If Jungkook Not Baby Then Why Baby Sized - Tumblr Posts

nobody talk to me for several days. my heart hurts. give me my son and give me him now. i will marriage him and take his funky little rings.

Day in the Life [3/7]

Pairing: hyungline (seokjin, namjoon, yoongi, hoseok) x reader

Genre: family/domestic AU, fluff, comedy

Summary: You have seven kids. Four husbands and three toddlers. So yeah, seven kids.

Tags: EXTREME domestic bliss, domestic fluff, husband!hyung line, baby!maknae line, established relationship, protectiveness, comedy, slice of life, seokjin is in a state of constant and overwhelming fondness, namjoon should never be allowed in a kitchen, yoongi has tattoos, hoseok is a humble chaebol, maknae line are demons (toddlers)

Masterlist

[Part 2] [Part 4]

Wednesday morning and the house is full and frantic as ever. Squeezing past Seokjin’s pancake triage and Taehyung and Jimin’s war cries, you make a beeline to the coffee machine, where Hoseok pulls you back just long enough for a kiss before he presses a cup into your hand and sends you off to Jungkook and Yoongi at the kitchen table. 

“Good morning.” You greet, picking a fugitive blueberry off Jungkook’s lap. 

Without looking up from his phone, Yoongi mumbles, voice rough, “Morning.”  

“Somi said her appa is getting marriage again,” Jungkook announces around a mouthful of sausage, as Jimin and Taehyung make an Olympic dive for the chair beside you. “What does it mean?” 

You think about it. “Getting married means—” 

“My chair, loser!” Taehyung screams, beating Jimin by literally one (1) knuckle.

Like a slinky, Jimin flops over Taehyung, cheeks smushed up against Taehyung’s back and drawls, “I didn’t lose, Tae, because this is a battle in which I have chosen not to engage—” 

“It’s a promise you make to build a life together,” Yoongi says, as Taehyung makes a valiant effort at shrugging, and then peeling, and then shoving Jimin off. Yoongi meets your eyes for a second before he glances back down at Jungkook. “And to love each other. For a very long time.”

“Can umma marriage me?” Jungkook asks, hopeful, as octopus alien Jimin slithers into your lap. 

“Nope,” Taehyung claims, without batting an eye. “Umma’s marriaging me.” 

“Not without a ring,” Hoseok chides, delivering a plate of Seokjin’s pancakes, half-batting away Taehyung’s grabby hand. 

“Like this one,” Jimin sing-songs, snagging a can of juice. He pops the tab off and slides it over your ring finger, burrowing possessively into your chest, “Ta-dah. Now I get to marry umma forever, losers.”

“Language, Jimin,” you say, reflexive, and pat him on the head. “But OK.”

Jungkook, with all the incredulity of a heart-broken toddler-year old, stares at your hand, stares at Jimin, and hiccups once.

And then starts bawling.

Twenty minutes later, you’re pulling on your scrubs when a small thing latches onto your left leg.

“Baby, what’s going on?” You ask Jungkook.

“Nothing,” Jungkook mumbles. 

He doesn’t look up, just slips something into your pocket with shaky hands and dashes away, giggles and footsteps rumbling down the hallway. 

You dig into your pocket, confused.

And find a piece of grass, tied around itself to make a circle. 

“Wait for umma here,” Yoongi instructs, planting Jungkook into the couch of your office. “Appa has to go back to work. Don't move an inch, Jungkook, all right?”

“Yes appa,” Jungkook nods, at full attention, but also busy cramming sticky notes into his mouth. 

...which is, admittedly, not the worst thing he has crammed into his mouth today. 

As Yoongi turns to leave, Jungkook calls out behind him. “Appa?”

“Yes?”

“Appa,”  Jungkook asks, coming to tug on the corner of Yoongi's jacket, looking very adorably serious about it. “How did you get umma to marriage you?” 

“Well,” Yoongi says, crouching down so he can pinch Jungkook's cheek. And also remove the sticky note from his mouth. “You just have to ask.” 

