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anyway. recently she invited me to her parents’ place and told me i could go anywhere but her childhood bedroom. i thought she was joking at first until i simply walked past it and she appeared out of nowhere like a horror movie ghost and pulled me away after giving me the gnarliest glare EVER. i did, however, sneak a peek before she dragged me off and i caught a glimpse of like, a hundred bear plushies just sitting there on her bed.

she also has an entire sock drawer in her apartment stuffed full of bear keyrings. one of them wears a hoodie that looks suspiciously like one of mine. another has beauty marks on its cheek in the exact placement i have mine on. her phone case? bears. her ringtone? bear noises. (???)

i’ve also been told all my life that i look like a bear, so i asked her once—half-jokingly, of course—if she only started talking to me because i looked like a one, and she didn’t deny it. she just giggled and kissed my nose.

TLDR, AITA for feeling a little… i don’t know. concerned for my safety? or identity? or left out that my girlfriend, my best friend of TEN YEARS, didn’t care to tell me about her morbidly insane obsession with bears?

⬆️ 82 ⬇️ 💬 5

haechan didn’t consider himself a paranoid man. if anything, most people described him as laid-back, albeit slightly overly affectionate, and also kind of a menace. he believed in good omens. he even had a crystal phase once—charging his rose quartz on his windowsill routinely, hoping it would make you, his best friend, look at him in a different, more romantic light. safe to say, it worked.

but ever since the two of you started dating, he started noticing... things.

it started when you first invited him over to your apartment. you had always preferred hanging out at his when you were just friends, but now that things were different, you opened your door to him like it was nothing. he tried not to think too hard about the bear-themed bath mat or the oddly specific collection of bear-shaped coasters you owned. he even overlooked the bear stickers you often slapped onto his belongings without asking, claming it gave them character. but it was your sock drawer that tipped him over the edge.

you were in the shower when it happened. he’d just been looking for a pair of fuzzy socks—your fuzzy socks, to be exact—because his feet were cold and your drawer always smelled of baby powder and comfort. what he found instead was an entire drawer, stuffed with tiny, keychain-sized bears. rows and rows of them, in different shades of brown, textures, and expressions. some were handmade—crocheted, clearly by you— others were store-bought, but a disturbing number were… familiar.

one wore a grey hoodie that matched his favourite one. another had tiny stitched moles that matched the placement of the ones on his own face. he lifted it closer, blinking. the stitching on the bear’s right cheek wasn’t a manufacturing detail—it was intentional.

he stood there for a while, just holding it. not even sure how to feel.

when you finally walked out of the bathroom with your hair wrapped in a towel and a toothbrush between your teeth, you saw him standing next to your dresser with a look of existential dread painted across his face.

“you okay?” you asked around the toothbrush.

“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “totally fine. just... um, hanging out with my twin, apparently.”

you looked at the bear in his hand and smiled, unbothered. “oh. you found my gomdo lee.”

he blinked. “i’m sorry, you named it?”

you gave a light shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “of course. it’s also based off you, by the way. i started customising him back in college after renjun called you his winnie the pooh bear.”

“that was—okay, that was a joke, a passing comment. but this? you’ve been making bears based on me since before we were even dating? wow... and i thought i was the obsessed one...”

“can’t a girl have hobbies?” you replied sweetly.

but the way your eyes sparkled? haechan wasn’t so sure this was just a hobby.

that night, he couldn’t sleep. he laid stiffly in your bed, staring at the ceiling while you snored softly beside him.

it wasn’t that your bed wasn’t comfortable. it was too comfortable—covered in plush blankets and stuffed animals that made him feel like he’d been swallowed into the softest cult imaginable. you looked peaceful, one arm wrapped tightly around a fluffy beige teddy that looked older than both of you combined. its fur was worn and slightly matted in places, but you held onto it like it was made of gold. it wore a navy cardigan—buttoned and everything—which wouldn’t have been so strange if haechan himself hadn’t worn a nearly identical one just a few weeks ago.

he glanced down at your sleeping form. you nuzzled deeper into the plush bear’s chest, mumbling something incoherent under your breath that sounded dangerously like my bear…

he exhaled slowly and turned onto his side. the ceiling fan spun lazily above him, doing nothing to calm the growing questions in his head.

was he your boyfriend… or your living build-a-bear?

he wasn’t even sure he was mad or uncomfortable. mostly confused. and—if he was being painfully honest—kind of flattered?

which was possibly worse.

he brought it up to mark the next day at their usual brunch spot, halfheartedly picking at his tofu stew while trying to rationalise everything out loud.

