough. He has pledged his life, his heart, his everything for you.

You finger the elegant lines of the flower along the wood grain, thinking of how they seem to curve in and out and hold the promise of new life, just like the curves of your body. 

Your fingers fly to the gentle bump in your belly at the sudden flutter—a sweet secret you and Taehyung made weeks ago at the palace. The little one seems to crave another wedding chapssaltteok. 

“As you wish,” you murmur quietly, because you now know it also means I love you.

Taehyung hears the words and looks at you, his eyes filled with tenderness. The family saying has been right all along:

Chapssaltteok made by one person tastes bitter, chapssaltteok made by two tastes better.

~ THE END ~

Please do not translate, post or upload this content onto any platform including YouTube without permission. This is a work of fiction.

Posted on July 17, 2022 by @sahmfanficbts. All Rights Reserved © 2022.

My other KTH fic (Chococlate boutique AU) is here

More from my masterlist here

Dear Reader,

Growing up, I was basically left alone and spent so much time watching TV soaps. I guess you can tell a lot of my fics just come from those kinds of storylines.

A TON of artistic licence was taken to write this fic. I was going from bakery AU to Samurai AU, to Dragon Warrior AU before settling on chapssaltteok Joseon dynasty AU. I beg for forgiveness from all my Korean readers. Please let me know if there are gross inaccuracies. I'll try my best to edit them.

Here's a little more about the rare wildflower called the eolleji:

Just outside Seoul, a wildflower heaven

In spring, hundreds of wildflowers bloom across Korea. First comes the pheasant’s-eye, which blooms after the snow melts, followed by liverw

KOREAJOONGANGDAILY.JOINS.COM

Wishing you a great summer, or winter, or whatever season you may be in, all best.

Love,

Sam

march 9, 1872.

may you always trust in the strength of your own heart. may all your trials end in fullest bloom.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: smut, romance, fluff words: 3k a/n: we’re finally here.

moonlit throne index. this is the final drabble. start from the beginning?

Tonight, the quiet, constant moon is the sole witness to your eager steps as you and the king of Joseon hurry down the corridor towards your chambers, your faces alight with mischievous grins. The sleeves of your favorite hanbok billow in the balmy wind of a coming spring, the pink fabric edges worn soft with time. In Yoongi’s arms, he cradles a tray, trying his best not to spill the contents of the covered bowls it supports.

Keep reading

A Holiday Snowdown (M)

Author: @kpopfanfictrash as part of the Happy Ho-lidays collab with @floralseokjin , @suga-kookiemonster , @sugaurora , @underthejoon, @winetae​ and @btssavedmylifeblr​

Pairing: Jungkook / Reader (female)

Genre:  Enemies to Lovers / Ski Resort!AU / Snowboarder!AU

Word Count: 36,333

Rating/Warnings: 18+ for sexual content. Fingering, oral (female receiving), hand job, mutual masturbation, breast play, some face riding, dirty talk, orgasm denial, clit smacking (is there a non plural form of this?), cum shot on chest

Mentions of past death (does not occur during story). Ankle injury (non-graphic). Min Yoongi is an enthusiastic MC. Bam is adorable. Jungkook has both lip and eyebrow piercing

Summary:  The Inn on the Hill is in trouble. Or that’s what your boss, Namjoon, says during the last-minute All Staff holiday meeting he calls. You need money, and you need money fast, or his parents are planning to sell the resort. When no one can think of an easy solution, Namjoon proposes his parents’ idea: a weeklong social media blitz with a celebrity guest. The celebrity? None other than Jeon Jungkook himself: two-time Olympic gold medalist, world-class snowboarder and the nation’s sweetheart. What’s the problem? You happen to have met Jeon Jungkook before, and sincerely hoped you’d never see him again.

Keep reading

the art of war | jhs

PAIRING royal Hoseok x reader

GENRE royal au. arranged marriage au. enemies to lovers. friends to enemies to lovers.

RATING 18+. EXPLICIT.