Later that day, you’re in the middle of dealing with a subarachnoid hemorrhage, standing very still beside the surgical trolley as the attending anesthesiologist briefs your residents, trying to order your thoughts into some semblance of logic, when there comes a small tap somewhere overhead. 

“This was brought on up a ruptured cerebral aneurysm,” you say, slanting a stern look at the eager faces around you, “So it will be hairy, and focus will be essen—”

The tap comes again, louder.

One of the residents looks up at the observation room. 

She blinks. “Um… is that…”

“Focus, Dr. Song,” you repeat, snapping her back to attention, “will be essential.”

The next tap is followed by a dull thump and a muffled, “Umma!” 

You look up, eyes narrowed. 

All three feet of Jungkook, bright as the sun, knocks on the observation room window again, hefting over his tiny shoulders a giant bouquet of “Get Well Soon” flowers you’re pretty sure belongs to the coma patient in Ward 2. 

He climbs closer to the window and mouths, face squished against the glass, “Umma, will you marriage me?” 

Near midnight, you’re pulling up into the driveway when something literally catapults itself off of the second floor balcony. 

…and lands on the hood of your car.

With a dull thud.

And a tiny achy, “Ow.” 

“JUNGKOOK?” You scream, a sharp stab of dread twisting into your stomach as you scramble out of the car, “OH MY GOD, JUNG—”

“Umma,” Jungkook says, totally fine and outrageously nonplussed, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, “Did you marriage me yet?” 

You gape. “What are you—where are your appas, Jungkook?” 

Jungkook ignores you and asks again, “Umma, did you marriage me?”

“Uh, no,” you start, brain still seizing on the fact that your toddler baby just flung himself from the second story of a house. “Baby, Koo, you should never jump out of a window again, do you understand?”

Jungkook, as a matter of fact, understands nothing. 

Instead, he peers at your hands.

Then averts his eyes with a tiny pained wince. 

“The ring wasn’t pretty?” He asks the pavement, voice wobbly, entirely crestfallen. “'m sorry, umma.” 

And no, you did not know it was medically possible to feel this magnitude of pain. 

Each day and every day, Namjoon wakes at 4 AM on the dot. At that hour, the first floor of the house is deserted. There are usually tumbleweeds and leftover toys and chunks of bokchoy Taehyung has hid under various pieces of furniture because he is just old enough to begin to understand that he does not have to do what two of four appas tell him to do, at “I’m half a teenager now” miles per hour.

Not today.

Today, there is all of that, and also one small child crouched over the coffee table, half a dozen tab-less juice cans beside him, a fat marker in his hand and the whole rainbow dashed over his two little hands. 

“Hey,” Namjoon whispers, tactful. “What are you doing, big guy?” 

“I’m making a ring for umma,” Jungkook says, then shows him a wad of can tabs that have been glued together.

And also, glued onto his palm.

Namjoon wonders briefly if this might be the fault of his genetics.

“Umma has a ring already,” Namjoon tells him, mildly concerned.

“But umma doesn’t have my ring,” Jungkook says. “Do you think she’ll like this?”

Namjoon huffs out a laugh, finally piecing together what Seokjin capslocked into the group chat yesterday. “I think so, Jungkook. It’s beautiful.”

There is a pause.

Jungkook asks, in an endearingly shy whisper, “Will umma love me forever?” 

Namjoon reaches for Jungkook’s shoulder and tugs him into his arms. “Of course she will, baby. She loved you before you were born, and she will love you for a thousand years.”

“Oh.” Jungkook hums.

And hard as he tries to hide it, when Jungkook smiles, he glows. 

“Will you make appa a ring too?” Namjoon inquires. “Appa will love you for ten thousand years.” 

Jungkook thinks about it, squelching out a yawn. He rubs his eyes. “Maybe.” 

Quietly, Namjoon wraps Jungkook into his cardigan, admiring the bundle of glue and metal in his hand. Gradually, as dawn starts to break, he feels his son’s little body slumping against his side, and he squeezes him with a soft fond smile.