“i’m not saying i’m jealous, or anything,” haechan insisted, even though his tone sounded exactly like someone who was jealous. “i’m just… confused. and maybe a little left out. like, this is clearly something she’s obsessed with. i mean—her ringtone is literal bear noises. but she never once told me about it. not when we were friends. not even when we first started dating. i’ve also never had to compete with stuffed animals before. it’s humbling.”

mark, who had been half-listening while texting chenle about wanting to go home, finally looked up. “you’re jealous of teddy bears?”

“i’m not jealous,” haechan repeated. “i’m just confused about all the attention these bears are getting. i’m her boyfriend. i bring her food. i fix her wifi. those bears just lie there like limp little freeloaders!”

mark chewed thoughtfully. “okay, so like… what’s the issue? you think she’s only dating you because you look like a bear?”

“…i don’t know.” haechan slumped back in his chair. “everyone does say i resemble one. i mean i do have a round face and round eyes but i don’t think i’m so bear? but she once said my yawns were ‘cub-like.’ what does that even mean? fuck, this is all your fault.”

mark blinked at him. “you need help.”

“I NEED ANSWERS.”

haechan tried to forget about it. really, he did. he convinced himself it was harmless. you liked cute things. he was cute. case closed.

but then he caught himself googling do women imprint on men who resemble animals? and realised maybe he was truly losing it.

the final straw came when he returned home after dance practice and collapsed onto your shared couch, only to knock over one of the keyring bears you’d lined up neatly against the shelf. it fell to the floor face-up, staring at him with those same round eyes and smug little cardigan.

and suddenly, haechan had a thought so stupid it almost made him laugh.

what if he leaned into it?

what if, instead of questioning everything—he just became the bear for you?

he spent the next hour pacing the apartment and scrolling through bear-themed accessories before finally rage-ordering a headband with ears and a hoodie with paw prints on the sleeves.

if he couldn’t beat the bears… maybe it was time to join them.

on the night of your three-month anniversary, you opened your apartment door, expecting a simple dinner—or at most, one of his overly dramatic love coupons written using jaemin’s glitter pens. instead, you were greeted by a full-grown man standing outside with a slightly awkward grin and a big red ribbon tied around his neck.

he wore a soft brown hoodie, complete with stitched fabric ears poking out from a headband. his cheeks were flushed, both from embarrassment and—if he were honest—hope.

he cleared his throat and held out a single paw-printed card. “hi,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “i’m your true, real bear now.”

you stared at him for a long, stunned second. he shifted on his feet, suddenly regretting the ribbon. and the headband. and quite possibly his entire life.

but then you dropped everything and launched yourself into his arms with so much force he stumbled back into the hallway.

“i love you,” you whispered, breathless, like it was the easiest truth in the world.

he blinked, ears twitching, unsure he heard that right.

“what?”

you looked up at him, eyes glassy. “i said i love you. my real bear.”

and just like that, every second of spiraling and confusion was worth it. he grinned into your hair, holding you tight. “damn. all it took was a pair of fuzzy ears and a ribbon, huh?”

“no.” you giggled, chest blooming with warmth as you cupped his face. “it took you. you’ll always be my one and only lover-bear.”

r/AmItheAsshole posted by

u/haemuffin・7 days. ago

my (25M) girlfriend (25F) forbids me from going into her childhood bedroom and has a sock drawer stuffed full of bear keyrings. some of them even look a little like me. AITA for feeling uncomfortable?