WC 5.1K

SUMMARY The bells are tolling and you've just been married to a man you despise on Christmas Day. On your wedding night, locked alone in a room with him, tensions are rising. And so is the past.

WARNINGS enemies to lovers and banter during and before sex. use of she/her pronouns to refer to reader. multiple orgasms. fingering. praise kink. handjob. unprotected sex. creampie.

AN HAPPY BIRTHDAY @xjoonchildx!!!!!!! while this was supposed to be a drabble, the muse (dearest Hobi) has been singing especially so recently and I couldn't help myself... ANYWAYS. I am wishing you the warmest, most joy-filled birthday and year ahead of you, you deserve the entire world. Sending so much love.

And a special thank you to @dntaewithluv who read this and somehow convinced me adding 1k extra of foreplay would be a good idea.

THE ART OF WAR

The wedding bells have long since stopped their tolling, but you swear that your ears are still ringing. From the choir of twenty, from the glockenspiel that rung out above your heads as you ran from the church, from the far-too-raucous reception.

Far-too-raucous because you couldn’t comprehend how anyone could be celebrating you marrying a man you couldn’t stand in a sham of an arranged marriage. Well, your mother wouldn’t call it a sham. She would call it one of her best business moves. You, on the other hand, had a very different sentiment about it all.

You watch as Hoseok, your now husband—! the word sounds so foreign on your tongue—shuts the door behind him and throws you a small smile. It’s not the first one you’ve received from him tonight, though the others read more like the others are looking, grin and bear it, while this one seems more an accident. More, I’m so tired of this bullshit. I know you are too. But a moment after the soft expression fills his face, he’s quickly rearranging his features to something stoic, cold.

Still. Though the kind gesture shocks you and runs like ice through your veins, you don’t return the smile.

Instead, you turn towards the vanity that sits in the corner of the room.

Before you in the mirror, you hardly recognize the scene: you, in a white poof of a wedding dress, every inch the daughter of a duchess. And Hoseok, behind you, Hoseok, in his wedding regalia, the sword still tucked into his belt, Hoseok, loosening his collar. You watch as his long fingers reach and bend, his touch gentle but commanding.

But there is a small part of you that does recognize this, that remembers this, from some long forgotten daydream. A daydream of you and Hoseok, together.

You and Hoseok hadn’t always been bitter. There was a time when you were children, teens even, when you would have called him your friend. Your best friend.

There was a time when you two would crawl under the bed when your parents came calling that it was time to go, desperate to spend “Five more minutes!” together. There was a time when he used to climb the oak tree in your backyard after scaling the stone wall, and slip in through your window. A time when you would lay, side by side, staring up at the yellow paper stars that you never bothered to take down from the ceiling as you grew older. You’d tell him it was too high to reach. But when the taller boy offered to take them down for you, you’d shake your head and say you’d do it yourself, secretly happy to have avoided the funeral of your favorite decorations.

Those stars still hung above your bed in your parents manor, though these days their gaze felt more like a bad memory than anything twinkling and good. Maybe it was time to take them down after all.

As you and Hoseok had grown out of childhood, things changed. There was never a specific point that you could locate as the beginning of the end. And there were good years too, years teetering on the brink of tension and unspoken words. Years where you had grown so close that the others thought of you as destined. You would ride into the forest together in the middle of the night, stealing horses from the stable, only to go skinny dipping in the moonlight. You would write letters to one another, letters you still kept tucked beneath your bed, too afraid of what you would lose if you threw them out.

But as you neared your eighteenth birthday, Hoseok had grown more withdrawn. He would disappear for long hours into his room. And soon withdrawn became coldness as you found him shutting doors quickly behind him with a hard look in his eyes, like he had something to hide.

And the truth was, you did have something to hide. You’d taken up an interest in the art of war, particularly hand-to-hand combat. As a young woman in this day and age, it was forbidden for someone like you, especially someone of noble birth, to participate in such a craft.

When you had finally mustered up the courage to tell him that you were no longer meeting up for midnight rides because you were training instead, he had said something that had your blood running cold.

“War will never be for women.”

“War ought to be for no one,” you had spat back quickly. “So who’s to say it can’t be for me!”

