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It was a tired old cliché and Jeongguk knew it. Of course he did…‘the father and the nanny’. Truly subject matter of the most feeble of romance novels - that dusty bookshop genre with front cover of a muscular hero clasping buxom heroine to his heaving chest as a wanton wind sweeps through flowing locks of her hair (even indoors, it would seem - personal portable wind machine?).

At least in his case, there was one big difference, Jeongguk comforted himself with a half hearted hooking of a well-groomed eyebrow. His nanny had no breasts to be buxom, because his nanny was a man.

A manny.

Jesus.

He’d regretted hiring Park Jimin to the position the second he’d stepped into it, with his fluffy fair hair, pretty pastel wardrobe and polished loafers - a feeling that had only nagged in pressing prominence every day since. What had he been thinking? Well, he knew now what he had been thinking with, anyway...

It wasn’t that Jimin didn’t work hard. It wasn’t that he was too strict with the two beloved children Jeongguk shared custody of with his ex wife, Hina. It wasn’t that he was unreliable or unsuitable or unqualified, or any other ‘un’ in the dictionary.

It was more the fact that the elder couldn’t take his eyes or mind off his lips. Or his legs. Or his ass. Or any other god damn part of the man’s anatomy, if it was any less pathetic just to put it that way and get it out of the way.

In the six months since the nanny’s contract of employment commenced, he’d forged a naturally affectionate bond with his charges, Emi and Ren. Which, if anything, only served to further frustrate their father. How could he order the younger to leave - albeit with a generous bonus and guaranteed professional reference of highest praise - when his children so adored him? And, perhaps, not just his children...

Jimin was not the first nanny to climb the steps of number 17, Cherry Tree Lane. With Jeongguk’s intensely demanding work hours as Editor in Chief at South Korea’s leading international fashion magazine, there had been a misshapen conveyer belt of previous misguided attempts. So not the first, no, but the first that felt like a good fit for their family - felt somehow like part of the family itself. And that was something the head of the household knew he couldn’t let go of, however fucking blue his balls got.

So he’d vowed to knuckle down and endure for the four days each week that the children lived with him. To martyr himself for the cause. To take frequent cold showers, and largely just attempt to not look directly at the nanny - blindingly, fatally, beautiful ball of blazing radiance that he was.

//

It was, hands down, the best job Jimin had ever had. So much more soup to his soul than the telesales, bartender and office cleaner roles that had gone before it in the name of paying rent. The book-ended, part time hours, fit like a custom-made glove around his undergraduate Early Years Education seminars and nursery placements, and the duties were essentially just an extension of his instinctively caring character anyway. Making it all rather ‘easy peasy, lemon squeezy’, as Emi liked to say - enjoying the rhyme of the English words on her tongue, and feeling decidedly grown up in boasting burgeoning linguistic skills.

Emi and Ren were ten and seven years old respectively, meaning that twenty-two year old Jimin resided exactly half way between the ages of the elder child and her father, his esteemed employer Jeon Jeongguk. 

Not that he felt it.

For a strikingly wealthy, successful and accomplished individual, Mr Jeon was a surprisingly incompetent master of the household, Jimin had soon discovered. Although, upon deeper reflection, acknowledging that perhaps the fact of being filthy rich bore little or no link to competency, current shambolic state of world affairs taken into consideration.

The man left wet towels on the floor of every bathroom in the palatial Jeon residence as if it were a competitive sport. Like clockwork, he forgot and failed to pass his children their pre-prepped organic packed lunches when ushering them out of the door in the direction of their chauffeur-driven SUV, on Jimin’s weekly morning off. He needed prompts about his ex wife’s business trips back to Japan, about parent-teacher conference calls, about...

Truth being told, anything outside the polished perfection of his swanky office with floor to ceiling windows in Seoul’s Gangnam district, or his home study of imposing, rich mahogany furniture and bookshelves meticulously stacked with glossy magazine volumes in chronological and alphabetical order, Jimin’s boss needed a bit of help with.

And Park Jimin was more than happy to give it. Oh yes (curtsy).