Friday morning, Yoongi is frying up a few eggs and as usual, you’re mainlining coffee while side-stepping a small mountain of legos and the rubber-band apparatus Taehyung had built for science class. You manage to kiss Hoseok on the cheek (which he had been long presenting) and Seokjin on the chin (which he had been pretending not to be presenting), before you stumble on Jungkook.

Kneeling. 

On one knee. 

With an extremely funky ball of metal in his hand. 

Namjoon, towering over him like a daddy bear, looks over at you and mouths, obscurely, “Say yes.” 

“Umma,” Jungkook starts, clearing his throat, as Jimin waddles in blearily behind you. “Will you mar—”

“OW!” Jimin yelps, as his toe catches in Taehyung’s rubber-band booby trap of doom™, which proceeds to sail across the room. 

Over Jungkook’s hand.

Catching, of course—because Friday mornings are never chaotic enough and 66% of your sons are 50% demons—Jungkook’s precious ball. 

“Well,” you squint, as the metal ball clears it out of the window behind him, leaving a neat spider-webbed crack and a hole the size of a tennis ball. 

Before you, Jungkook’s eyes are the size of saucers. 

“Jimin,” Namjoon grits out, eyes narrowed. 

“Jimin,” Seokjin grits out, arms crossed. 

“What! I didn’t do anything!” Jimin whines, very falsely accused, ducking behind you for protection. 

“My science project!” Taehyun gasps, from behind him. “Jimin!” 

As world war three implodes into your kitchen, Jungkook stands on the frontline, eyes welling with tears, little hands balled into fists. He swallows thickly and chokes out, “Umma…” 

“No,” you cry out, launching yourself onto one knee before Jungkook as you dig Jungkook’s grass-twig ring out of your pocket. “Jungkook. Will you marry me?”

“But I,” Jungkook blubbers, shaking his head, “I don't have a ring! Umma can’t marry me! Umma won’t love me!” 

You laugh, wiping the tears off of Jungkook’s fat little cheeks with both hands cupped around his face, “Oh, Jungkook. I don’t need a ring to love you, baby. Namjoon appa lost the ring too, you know?” 

Jungkook’s still crying, but he does pause to confirm. “Really? Namjoon appa did that?”

“Oh yeah,” Namjoon assures, coming to sit on the floor beside you. “So many times.” 

“Namjoon appa had to propose twice,” Hoseok recounts, ruffling Jungkook’s hair.

“Three, actually,” Yoongi says, scooping Jungkook up into one arm. 

“What?” Seokjin cocks his head, feeding Jungkook a cherry as he glances at Namjoon, “No, wasn’t it—”

“A long time ago,” Namjoon allows magnanimously. “Shouldn’t you get going, hyung?” 

Hoseok, ever the competitive overachiever, was the first to propose. It hadn’t happened entirely out of the blue. After two years of rotational interviews with his family, most of whom were common characters in the Business section of Cholsun Ilbo, his noona took you out to an incredibly long spa date to onboard you onto the so-called “constraints” of an “inheritance.” By the end of the day you were sufficiently hydrated, plumped, shell-shocked with anxiety, and fairly certain your credentials had been vetted by half the PIs in Korea. 

“My dongsaeng is lacking in so many ways, and it can be argued that our parents are assholes,” she said, before the valet shut her door, “but have no doubt that Hoseok will fight tooth and nail for you every day in this family.” 

The next day, Hoseok asked you if you wanted to go ring shopping. Before you could answer, there was a chartered jet on the rooftop of the hospital.

Hoseok flew you straight into those dark velvet Parisian rooms to try on the jewels of bygone eras, and amidst the dizzying glamour of champagne towers and couture chocolates and dresses worth their weight in gold, he asked if you would grant him the privilege of staying with you for the rest of his life. 

As Seokjin likes to recall, you choked on your sea bass and never officially said yes, so technically the validity of that marriage is questionable. 

But anyways. The news still drove Namjoon and Yoongi into a cold panic.