The conversation had devolved into harsh words and harsher sentiments. That was the last time you both had spoken for years.

Until one morning your mother had waltzed into your room with what she had called “thrilling news.”

Thrilling news that had landed you in a white dress with Hoseok at the end of the aisle, his gaze locked on you as the bells tolled and you walked towards your fate.

At first it’s just a glance. Hoseok looking over his shoulder at you as you tinker with the bow on an unopened wedding gift, left on your vanity. It’s just one glance.

But one glance turns into a second. His gaze skating over you as you begin to undo the intricate updo that you had insisted on earlier but now regret.

“You missed one.”

“I didn’t.”

But before you can really argue with him, before you can really absorb what he’s said as an insult about your personal ability to undo your own hair, he’s gliding across the room and plucking a pin out of the back of your head.

You hold your breath in shock. His fingers linger.

Your eyes catch in the mirror and hold for a second that stretches into eons. And then you come back to yourself. You don’t thank him. You simply snatch it out of his hands with a little huff and go back to what you’re doing.

But to your dismay, he doesn’t move.

“Is that the best excuse you could come up with to get me to touch you?”

You stand up so fast your chair falls down behind you as you whirl around to face him face to face.

But you didn’t expect him to be this close, you didn’t expect him to be chest-to-chest with you. Didn’t expect his lips to be inches away from yours—

“How dare you—”

“Is it that hard to pay attention when all you’re thinking about is kissing me?”

You’re furious, flames roving through your chest like a slow burning wildfire, and he’s so close and his breath is mingling with yours, the smug bastard, his eyes ablaze with the same fire you feel—

And before you know what’s happening, your lips are crashing together. Later on, when you can’t tell up from down, you won’t be sure whether it was you or him that began it all. But in that moment, you’re pretty sure it was you.

He doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his hands swiftly around your waist, tugging you with a little huff of air to his front where you can feel something hard and very large pressing into you.

It happens all at once.

Like two stars colliding, you are hurtling towards one another at the speed of light, missing one another in your pointedness but scathing one another in your proximity.

But you keep circling back. Slower, more curious, each time.

His lips slow against yours, his breath intertwining with your breath, his heartbeat beating at the same pace as yours. He whispers your name against your lips, and for a moment, you taste sweetness. That is, until he bites down on your lower lip.

You gasp, but the inhale is not all pain.

A spark rushes through you, smothering your skin in goosebumps.

“Fuck, Hoseok,” you curse, and he grins against your lips.

You tighten your grip on him and dig your fingernails into the back of his neck, trailing them below the nape of his collar, leaving red streaks in their tracks.

But instead of gasping, just as you had, he sucks in a shaky breath and whispers against your lips, “How did you know I like it a little painful?”

A cold chuckle leaves your lips.

“A good guess.”

He kisses you again, quick, furious, all teeth and tongue and it’s then that you feel him, him grinding against you.

That’s when the reality of the situation hits you.

This is not two mere strangers — or, you have to remind yourself, two mere friends. Both of those ships had sailed a long while ago. You are something else now, something entirely foreign. And something tangled up in one another, flames stoking higher with each breath, each tangled limb and—

Somehow you’re both flustered and furious in the same moment. You pull back from him, and he looks surprised, though he quickly masks the look that darts across his face.

“What—“

“I ought to get ready for bed.”

He watches as you turn from him and make your way to the mirror in the corner, tugging at the many bows and clasps that keep you tied up in this ridiculous excuse of a dress.

“For bed.” He grins.

You glare at him in the floor length mirror, but the implication of his words warms you from within.

You have duties to perform tonight, there’s no doubt about it. And you’re not particularly adverse to the idea either, not when he looks as radiant as he does tonight, not when he kisses the way he kisses. But it’s the principal of it all, all the years of resentment hanging between you like spidersilk.

Your fingers fumble as you try to reach around back and unbutton the intricate dress and you can feel him watching you, can hear the way he chuckles smugly as you struggle.

After several minutes of trying without any luck, finally, you give up with a huff.