Actually, he was endeared.

In the initial weeks following his appointment - the meddling-but-well-meaning mother of a university friend with a [respected family name] advocating for him to be considered for the position - the young man had taken on all the classic commitments: Accompanying the children to and from school and extracurricular clubs, preparing their meals, supporting with homework, playing together in unstructured moments (rare as they were in the rigid routine of a private school pupil’s jam packed schedule). Yet as weeks turned to months, Jimin found himself going out of his way to tackle the plethora of other little tasks that needed to be taken care of. Tasks that were, inevitably, mostly related to the father figure of the family.

“Please, call me Jeongguk”, Mr Jeon had smiled sincerely as he offered the younger man his firm handshake on his first day of work.

Jimin liked him on instinct. He prided himself on being a sound judge of character, and quickly observed that his employer was a loving - if mildly disastrous - father, impressive and intelligent at work, and possessing rare kindness and personability for a man in such elevated positions as he occupied.

He also, incidentally, made his new nanny’s tummy flutter, breathtaking Adonis that he was - but more of that later.

Jimin had enjoyed their early, easy conversations - had looked forward to them, even. Yet as time passed, he’d seen the elder less and less. Met him only fleetingly - never alone - and even then he would hardly meet his eyes, his employer retreating to “Get on with pressing matters” in the study, more often than not.

Had he somehow offended the man? Jimin came to wonder. Was his work below par in any way? He knew the children cherished him, and the feeling was mutual - the closeness he had developed with the two akin to that that he shared with his own three much younger half-siblings back home in Busan.

No. That wasn’t it. It felt as if there was something else at work - some unseen, bubbling undercurrent that he couldn’t yet be certain of.

Or...

Had Mr Jeon felt his eyes on him? Mentally undressing him, hungering for what lay beneath.

Jimin sighed out a melodramatic sigh to the ironing board, as he folded freshly laundered, lavender-scented clothes with a flourish, to be shelved in the closets of his charges. Perhaps the coming weekend would illuminate matters. Saturday would be Ren’s eighth birthday - the boy having pointedly asked his nanny to spend it with the family, despite being officially off duty. And, flustered as Ren’s father had looked upon hearing the invitation, Jimin had accepted without hesitation. No backs.

The time had come for brazen behaviour, the young man fixed. To straightforwardly push some buttons and see what exactly could be activated. Because whilst he may appear to be prim and proper, sweet as pie, and a multitude of other nannyish things, being a nanny in itself didn’t equate to a cowering wallflower by any means. And with all the effervescent overconfidence of youth, Jimin knew exactly what he wanted...

//

Jeongguk sensed what was coming before it happened - saw the metaphorical ‘Park Jimin’ hazard lights from a mile off, but still couldn’t bring himself to swerve to avoid the ensuing catastrophe.

The younger man had arrived at the Jeon residence’s front gate several hours early, to assist with party preparations. A slumber party, in fact - Ren’s four “bros” incoming. So whilst the children were downstairs in the kitchen-diner, arranging (read: munching) the evening’s snacks, the two men had been left to do the donkeys’ work. Heaving spare mattresses into Ren’s spacious realm. Scaling stepladders to hang birthday signs and streamers. Hauling movie screen projector equipment down from the loft - a barely touched space that was bigger than Jimin’s entire shared apartment - to get set up. And…inflating a seemingly endless supply of silver balloons.

By the time they neared the end of all the blowing, both were pink cheeked and perspiring. The heat of a balmy late June day and several hours of impromptu physical exertion combining to push each over the edge into flush and fluster.

‘I bet his sweat smells of daisies and toasted marshmallows’, Jeongguk’s irrepressible inner demon narrated.

And then came the winking hazard...

“Aigoo, it’s hot. Is it ok if I remove my shirt, Mr Jeon?”, was Jimin’s oh-so-innocent question.

Head in hands and tragic weeping in the theatre of the elder man’s mind - because surely the only thing worse than seeing him sweat so prettily would be to see him sweat prettily nakedly... - but ever the glutton for punishment.