Seokjin, of course, being the oldest, remained cool as a cucumber. 

“YAH, HOBI, YOU COULD'VE MAYBE WARNED US,” Seokjin screamed. Calmly. In the middle of a topology lecture. At his phone.

At, actually, a text message on his phone. 

One of the five grad students raised his hand and asked, somewhat terrified, “Professor Kim?” 

Seokjin chucked his phone across the room and darted for the door. “MY GIRLFRIEND IS GETTING MARRIED.”

And then, because he did have something of a reputation to protect as an academic and all, Seokjin ran back and flung open the door. “CLASS DISMISSED, OBVIOUSLY, NUMBNUTS.” 

Regardless, Seokjin ending class in the middle was not nearly as catastrophic a reaction as Namjoon’s actual proposal, which was to tie the Most Expensive Tiffany’s Ring to the collar of your cat. 

“It’ll be like a lovely thing delivering a lovely ask,” Namjoon explained, wiping his hands down on the front of his expensive silk suit like an idiot. “What could go wrong?”

“Oh. Nothing, I’m sure,” Yoongi, nodded, eyes dead. 

Three things went wrong. 

Namjoon, the cold, ruthless, battle-hardened Forbes poster child, who could skewer businessmen twice his age to the trading floor, who could spend days arbitrating billion-dollar M&A deals without batting an eye, was too panicked and sweaty to figure out how to attach a ring to the collar of your cat.

The cat was an actual cat.

And like any cat would, the first thing your cat did, after scratching the ring off of her collar and onto Seokjin’s bed, was run off into the streets like an apex predator. (which she is.) 

As a result:

Namjoon, the cold, ruthless, battle-hardened Forbes poster child, who could skewer businessmen twice his age to the trading floor, who could spend days arbitrating billion-dollar M&A deals without batting an eye, was out chasing a cat through the streets of Hannam-dong like a madman until… days, maybe. Seokjin can’t remember.

Seokjin can’t remember because he found a ring on his bed.

And like, Seokjin tried not to overthink why there would be a ring on his bed except you must have left it there.

Which resulted in Seokjin overthinking. A lot. 

“Are you OK,” Hoseok asked casually, as Seokjin ran equally casually into a cabinet.

And nearly beheaded himself. 

“I’m fine,” Seokjin grunted, ears ringing. 

And he was. 

Only he was not fine because fuck toxic masculinity but he wanted to be the one to ask you because obviously he loved you more and it wasn’t not a competition thing because it was just the simple truth that he loved you more, and he loved you first, and he deserved to be the one to ask.  

“Are you bleeding?” Hoseok gasped, “Do you need a ride to the hospital?” 

“No,” Seokjin decided, clutching onto your ring, fully offended as he stormed his way towards the living room.

“Listen,” he started, outraged, banging the door open, “I am handsome and tall and cook well and IF I WERE A WOMAN, GOD HELP ME I’D WANT TO MARRY ME TOO BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN...” 

And found you on the couch.

Sitting beside Yoongi.

Or rather, sitting on Yoongi.

With one of Yoongi’s hands on the small of your back.

And the other one of Yoongi’s hands…

Is holding a ring.

“I’m,” Seokjin spun around, suddenly weak. “Uh.”

And Yoongi was perfectly content to mentally unexist Seokjin. 

“Look at me,” Yoongi said in his soft indulgent voice, gently turning you back to face him. “Can I ask you a question?”  

And Seokjin saw himself out.

That same Thursday, Seokjin reported that his old Hyundai broke down. He asked you to pick him up from his office at the university. And when you showed up, you had a prickly feeling that all the students seemed to double-take at you. The girls giggled when they saw you, and a few came up to shower you with compliments about your gross second-day hospital fit. 

You wandered into Seokjin’s office, profoundly confused. “Why are there—”

And were promptly interrupted by a whole stampede of people scrambling out of the room.

“Hey!” Seokjin beamed, wiping his chalky hands on his ugly prof fashun cord pants. “You look pretty.”

“Very funny,” you deadpanned. 