There’s no way you’re getting out of this on your own. You grit your teeth with the way you’re about to debase yourself, shame trickling through you like molten iron.

“Can you—” you close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Can you please help me?”

They were supposed to send someone to help you out of this godforsaken dress, but— your face reddens as you realize that there was someone knocking on your door while you were tangled in your husband’s arms. And that you had been far too distracted to realize what the sound was. It pains you to ask for his help.

“Pleading looks so good on you.”

“I’m not pleading,” you scoff. “You try getting yourself out of a cage of a dress.”

He chuckles darkly but approaches you from behind, his gaze challenging yours in the mirror.

“Alright. If you’re going to beg.”

“I’m not begging!”

“If you insist.”

His fingers are cold when they skate across your neck and your gaze shoots up to meet his in the mirror. He stands tall behind you, his hair dark and falling into his face, his eyes even darker, even as they catch the reflection of the hearth in them.

“It does look good on you,” he says, and you’re not sure if he means the dress or the begging. Maybe both. But as you fight the urge to roll your eyes, you watch the way his gaze narrows on the skin of the nape of your neck, as it trails down your back. And as he begins to unbutton your dress, one by one, he takes his sweet time, like he’s unwrapping some kind of precious gift. Your brow furrows in confusion.

He’s not supposed to enjoy this.

You’re not supposed to enjoy this.

And yet you do, the way his fingers grace across your skin, the way your skin warms beneath his touch. You enjoy it. You find your eyes fluttering closed, and lose yourself so entirely that soon he’s saying,

“I’m done.”

He’s still holding your dress up, in some attempt to preserve a semblance of your modesty. Though you’re not sure there’s much of it left after your earlier tryst.

A tryst you have no explanation for.

You finally nod and he lets go of the fabric. The thick winter dress falls in a heap around you, revealing the thin but warm slip they’ve dressed you in beneath. It’s the equivalent of being naked before him. He begins to look away but you’re quick to say:

“Are you so afraid to look at your own wife?”

A sly smile flickers at the corner of his mouth and his gaze darts back to rove over your body. But where they linger are your eyes.

“Are you so eager for my attention you have to ask for it?”

You finally turn towards him and stare at him for a long moment.

This is when it begins. This is when it's supposed to begin, when it's supposed to happen: your wifely duties.

Awkwardly, you reach for him.

“What are you doing?”

“I have a duty.” You say, your chest warming, your hand tracing up his torso. But as your words fall on his ears, his gaze immediately hardens. Before you can reach his chest, where you want to trace over his heart, his hand snatches your wrist.

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not going to force you to do anything,” Hoseok says sternly, his brow pressing. He gently places your hand at your side and retreats to the other side of the room. “Absolutely not.”

The care with which he says it surprises you—and yet not at all. From beneath the hard exterior, you see the young Hoseok you once knew, once loved, poking through.

“But we should—”

“We should do nothing tonight.”

“But, but they’ll come—in the morning, to check.”

Hoseok’s eyes light with recognition.

“And you care that—? Ahh.”

You frown. “What?”

“I see.” He steps towards you, his shirt fluttering open with each step forward. You can’t help it when your gaze flickers downwards.

“You can just say it,” he says.

“Say what?”

“That you want me.”

“I don’t want you,” you scoff. “I only—”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I only want you in the way a wife wants her husband on their wedding night.”

“Is that so?” Hoseok asks. “And in what way is that?”

You immediately warm at the question. It feels like he has you pinned against the wall, even when he’s half the room away. As he steps closer to you, you find yourself holding your breath.

“Kiss me,” he orders. “If you’re too afraid to put it to words.”

And so you do, and just as before, it is furious.

Lips press, teeth nip, lobes bitten, and you know you will look a mess in the morning. He kisses down your neck, biting and sucking gently at the tender skin there and you cry, “You’ll leave a mark!”

“Then they’ll know you’re my wife.”