“Of course - and remember, it’s just Jeongguk, no need for ‘Mr’”, he said aloud, voice oh-so-calm, oh-so-collected and blasé.

But he was oh-so-fucked.

Jimin pulling his cutesy, cartoon print t-shirt over his beautiful blonde head, to tuck neatly away in his bag for later, before reaching for the last balloon, utterly unfazed by the havoc he wreaked in his wake.

And there it was, the nanny’s bare naked chest. Jeongguk had often pictured it in - ahem - private moments, but had never before been graced by the spectacle itself in all its glory.

Petite yet strong, like it’s owner. Lithe and supple - tantalising, ruby buds crowning naturally defined pectorals. A slim waist that taunted to be held. Hip bones jutting just above a waistband of distressed denim skinny jeans for a casual off-day.

Jeongguk swallowed thickly, saliva glands in hyperactive overdrive. The man under his gaze was a conundrum, sure, but most certainly a man. Physical prowess and yet - to the elder - somehow still the inexplicable energy of a tiniest, meowiest kitten. Masculine form, androgynous allure.

A thing of contradictions.

All of which apparently added up to a crisis of long-buried bisexual tendencies.

And as the eyes of his employer spiralled into sha-la-la admiration, Jimin turned to stretch and secure the final balloon - delivering, in the process, a mortal blow:

Small fingers and delicate wrists. Milky-smooth skin. A pronounced, sumptuously sloping arch to the lower back, leading to...

“JESUS!” - Jeongguk actually choked.

Because at the point at which dimples of Venus curved towards pert, plump buttocks, peeking proudly out above the waistband of the nanny’s jeans, was a pair of skimpiest, white lace panties.

SOS.

//

“Everything alright Mr Jeon?”, Jimin spun around, mask of doe-eyed faux surprise, whilst high fiving himself on that particular master stroke of sensual seduction.

“Jeongguk...”, his boss corrected weakly.

And the man was a sitting duck:

“You’re sweating too, Mr Jeon, shall we open up your suit a little?”

“Jeongguk...” came the dazed and repeated response again, but Jimin’s tactical manoeuvres had outmanoeuvred, as the elder absent-mindedly loosened his tie, before - almost on autopilot - unbuttoning and discarding the grey, fitted shirt from his majestic frame entirely.

An uno reverse card, as suddenly it was Jimin who couldn’t help the hitch in his breath as he all but fell momentarily out of character. His employer’s body being everything he’d dreamed of.

Ok, full disclosure: It was everything he’d masturbated to. Each…and every…long and…lonely…night…

The broadness of his shoulders. The languid, muscular flex of his upper arms and that powerful, sculpted chest. A stomach that was toned and tight, and then honey-hued skin that led down beneath his navel, a trail of teasing, dark hair, to his waistband and unchartered territory.

Jimin licked his lips.

Lost his composure, but never his ambition-

As, in improvised pursuit of his raison d’être, he pulled his own damp t-shirt from his bag. Slinked towards his boss until their noses were mere millimetres apart. Raised cloth to the brow that glistened, to dab:

“Let me clean you up a bit, Mr Jeon”

Breath mingled between them - both all too aware that it was coming a little too hard.

Then Jeongguk grasping the younger’s wrist to halt his motion, holding it firmly in his larger hand to say - voice seeming an octave deeper, impossibly low…

“I told you, Jimin. Don’t call me so formally. You’re not one of the sub-editors or secretaries or models at the office”

And the listener only cocked his head, coquettish as a cockatoo, to look out at him through his lashes, smirk playing on plush lips as he questioned in a sing-song tone:

“Well, if you don’t like ‘Mr’ and I’m far too demure to call an elder by their given name, Jeongguk, then what should I call you...Oppa?”

Oppa. Tongue-in-cheek connotations of the gendered honorific hanging in the air like a dare. The white hot tip and danger of a fizzy-flamed sparkler. Which brave player would grasp hold of it?

Then just as the ‘Oppa’ in question’s self control was unravelling and his lips parted to respond, Emi crashed through the door with an overflowing bowl of tortilla chips, her brother just behind and colliding with her to spill sticky cola down the back of her party dress.