Seokjin’s face was suspiciously pink. “I know. I love you.” 

You backed away. “What?”

“I love you,” he repeated, face suspiciously pinker. 

“All right,” you squinted. “I love you too?” 

“But!” Seokjin declared, standing up so fast he had to steady himself against the corner of his desk. “But I love you more.”

You stared, perplexed, at a loss for words.

“In fact, I love you this much,” Seokjin said, and dropped down onto both knees, proffering a small box. “And I will definitely kill myself if you marry Yoongi and Hoseok without marrying me.”

Outside, the same twenty students who’d booked it out of the office were holding one lettered cardboard sign each, looking equal measures accosted and sleep-deprived as they crowded over the courtyard.

“DONT LET OUR PORF DIE PLEESA,” the signs spelled. 

“WE NEED TO GRADOATE,” the signs spelled. 

“Well,” you grinned at Seokjin. “I can’t let you die, I guess.”

And you could have sworn that the entire Seoul National University campus in Gwanak-gu erupted in cheers in response to that. 

But you can’t, really, because all you remember is Seokjin picking you up into his arms, lifting you just slightly off your feet as he asked, face violently red, “Hey so. Are you going to kiss your handsomest husband?”

“Oh?” You smirked. “Did he get here already?” 

“Yah, fine,” Seokjin huffed, unnerved, sitting you down on his desk, his one big hand cradling your entire back, “WHATEVER.”

And just like that, you kissed him.

For a second, Seokjin stopped breathing.

And then he surged forward, running his fingers through your hair. You caught a flicker of fire in his eyes before he tilted you back and pressed his lips to yours. His mouth parted and he licked deeper into your mouth, teeth grazing against your lip, and it wasn’t until he pulled away that you realised how pliant you had gone beneath him. 

“Now that we’re engaged,” Seokjin breathed, running his thumb across your lip. “You get to kiss this face free of charge.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, drunk on want, and tugged him back against you. 

When you kissed Seokjin the second time, you had no idea that Kim Namjoon, twenty miles away, was chasing a puppy across the lawn of his Fortune 500 company, a dozen senior VPs tailing after him as he face-dived for Ring #4. 

You had no idea because Namjoon had sworn your three other husbands to secrecy, because in your mind, you were the one who propositioned him. And Namjoon liked to keep it that way.

It happened on the last day of summer, when you invited Namjoon out to go sailing with you. He’d been depressed and dejected for weeks, and you thought you’d ask if you could help him solve whatever problem he had on hand.

And all the other problems he will have on hand, for the rest of his life.

“What,” Namjoon blinked, uncomprehending. “Come again?”

“I’m asking, Kim Namjoon,” you said, steadying yourself against Namjoon’s leg as you crouched down on one knee, “will you marry me?”  

As if on cue, it began to drizzle. 

Then the drizzle turned into a downpour. 

And Namjoon, sitting there like a right idiot in this tiny sail boat, floating in the middle of an emerald green lake, facing the single most beautiful creature he has ever seen in his life, fell in love so hard he flipped the boat. 

Which doesn’t physically make sense, but who cares, because after Namjoon flipped the boat, after he helped pull you to the boat, he got to tuck the wet strands of your bangs behind your ears and gaze into your eyes.

“Wait,” you struggled, “I think—”

Namjoon didn’t wait. He kissed you up against the boat. 

“No wait,” you murmured, breaking away. “I think I dropped your ring.”

“I wouldn’t sweat it,” Namjoon said, and kissed you again. “I brought spares.” 

To be precise, Namjoon brought three spares in his pocket. One from his mother. One from his paternal grandmother. And one from his maternal grandmother, who told him, lovingly, clearly, with all the patience in the world, “If you lose this one, Joonie, I’m absolutely going to disown you.” 

“She means the girl,” his mother clarified, “but also the ring, of course.” 

And Namjoon had laughed at that, because even if he lost it, even if he lost them all, even if he had no family left in the world, he’d never lose you. Not in a million lifetimes. 

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