The thought brings heat to your abdomen, as the idea of wandering out the next morning looking absolutely ravaged plays in your mind. But was this how tonight was supposed to go? You had no qualms about giving yourself to your husband, but now, now, you were giving yourself willingly, eagerly, even. Your mother had instructed you on how these kinds of marital duties were to be performed, but this, lips locked and hands roving greedily over one another’s bodies: this is no duty.

This is passion.

Even if anger still simmers in your stomach.

He is kissing you, so deeply you think he might consume you whole, kissing you like you are the only person in the world. And right now it feels like it. The world outside quiets as you kiss him back, letting the noise of society, along with all the expectations and obligations fade away until there is nothing but Hoseok. The shape of his hands pressed against your back. The warmth of his thigh between your legs. The movement of his lips, inflamed and… needy?

Hoseok, Hoseok, Hoseok.

His hand glides up your back and tangles with your loosened hair as he presses you to his chest.

He walks you backward, his leg slipping between the heavy, warm fabric of your slip—too warm despite the winter chill—somehow managing to not trip you. The mattress of the bed hits your knees and you find yourself sitting, looking up at the man who is now your husband, towering above you. And right in your face:

“Is someone a little desperate?” You chide, running a finger along the bulge in his pants. “It doesn’t suit you.” Though that’s half a lie, because as you look up at him, your mouth waters, struck by the absolute depravity that he looks down at you with.

“I know what might suit you,” Hoseok cuts back, unerred by your half insult as his hands rove over your body. “My desperation, stuffed in your mouth, shutting you up.”

Your eyes widen at the prospect.

“Try me.”

He grins and bends down to kiss you again, interrupting your hands reaching for his pants. You are eager to unwrap him, but he is eager to take his time with you.

Things begin to devolve in the best way possible. Hoseok loses his shirt, then his pants. “I want to see you,” he murmurs as he kisses you, and soon you have lost your slip too, limbs tangling in the sheets, and soon his cock is in your hand, and you squeeze ever so gently, just to watch his eyes flutter closed.

“Let me—” he begins as his hands trail down your body.

“You don’t know—”

He scoffs. “I think I know you well enough to know exactly how to make you come undone,” Hoseok says, and something switches within you. It’s the first time he’s mentioned anything of your past, of knowing you before your wedding night, of all of the tension strung up around you.

“Don’t presume to know me,” you say. “You don’t. Not any more.”

“Is that a challenge I hear?” Hoseok asks, his brow raised.

You look up at him through your lashes, but before you can roll your eyes, he grips your chin gently, forcing you to look at him.

“Are you challenging me?”

“Maybe I am.”

It becomes some kind of competition, the both of you rushing to make the other one drown in their own pleasure before the other.

And it’s true: it’s hard to stay in control like this, with his fingers dragging through your folds, circling around your clit, his mouth pressed up against your ear, whispering sweet nothings, chiding you, urging you onward. But you cling to any semblance of control you have left, wrapping your hand around his length, running gentle, teasing touches along the soft skin of his cock.

That’s when he says it.

“You’re so good for me.”

And you come a little bit more undone beneath him. Your touch falters, your breath hitches.

“Oh, does she like being praised?”

You grit your teeth to keep from nodding.

“No—”

“I love the way you touch me,” he whispers against your ear, his fingers slowing against you, building into a gradual, unerring rhythm. “It’s like you know exactly what I need, what I want.” He nips at your earlobe. “So good.” He slips a finger within you and you gasp. “So good, just for me.”

On the final emphasis, he thrusts a second finger into you and begins pumping in and out of you. The final emphasis has you clenching around him.

His.

Even as you try to push the idea of him away, his body is wrapped around yours. His body is everywhere, atop, beneath, beside you. And you don’t want the distance, you don’t want any space between you at all.

As he draws one orgasm from you, then a second, you cling to him, hands tangling in his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, and threading around his limbs and his back, pulling him closer. And after you’ve come a second time, the two of you lay there, staring silently at the ceiling—starless, blatantly starless—as you catch your breath. The only sounds in the room are the crackling fire and the sound of your in-synch panting.

“I don’t think you could make me come again,” you challenge, and that’s enough for him.

He rolls on top of you with a cheeky grin and nips at your ear.