UPDATE, i dressed up as a bear and now we’re inseperable. still not allowed in the childhood bedroom though. apparently there’s a bear with my baby photo sewn into its chest. she said it was a prototype. i am terrified. also flattered. but mostly terrified. wouldn’t trade her for the world though :)

⬆️ 127 ⬇️ 💬 66

 People say ‘don’t shit where you eat' for a reason. 

You knew going to a work do where free alcohol was served with your ex-situationship lurking was not a smart idea. You knew it. But you also refused to back down and disrupt your plans because of a narcissist who is known for not being able to handle his alcohol.  

 It was all fun and games at the start of the night, but the more drinks he kept having, the more his petty comments kept coming your way.  

 “Remember when you used to be fun?”  

 “Why so uptight? Did someone hurt you?”  

 And so, you caved. You called the only person you knew could save you no matter what.  

 “Hey, what you up to?” You hold the phone between your shoulder and ear while rummaging through your bag for a lighter. The situation definitely demands a smoke. If you could find the stupid pink lighter you once stole off Haechan.

The cars are loud on the main road outside the venue your company had booked for the evening, but you can still hear the faint clicking of his keyboard through the speaker. He is definitely in the middle of a gaming session. 

 “Already gave up?” He says with a little amused laugh. You can almost picture the smug smirk on your friend’s face. 

 “It's either that or I get violent.” You snarl in the cold of the night, the lighter still nowhere to be found. "It's been what, an hour? And the man's already five drinks in."  

 “Yikes. You made him turn to alcohol. Poor fella.” He pretends pity, but you know he’s always hated the guy.  

 “Not my fault he can’t take the truth.”  

 “Eh, yeah, he’s a dick, but you also did tell him you faked all your orgasms.” He snorts. “Surprised he hasn't already killed himself.”  

 “Aha!” You shout a little too excitedly for having just found a lighter.  

 “You good?” He asks curiously, keyboard clicking coming to a halt.  

 “Yeah, sorry, just found my lighter.”  

 “You mean my lighter.” He deadpans. “I knew it was you.”  

 You stifle a giggle at his whining. “Who else could it have been?”  

He scoffs. “I have other friends.”  

 “Mm,” You hum as you light the cigarette and take the first nerve-calming drag. You exhale in relief before continuing, “You only chat to them on Overwatch nowadays.”  

“Be thankful I'm actually spending time with you on my days off,”  He grumbles.

“You're so right. I am an ungrateful piece of shit. Will you ever forgive me.” You respond in the most indifferent tone you can muster.

 “Yeah, yeah, whatever - when’s your bus?” He asks, totally unfazed by your sassy comeback.  

 “Like five minutes?” You glance at the schedule board. The bus to Haechan’s place shows 5’, while the one that takes you home shows 7’. “I could always go home. Don’t wanna keep you up.”

 “It’s 8 p.m. on a Friday night.” He brushes off your hesitation, clearly having already decided for you. “I’ve got food covered, just bring some soju.”

 You're glad he can't see the satisfied grin that takes over your face.

He somehow always manages to say endearing things with a tone that could make him come across as cold to someone who isn't familiar with his mannerisms. It's easy for you to notice the always present but underlying softness, though.

You absentmindedly keep flicking the cigarette even though there's no ash left at the tip. “Alright, say less.”  

“And none of that peach-flavoured shit you like,” He adds. “It's too sweet.” 

“You'll drink what I pay for.” 

You end up getting two peach and two original-flavoured bottles anyway.

⟡

  “The fuck is he so bitter for?” Haechan slumps down next to you on his spacious sofa after getting rid of the empty take out boxes, making you bounce a little. “I swear it wasn’t that serious?”  

 “It wasn’t!” You exclaim in annoyance, kicking your feet from where you’re lying across the sofa, head heavy against the armrest. Your eyes feel a little droopy from the lovely meal you've just had and the amount of alcohol you’ve consumed tonight — not enough to get you drunk, just enough to give your body a pleasant buzz.  