Chaos ensued - and not the kind of chaos that their father and nanny had been manifesting between them some footsteps in rewind - when Emi turned to shove Ren, Jimin rushed for a towel, and Jeongguk dragged apart his bickering children via deployment of his best and most serious ‘cross voice’.

//

Time skip to six hours later, and the stage was, inevitably, even messier. A posse - a gaggle? an apocalyptic swarm? - of eight year old boys draped across assorted surfaces, groaning as they clutched at over-stuffed stomachs. Sweet wrappers, stray popcorn and downtrodden crisp shards peppering the carpeted floor all around.

There was an abandoned Harry Potter film playing abjectly on the projector wall, and a faint odour of farts in the air - the final straw to have driven Emi and her own slumber party partner, Byeol, back to the decidedly more hygienic hemispheres of their own sleeping quarters an hour earlier.

As the clocks neared midnight, Jeongguk and Jimin (clothes hastily restored at the scene) had been dismissed - Ren turning to both to spread his hands apologetically, in a doomed attempt at diplomacy, as he said...

“The older people can leave now, if you want?”

So leave they had. And as Jimin had turned towards the marble staircase - back to his boss - he’d counted the seconds in his head with each clack of his heeled chelsea boots...one, two, three...then a smile of smug satisfaction in place of number four, as the elder interrupted his counting to call out, uncertainly:

“It’s uhh…not that late, and I need to stay up until Mr Mischief and comrades are asleep anyway. So, do you want to have a few more beers on my balcony? If you’re…not in a rush to go on anywhere else, I mean...”

And Jimin wasn’t, of course, so that’s how the two came to be on the private balcony of Jeongguk’s bedroom suite at 1am, nursery rhyme’s row of empty green bottles at their feet.

“I never picked you for a lager man”, the nanny observed from his sun lounger (moon lounger? it being the depths of night).

“Pffft. Let me guess, because I’ve got money I must exclusively drink champagne?”

“No...you also drink expensive red wines that I can’t pronounce the names of”

Cheeks rosy with the raucous warmth of booze, even as the air around cooled in sober darkness. Both a teensy bit closer to drunk than tipsy, but just at that niveau at which blood alcohol levels negate burdensome inhibitions and bothersome dam defence walls of boring self restraint to tide through empowering waves of possibility in their place - an assurance of actions without consequences, of risk without failure, hazard without accident.

“It seems like you’ve thought about me quite a lot, Park Jimin...”, Jeongguk suddenly suave from his own recliner.

“Almost as much as you’ve thought about me” - the younger man’s quickly-fired reply.

Then silence, eyes just boring into one other, out there in the still air. Characteristic good humour, as lips twitched, but also something darker that was unfurling from the shadows with the taste of heady hops on tongues.

A quick shake of Jeongguk’s head - “shake your sillies out”, as Emi had loved to say when she was little more than a toddler in a nappy at Montessori - and he took decisively to his feet to re-enter the bedroom to the rear, heading to the vintage record player, to douse the moment with vinyl tinklings of a suggestive piano and brassy, yearning, trumpeted tones of slow jazz.

It was futile though, any attempt at diversion, he realised with an audible gulp as he turned back to the balcony to see that the younger had risen from his seat to begin winding his body to the lazy, cymbal-syncopated beat.

Was this really Park Jimin? Jimin Poppins as the children liked to tease - reference to that most notorious of nannies - the impeccably organised, ever-chirpy, ‘practically perfect in every way’ nanny that Jeongguk tried his damned hardest to avoid each and every day? The nanny that apparently went around wearing lacy undergarments as he seasoned their gimbaps. The nanny that was dancing so slowly, seductively, now, with heated gaze unflinching against his boss’s. The little nanny that wanted to call him...

“Come and dance”, the younger man interrupted intrusive thoughts, as if he knew they were about him and only him anyway.