“As you wish,” he murmurs, and it’s not the fight you want, it’s not the fire you were asking for, but it’s good enough, because he’s sliding his hand down your torso again. As you buck your hips up to meet the touch of his hand, his cock aligns with your center, pushes in just enough.

The both of you freeze.

Eyes lock.

“We don’t have to—”

“No, please—”

The desperation in your voice surprises you, and you swallow hard as he looks down at you.

“‘Please?’” he repeats back to you, a genuine question in his voice. “You want this?”

You nod quickly.

“Then tell me.”

You repeat your previous sentiment with a sly smile. “I bet you can’t make me come on your cock.”

“I can,” he says, capturing your lips in a kiss. “And you know that. Tell me what it is you want.”

“Fuck me, Hoseok.”

He takes his time, teasing your opening with the head of his cock, sliding it through your come and the arousal already spilling again from you as your core aches with need.

“Please, Hoseok,” you beg.

“You’re so pretty when you beg for me,” he smiles. “So messy when you’re needy.”

He lowers his weight atop you as he glides his cock to your opening and pushes in an inch. You gasp, and before your eyes flutter shut at the wide stretch, you can see the pleasure that washes across his face. It’s divine. The mixture of concentration and pure desire that dances in his eyes, the way his gaze bores into yours before he bends down and presses his lips to the concha of your ear.

As he pushes into you all the way, you think you hear:

“Forgive me,” whispered in your ear.

“No,” you whisper back.

But he’s already moving, his face pressed in concentration, that look you know too well. So serious, so firm, you think, How am I going to live with this every day? Not because you don’t want to, but because in that moment you’re filled with so much need for him that you’re not sure what it will be like to want him when your marital duties have been filled and completed and you’re stuck in a house with a man who despises you as much as you despise him.

Though, when you think about it, this hardly feels like spite.

Not with his cock moving like this, not with his hips thrusting like that, rolling so smoothly into you.

It’s so surprising, how goddamn good it feels and all you feel is anger bubbling to the surface. “Fuck you,” you groan, your fingers tightening around whatever parts of him you can reach, nails digging into his skin.

“Darling, you already are,” he spits back through gritted teeth. “And so many would just kill to be in your place.”

When he flips you over, pulls your hips towards you, and begins rolling into you again, it’s entirely different. Something about the angle, your face pushed into the soft material of the mattress, your ass jiggling with each slap of his balls against your clit, it has you tumbling forwards towards delight so quickly you can’t breathe—

“This isn’t right,” you gasp and he stills, looking down at you in concern.

“What’s wrong?”

“How good it feels.”

You can hear the grin spread across his face as he begins again, his hips rolling slowly into you.

“Darling, this is exactly how it’s supposed to feel.”

“How—?”

He repositions you then, so he can look in your face, pulling you on top of his lap, before slippiing into you again.

“You’re supposed to feel good,” he says, as he begins pumping up into you. “And whoever told you you shouldn’t was lying.”

His tongue pokes out between his lips as you begin to move too, chasing your own pleasure now. He nods encouragingly as you drag your hips up his cock. Your breath hitches as he reaches up and slides his thumb across your lower lip before slipping it into your mouth.

“Tomorrow, this will be my cock on your tongue,” he whispers, and you swallow around his digit as he presses down on your tongue, your eyes wide as you bounce on his cock. “Fuck, you look so good,” Hoseok curses.

He removes his hand to kiss you, growling against your lips. His fingers dig into your ass as you fuck him. Once, he brings his hand up and slaps your ass and the sound that leaves your lips is ravished.

“Ah,” he coos. “I think I know exactly what it is you like.”

You ride him, bouncing up and down on his thick cock until you wrap your hands around his shoulders and press your chests together.

“That’s it. Fuck yourself on my cock,” he says.

He’s so close. There’s something even more intimate about this, as your breath mingles and comes in pants, both of you relishing in the pleasure of the other’s body.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you curse as he hits a particularly soft spot within you, and you cling to him even tighter.

Your pace slows, and rather than hurtling towards desire, the both of you are relishing in it.