 “Maybe he really liked you.” Haechan points out and you can’t help but raise your head a little to throw him a ‘be serious’ look. He snorts. “What?” 

 The cotton of his sweatpants feels soft against your toes, and you subconsciously wiggle them between his thigh and the sofa as you relax against the soft cushions. “That man hated me. He just liked my pu—“ 

 “Yah,” He cuts you off, still chuckling in disbelief at your non-existent filter. “How can you be so unhinged when you drink?” 

 Your eyes are shut but you giggle along, always enjoying making him a little uncomfortable. It’s a rare occurrence.  

 “Speaking of…” He trails, clearly in thought about something.  

 “Of what? My genitals?” Your attempt to mock him earns you a sharp pinch on the fleshy bit of your calf. "Ah! Okay okay okay, I'm sorry." You squeal in pain until he retrieves his fingers.

“Weirdo.” He mumbles disapprovingly, making you let out a not-so-charming snort that may or may not resemble a laugh. You can picture the offended expression on his face. The pout his heart-shaped lips always form when he's annoyed is too adorable to forget.

“You were saying...?” You prod with a gentle voice this time, wiggling your toes again, your hands folded on your tummy as you keep your eyes closed. 

 “Did you actually fake it every single time?” He shuffles a little further down the sofa, his sweats dragging against your toes as he gets more comfy and now you’re pretty sure your right foot is now stuck under his ass.  

 “Every. Single. Timeeeee.” You drag the word with a dramatic groan.  

 “Jeez. Poor guy.” Haechan exhales in wonderment. “Was his peepee like, really small or...?”  

 “Pfff.” You blow out a snicker. “It wasn’t that much of a size issue. It was more…I dunno, just lack of technique, I guess?” 

 “Hm.” Haechan hums in thought. “What about when he’d go down on you?”  

 You’re no stranger to having these types of conversations with Haechan. You’ve been friends long enough to feel comfortable discussing your sex lives to an extent. You’re both sexually active adults, it's no secret, but for some reason, in this specific moment, it feels a little too intimate. Maybe it’s the quiet of his apartment, with the tv being muted and all. Or maybe it’s the alcohol in your system.  

 “That’s never really worked for me, you know.” You admit quickly, without really elaborating.  

 There’s a small pause from his side, which makes you move your bent knees to the side a little so you can check your friend’s expression. He seems confused.  

 “Like ever?” His eyebrows furrow a little before smoothing down again. “With anyone?”  

 You shake your head with a little pout, containing your laugh. It’s kind of funny how concerned he looks, even though it has nothing to do with him. 

 “Well, if it means anything, on behalf of the entire male population, I do apologise.” He puts his hands together and closes his eyes, as though begging for your forgiveness.  

 You stifle a laugh and lightly kick his thigh. “Pretty sure there’s much more pressing matters the male population should feel sorry for.”  

 “Touché.” He smiles awkwardly at your observation.  

 “Also, I hate to break it to you, but…” You move your feet from underneath his leg and place them on his lap. His hand casually squeezes one ankle, the touch comforting over your trousers. “Surely, you know most of your partners have faked it at least once.”  

 He scoffs playfully. “Yeah, probably in uni, when I was constantly fucking around, but definitely not in the last couple years.”  

 “Delusion at its finest.”  

 His eyes roll sarcastically. “I’m very aware of my oral skills, don’t you worry about me.”  

 You breathe out an amused laugh at his frown. “Right right right, my bad.”  

 “I could always prove it.”  

 Your laughter is louder this time. “What? You gonna invite a girl over and make me watch?”  

 “I mean…sure, if you’re into that,” He smirks, hand around your ankle tightening slightly. “Not really what I meant though.”  

Now, that sparks some interest in you.

 “You offering me head or something?” You maintain the playfulness in your tone, but you’re very aware of the heat creeping up on your face at what he's insinuating.  

 He just shrugs, like it’s nothing out of the ordinary. “You get an orgasm; I get to prove you wrong.”  