“I don’t dance”

“Then, come and watch”

And against all his better judgement - the same solid judgement that had kept Jeongguk in check and his dick in his pants for the past six months, defeated by the combined efforts of the glinting liquid that had filled those empty glass bottles, and the ballsy, cunty, gumption of the man before him - he returned to his lounger on the balcony, seemingly physically unable now, to not look at what Jimin was offering. 

A private show.

It was beguiling, the younger man’s presence in his own skin. Like he somehow sparkled. Jeongguk worked with modelling talent across his diary - had spent the night with plenty following his divorce, sometimes two at a time - yet something about this unassuming nanny had disarmed him from first meeting and ever since. The adolescent ache in his ribcage told him that that something harboured no intentions of letting him go any time soon…

Jimin was a visual 10, there was no debating that. The very prettiest of pretty things. Yet the elder could probably have handled it if that was all it was. 

But there was the unconditional warmth in his interactions with Emi and Ren. The floral-scented lightness that he brought to make their house a home. The little things he did for him, probably presuming that the elder man wouldn’t even notice - but he had, he did. 

Then there was the way he worried his lower lip as he concentrated, when he thought he was alone. Countless times Jeongguk’s eyes secretly lingering on the younger in seemingly inconsequential, arbitrary acts, as he focused intently on slicing radishes, or glueing a school project acropolis made entirely from matchsticks, or some unidentified algebra equation in Ren’s overdue homework.

So…lovely.

Yet not lovely or any of those wholesome things in this moment. In this moment, Jimin was downright intoxicating. Like an opiate to Jeongguk’s addicted brain as he swung his hips, half-lidded eyes and shimmery lips, gyrating down and then up again, ghosting elegant fingers across his own chest, as he moved to the music with a fluidity that drove the dirtiest of dirty thoughts.

And as Jeongguk felt his traitor of a cock stiffen in his suit pants, teased awake by the temptation of just what that dance could become, Jimin turned swiftly on his heel to grip the balcony railings, ass thrust out towards his audience, lifting the hem of his t-shirt to reveal the sugar of white lace against sweet skin once again.

He reached back to run a finger beneath the barely-there fabric. Artfully, extending his arm further so that he traced down the centre line of the lingerie. Dipping down, down...

Until suddenly Jeongguk was behind him, hardness pressed up against the soft fat of his ripe ass, as he growled into Jimin’s ear from behind:

“Are you trying to make me crazy, baby?”

And the younger man mewled out - even as he ground back against his boss’s erection:

“Oppa did it first”

Then he was pivoting to brush Jeongguk back down onto the lounger - only a light touch, but the elder readily fell - and sink atop his lap.

And as their faces drew closer - pupils lust-blown and magnetised to the lips of the other - Jeongguk put up one last, tokenistic hurdle, hand against the younger’s chest to press pause:

“Jimin”, rough and raspy, “You’re twenty-two, I’m thirty-four. You’re my kids’ nanny. I’m your boss. I wouldn’t want you to do something you’d regret, or feel like I’ve taken advantage of you in any way”

There. He’d managed to say it. Even through the disorienting fog of overwhelming arousal. Jeongguk experienced a moment of fleeting pride - how stoic he had been to resist the exquisite being dry humping his dick. Even after months of abstinence that he’d told himself were due to fashion week overtime, but realistically had far more to do with the nanny that occupied his house and his every embarrassing wet dream. Yes, he had been the responsible one and done the right thing. How mature. Such restraint. Bravissimo.

Until Jimin forcibly pushed his hand away and kissed him. And then he was kissing him back in a millisecond. Words forgotten like they’d never left his lips - fading quicker even than the steam toot-tooting from his ears. Passionately claiming and exploring the other’s mouth with urgent, thrusting tongue. Wet, messy, uncoordinated and oddly possessive. Hands fisted hair, moans escaping both men to tangle together betwixt, until nobody knew who’s sound was which.

And when Jimin pulled back at last, gasping to fill lungs and yet grasping for the proximity of the other, he said:

“Taking advantage of me? I had some hookups when I first moved to Seoul, but lately only wanted one thing, and I just couldn’t reach it, even on my tippy toes” - a pronounced pout as he folded arms against his chest, going all out on the aegyo act.