Slowly, Hoseok lowers you to your back, leaning over you.

Hoseok is determined to—what, you’re not sure at this point, but determined he is, knowing by the set of his jaw and the way his eyes won’t leave yours. Perhaps he is simply determined to draw as much pleasure as possible from your body, because with a quick movement he tilts your pelvis upwards, and the new angle, oh. You can now feel the ridge of the head of his cock pushing into you, and as it does, it catches on a bundle of nerves within you that makes you cry out. The second thing this does is that the base of his cock now presses against your clit every time he slams into you.

There is pleasure everywhere, like swimming in some deep well of warmth.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, rolling his hips into you. “Come for me, will you?”

And it’s a request, not a command.

“Come for me,” he hums against your lips. “I want to feel you around me.”

His voice is like a deep melody and as it resonates through you, you find yourself hurtling towards the edge of your own pleasure, warmth radiating from your abdomen, and the most delicious tension strung between your limbs.

“Please,” he whispers, and that’s enough for you to break into pieces, your orgasm crashing like the far waves of the kingdom through your entire body.

He’s not far behind you, and through your pleasure you can feel his cock twitch within you. He hisses, and holds himself back from you, his eyes fluttering shut. And suddenly you realize, you want his pleasure. You want his pleasure, not for the sake of winning some competition, but simply for him.

But without thinking, you reach up for him, wrap your arms around his back, and press him to your chest. He comes with you, body trembling, words spilling from his mouth that have no meaning, no rhyme or reason. But you catch it again.

“Forgive me—”

And you realize that the anger within you has been entirely replaced with the lingering numbness of absolute pleasure.

You’re sure it will return in good time, yout think.

So instead, you let your nails drag softly up the back of his neck before tangling in his hair, pressing his face into your neck. He peppers the skin there with the softest of kisses, his body still intertwined with yours.

And you lay there for what feels like eons, his weight pressing down reassuringly, the chill of the window finally seeping into your consciousness.

And suddenly, he is standing, slipping from you, his warmth removed.

“You’re leaving,” you say, your voice flat, monotone. Not stay, not, please. A simple statement of fact.

Hoseok freezes. He turns on his heel to face you.

“There is a winter storm raging right outside that window. And while you might be sweaty and hot and all worked up right now,” You flush at the implication, “I promise you that the cold will creep in. I was merely about to warm the fire.”

“Ah,” you say, turning on your side, away from him.

But a touch and a gentle tug brings you rolling back towards him. He looks upset, and before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching out to press at the frown lines that decorate his brow.

“You’re angry.”

“I’m not angry that you’d think the absolute worst of me,” he says slowly. “I’m only concerned that you’d think, and think so readily, that I’d be this quick to abandon you.”

He rolls into bed, pulling you on top of him.

“I’m hardly finished with you, how could I go?”

He kisses you then, and it’s not like the other kisses. The others were fire, burning towards something larger. This, however, is different. He kisses you to kiss you, for the pleasure of it all, for the feeling of your body warming against his skin, for the knowledge that you, you want to kiss him.

And what you found, at the end of it all, is that the anger in you is a dying anger. One like a star, burnt out and blackened, striving for the life that it one was, but ultimately hurtling towards a darkened coolness. And in the place of this old, stupid, anger, is rising something new. Attraction. Respect, even.

It frightens you.

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

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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🔆 want to read more ?

no skipping | jhs

pairing: hoseok x reader

genre: f2l, fluff/ minimal angst, sfw (a little cursing)

summary: he used to love this song before. before he put it on your mixtape. now every single note reminds him of you. (based on BEKA & HONNE: more than friends)

wc: 850 words

a/n: early last year i posted this, and ana’s comment made me put my thoughts into a document that has been marinating a while. It’s only fitting it sees the light of day today. happy birthday lovely Ana! @xjoonchildx​

masterlist // AO3

You close the car door, you press play and as the familiar tunes fill the space, it hits you like a fucking brick in the face. What you’re feeling is definitely not friendship. You fucked up. Big time.

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