 “You must really love proving me wrong.” You’re positive of your blush showing now, his amused grin enough proof as he inspects your face.  

 He shrugs again. He’s too calm for this situation. “Won’t be a chore, I’m sure.”  

“Ey, quit pulling my leg.” You warn in disbelief. There's no way this isn't one of his tricks.

He scoffs with a lopsided grin, tongue poking against his cheek. “I'm not pulling anything.”

“You'd seriously go down on me just to prove a point?” Your eyeballs feel like they're about to pop out of your head.

“Last chance. Take it or leave it.” He says monotonously, like it's some kind of auction.

This whole situation is absurd. But what's even more absurd is that you panic at the thought of missing the chance of your friend eating you out. You must be experiencing a simulation. That's the only credible explanation.

You purse your lips in thought. Why can't you bring yourself to say no? “What if you actually fail?”  

“I won’t.”  

 “You might.” You press again.  

 He exhales an exasperated laugh. “Then, I dunno. You get something to use against me.”  

 You certainly like the sound of that. “I could always fake it. I’m good at that.”  

 “I’ll know if you do.” He raises an eyebrow in warning, expression more serious than you’re used to. “So, best not.”  

 You swallow a little too audibly, too aware of his touch on your leg now. It’s when your gaze drops to his lips that you really do come to a decision.  

 “Alright.” You agree, as nonchalantly as possible. “No weird shit, though.”  

 He snorts a laugh as he sits up a little and you scoot back to rest on your elbows. “What exactly classifies as weird shit?”  

 “I don’t know...” You look around as though you’ll find an answer in his living room. You know it's just a way to avoid his eyes. “Just don’t make it weird.” 

 “I won’t.” He raises his hands in defence.

“Good.”

He stares at you for a few moments, and it’s already fucking weird. “Wanna stay here or go to the bedroom?”  

Oh god. This is actually happening.

 “Here.” You decide quickly. “Bedroom’s a bit too serious.”  

 He nods in approval. “Fair.”  

 You nod back, but really knowing what else to do.  

 “Alright, let’s see your granny panties then.”  

 “See, that’s fucking weird! I knew you'd—“ 

 “Okay okay,” He cackles loudly at your expense, catching the cushion you attempt to smack into his face. “I’m sorry, I’ll behave.”  

 You glare at him, not really believing a word that comes out of his stupidly pretty mouth. You know him too well.  

 “Would you kindly take your trousers off or shall I do it?” He asks carefully this time, sounding too genuine, eyelashes batting dramatically. You know it's all an act. 

 You don’t choose words this time. Instead, you lie back down and unbutton your trousers, but before you can start removing them, Haechan stops you with his hands on yours.  

 “Wait.” His slightly worried expression makes your heart drop. Did he just trick you into agreeing so he could take it back? What sick, twisted motherf— “You actually wanna do this, right?”  

You barely register your smile. Him making sure to get your repeated consent shouldn’t feel so endearing. “I’ve already said yes, Hyuck.”  

 “No, you said ‘alright’.” He mimics your voice playfully, making your smile widen. “Not the same.”  

 “My bad.” You get comfortable again, your hands resuming their actions as you start pushing your pants down, hips raising a little, and when the piece of clothing hits the floor, you speak again, smile still intact. “Yes, I want to.”  

 His eyes don’t even flicker down to your bottom half. They stay on your face. Even when your legs spread to accommodate him as he shuffles closer, he doesn’t allow himself to look below your waist.  

 He doesn’t come across as embarrassed, or awkward. He’s just… calm. His breathing stable compared to yours, his hands steady on your knees, no tremble detected, his blinking slow, eyes moving unhurriedly over your squirming body. He’s too fucking normal about this.  

 And you’re already turned on. And embarrassed. And so not calm.  

 “Cute.” His endearing remark breaks the silence when he finally eyes your underwear, his thumb delicately tracing the baby blue bow in the centre of the waistline. You’re glad you chose black lace instead of anything else that could betray your wetness.  