“What is it that you wanted?”, Jeongguk wilfully falling into his trap, a sacrificial lamb to slaughter. Because he knew what was coming...

“You, Oppa”

And the elder was lifting the younger man effortlessly - Jimin’s thighs wrapped about his waist - to stride back inside and shove him up against his bedroom wall. Where, chest to chest, he crooned in a velvety voice, edged with sinister hunger now, as he sniff kissed his way up the expanse of candied skin that was the other’s bared neck:

“What do you need an Oppa for, baby? Are you lonely in the big city?”

“Not just any Oppa. I said I need you, Oppa”, Jimin murmured breathily, beginning to writhe in delight in the elder’s firm, restrictive hold.

He had started this game…

“So what do you need me to do?”

“Fuck me”

A hissed intake of air for Jeongguk, before:

“Say it again”

“Fuck me, Oppa”

“Again”

“Fuck me, Jeongguk Oppa”

Each time, voices less coherent. More want than words in the end:

“Oh please, please. Fuck me...please”

Until Jeongguk was wild. Swivelling with Jimin in his arms, to fling him down onto the bed below - softly sprung luxury mattress rewarding the smaller with a bounce back into the air. A giggle. Then caged back down as his outer clothes were yanked from his limbs. Flipped fiercely, face against the sheets and his ass bobbing in the air. 

Waiting. Anticipating.

And with the click of a tube of cherry-flavoured lube - a spoonful of sugar - Jeongguk was there. Nipping and biting his way down the intimate details of the white lace lingerie. Pulling it to one side with teeth and parting Jimin’s full cheeks to expose his pink entrance. Could an asshole be…charming? Or was that the final thread of Jeongguk’s sanity? A huff of warm air against it, as the younger man trembled in thrilling need.

Then the elder was sucking at the shiny rim, teasing it open with the tip of his tongue as he kneaded at the globes either side of his own cheeks.

“Mmmmm”, Jimin hummed out above, fisting the bedsheets as he struggled to stay still.

Jeongguk entering a slicked finger alongside his tongue. Probing deeper, caressing inner walls, as his mouth stayed shallow, kissing and licking and working the sensitive ring that clenched for him.

A second finger. A third. Reaching, stroking and finally ramming - forceful, but agonisingly slow - until Jimin was a contorting, pleading, panting mess on the bed above, desperately rocking hips in search of friction, as he begged for more, more, more:

“Pleeeease”

“Please what?”

“F-fuck me now. Don’t make we w-wait”

“So impatient, baby” - tutting, as the elder rutted his clothed cock against any part of him - “What do you want?”

“Want you i-inside me, Oppa”

“Haaa. Is that so? And when Oppa is inside? In this tight little pink place…”

“Ruin me. Mmmm. Fuck me...so hard...I can’t take any more”

The master of the house was thankful for the critically acclaimed, arcing jazz opus that blanketed the air and the audio of the room. Was thankful, too, for the sturdy lock on his bedroom door. Because he knew then, without a doubt, that him and the practically perfect nanny, were about to lose all semblance of control.

“Would you like me to...spank you? Just a little?”, his voice was ragged. The things he wanted to do to the man on his bed. To that body that had tormented him relentlessly for months and months on end.

“Spank me. Fuck yes, spank me” - Jimin tilting his ass yet higher in the air - wanting it, needing it. As if he’d say yes to just about anything with Jeongguk, then. Well, wouldn’t he?

So, as one hand reached to finally release and jack his own throbbing length, with the other, the elder slapped the younger’s ass cheeks - first the right jiggled, then the left - kissing tenderly at the fading, flushed marks left behind by his fingers. He wished privately that they would linger longer. His own erotic signature on the other’s luscious skin - but wouldn’t push too far, not without having a proper conversation in sobriety and daylight first. That wasn’t his nature.

Shit, he was getting ahead of himself. They hadn’t even boned yet and he was already making plans for a sequel.

‘Slow down, Jeon’ - stern caution within.

But Park Jimin made it hard. Hell, really really hard. Hard to imagine life without him and the freaking bluebirds he brought to the garden branches that had Jeongguk smiling dreamily to the dawn chorus in place of his shrill morning alarm.

“I’m waiting, Oppa” - petulant poutiness snapping the elder back to the here and now.

“Are you ready baby?”, prepping for business. Rolling on a condom, lathering more lube. Then, with a gentler tone, “Are you sure Jimin-ah?”

“Give it to me. Hard”, came the raw reply.

No more hesitation. Jeongguk tearing through prissy lace, rubbing the shrouded head of his veined cock against the other’s entrance. Teasing and slicking up as Jimin reached for a pillow to muffle rising moans.

Then cries and whimpers as he finally pushed into him - bottoming out his full length and stopping still, balls-deep and chest rising and falling erratically as he held on with clenched jaw, waiting for the younger man to adjust to the invasion of his size inside.

And as those whimpers relaxed into soft whines, Jimin reached a hand back to rake fingernails across the rippling muscles of Jeongguk’s lower abdomen, head turning - glassy eyed and lower lip swollen - to take in the view behind.

The Oppa he wanted. Jeon Jeongguk. With his thick dick hilted tight within his ass.

“M-move”, came his urgent command.

So the elder man started to fuck him. Hypnotically slow and deep at first. Every thrust grazing that inner g-spot, to bring tears to the younger’s eyes. Then as the grip around his cock stretched to suck him in with sighs of desire, Jeongguk moved his hands to Jimin’s hips and held on bruisingly to angle and piston his strokes more swiftly.

The music through the speakers crackled to a finale and then close, as suddenly the room took on a more primal edge - filled only with the punctuation of skin slapping against skin, and a full recital of the profanities and expressive oracy of sex.

The house around the two disappeared - even the bedroom. Existed only two bodies, together as one. Floating higher into the blossoms of Cherry Tree Lane with every joining.

And Jimin was losing himself. Could barely breathe through the continuous keening that cried from his hoarse throat.

Just how he liked it. Just how he’d known it would be.

He wanted to touch himself, wanted to help himself over the edge, but at the same time couldn’t bear to let the dream go, so just soared the angled curve of impending orgasm instead. The highest point a body could reach without climactic release.

His eyes were squeezed shut, golden pink lights kaleidoscoping behind lids as his knuckles turned white at the ferocity with which he clutched desperately on to the black leather headboard.

He had asked for hard - and Jeongguk was going harder.

The bed itself beginning to shift beneath them - banging up against the wall in rhythmic percussion:

Thrust, bang, thrust, bang, thrust, bang...

“Oh my god. Yes, Oppa. So good. You feel...so good...so full…inside”

“Taking me so well”, came grunted affirmation, “So fucking beautiful. So sexy, baby”

Mutual praise cavorting in erotic union, words falling from lovers’ lips as they were swept on towards a heaven of him.

And all at once, with little warning, Jimin felt that knot in the pit of his core unravelling, felt his balls tighten and prime. He had never climaxed untouched before, but with a shivering shot of adrenaline, realised he was about to - raising shakily up onto all fours to brace himself as Jeongguk hammered home. He felt like he was peeling away from himself, as he curled his toes, bowed his back, took a final few thrusts - leaking cock twitching below - and then was falling, free falling, own voice somewhere off in the distance, sobbing out:

“Oppa I’m c-coming. I’m...coming Oppa. Op-ahhhh”

All white behind eyelids then. And a pleasure so intense that Jimin was ecstatically spinning, dizzy as he tumbled through space in a black hole of vibrating, dark velveteen valleys, crashing and bouncing from one side to the other, somersaulting through the air.

Then as he drifted back to concrete senses, the younger aware of Jeongguk’s arms around him, holding him, turning him to lie down on his side - the elder kissing the back of his trembling hand, whispers of “hush baby, are you ok?”, as he moved carefully within him then, rolling his hips to take him with a tenderness that warmed and tingled Jimin somewhere in his chest. In that beating muscle, in his...

And as he nodded, words not yet wording again, Jeongguk was embracing him, clinging to him as he groaned out into the younger’s nape and released deep within him - sweaty, glistening, shuddering bliss.

They lay there together, waiting, shell-shocked, for breaths and hearts to regulate, the power of speech to return…but both sharing the same silent thought...

Could it be more? It felt like more.

Eventually, Jeongguk pulling gingerly out to clamber from the bed, with a straightforward:

“Let me get you a towel, Jimin”

And the younger man’s last thoughts: ‘I want him to call me baby’ - because by the time the elder returned from the en-suite, he was already lost in slumber.

So Jeongguk cleaned him up himself. Sponging soothing, warm water across the younger’s surely sore limbs. Loosening tight muscles, massaging attentively at his hips.

Basking in the closeness of the moment, the feeling of welcoming someone important into his bed, and the unfamiliar, unexpected joy and fulfilment he felt at taking care of him there.

In daily life it had always been the other way around, the elder realised. Jimin looking after the children, the family as a whole - and him. Beyond his formal duties as nanny. But maybe, just maybe, they could...take care of each other?

//

Far too few hours later, Jeongguk woke to those cheerfully chirping bluebirds - Jimin’s head upon his chest and still heavy with sleep. Indulgent moments in which to enjoy the comforting closeness of the younger pressed against his body - stroking fingers gently through fair, candyfloss hair, breathing in the peachy scent of his shampoo - before Jeongguk squeezed somewhat reluctantly out from beneath, disentangling from the apple pie sheets of a messy bed.

He chuckled darkly to himself as his eyes fell on the ripped rag of scanty, white lace fabric on the tiles. Deceased panties. “RIP sweet one”, Jeongguk bowed his head to pay his respects.

//

Jimin was gradually aware of a hand shaking gently, insistently, at his shoulder. Opening one protesting eyelid to see twinkling, crescent eyes, and the infectious, goofy grin of his boss.

No - Mr Jeon. 

No - Jeongguk. 

No - Jeongguk Oppa!

But if the nanny had anticipated awkwardness or the smarting sting of cool rejection, neither were to be found. Instead, a delectable tray of continental breakfast items resting at the foot of the bed - exotic fruit salad, buttery croissants and pains au chocolat, freshly squeezed orange juice. The works.

Was he being wooed?

“Good morning sleepyhead. How’re you feeling baby?”

“Baby?”, there was a dance taking place inside the younger’s heart (there, that was it, that beating muscle inside his chest) - something akin to a giddy waltz.

“Well...that’s what you like, right? To be Oppa’s baby? Or-“

“-I like it”, Jimin interrupted vehemently. Before cheeks blushed, nodding shyly, yes.

The two smiled at one another in the slanting morning sunlight - rays of promise and possibility - wordless, happy moments until, suddenly service-like:

“Now, what can I tempt you with?” - Jeongguk gestured towards the breakfast tray of treasures.

And Jimin was just gearing up to retort “Your dick”, when the newly unlocked bedroom door burst open and a ten and just-turned eight year old bound suddenly into their midst.

The two men flapped - Jeongguk leaping to stand, upsetting the glass of orange juice on the tray, and Jimin yanking the sheets chinwards to cover himself in a hurry. Panicked glances, fidgeting hands, flamed ears.

But-

“Appa, be careful!”, Emi scolded, before “Oh, you’re still here Jimin Poppins”, with unnerving nonchalance as she skipped across the room to kidnap a karaoke machine - Ren wiggling his fingers in a playful wave from the doorway.

“See you downstairs” the siblings chorused then, closing the door behind them without so much as a backward glance.

The two men catching sight of each other’s incredulous expressions and snorting as they collapsed into a fit of shared giggles - clutching one another’s forearms as they laughed until cheekbones ached.

“Did he say ‘See you downstairs?’” Jeongguk repeated in astonishment.

And the giggles started up again.

It was almost as if...those kids knew all along. That Jeongguk and Jimin were two missing parts of a puzzle. Parts that just needed a little dexterous manipulation - a little jiggling - to be slotted into place at last.