 You can feel it leaking. It’s uncomfortable and very unsettling. A reminder of the absurdity you've found yourself in on this random Friday evening.

 He's one of your favourite people. Your best guy friend. And he’s got your pussy dripping and your heart skipping more beats than it should. 

 And he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.  

 His hands settle on your inner thighs, spreading your legs as far as they’ll go, and when he brings his face closer to where you need him, you have to close your eyes for a few moments. Just to anchor yourself a little.  

 “Are you uncomfortable?” He asks softly, his warm breath hitting your tummy.  

 You look down to find that his concerned eyes are already inspecting your face. “No. It’s just weird. It’s you.” 

 “Exactly.” He reaffirms with a cheeky grin. “It's just me.”   

 You take a deep breath before exhaling slowly. “I’m good. I promise.” 

 “Good.” He presses a tiny peck just above the bow of your panties, where your blouse has ridden up and left the skin uncovered. His nose tickles you slightly. “Just sit there and look pretty.”

 You accidentally let out a giggle at his gentle demeanour, not really familiar with this side of him. He’s always playful with you, sure, just not this soft. As touchy as Haechan can be, it’s always clumsy and chaotic. He’ll hug you here and there or put an arm around your shoulders to offer needed comfort, he'll pat you on the back, ruffle your hair just to annoy you, but he's never lingered. Never crossed any lines. Never done or said anything to make you question your friendship.  

 Until now.  

 He rearranges his position a little, until he’s leaning comfortably on his elbows, face directly above your heat, arms loosely wrapped around your thighs, hands stroking up and down the skin. He's being gentle. Attentive.

It's annoying how you can't look away. How could you? When he looks so good between your legs. So, you just watch.

 He starts with a kiss on your left inner thigh, then another one on your right one, where he keeps descending, each smooch wetter than the previous one until he’s reached the edge of your soaked underwear. 

 He makes brief eye contact when his tongue dips out to lick the crease that connects your thigh and mound, making your breath hitch. He does the same on the other side, and then resumes the kisses, covering your skin in dewy patches.

It’s his heavy breaths that affect you the most. Simply because they betray that he's not as unaffected as he seems.  

 You don’t rush him. Don’t beg him. Don’t let yourself make too many sounds other than some shaky breaths here and there when his teeth nip at your skin. You hold back as best as you can. Even when the pulse of your clit becomes almost unbearable. Even when the slick that drips out of you is too difficult to ignore. Even when you’re dying to grab onto his hair and shove his face into your pussy. You just force your hands to grab onto the cushions that support your head.  

 Your composure eventually breaks when he lands a lingering kiss just above your covered clit. A barely audible whimper fills the quiet of his apartment. You know he’s heard it when his hold on your thighs tightens, pretty hands flexing, fingers digging in the flesh, the cool sensation of his rings soothing you. You can’t help but smile to yourself at the acknowledging gesture. At the way he tries to ground you.  

 His lips part wider this time, tongue poking out, gently massaging your clit over the ruined lace, the moist warmth seeping through the fabric, teasing you like you’ve never been teased before.  

 “Hyuck.” The nickname comes out whiny, almost broken.  

 He hums in response, the vibration going straight through your sensitive bud, pulling an accidental moan out of you. His tongue slips down to your entrance and that’s when he makes a sound for the first time tonight. It’s very obvious he’s felt the arousal that’s probably spilling from the sides of your sticky panties.  

 “You taste good.” He whispers, more to himself it seems, his eyes glued to the mess between your legs as he bites down on his lower lip. “Can I take these off?”  

 You blink down at him, his pleading tone causing your pussy to flutter around nothing, and his wide, boba eyes - full of hope - cause your stomach to do a flip. You can’t do anything other than nod dumbly.  

 He moves swiftly; his fingers already slipping into the sides of your panties as he sits up to make more room, your hips lift in response and in no time the garment is somewhere on his floor. Haechan doesn’t give you much time to feel exposed. He gets to work quickly. Eager hands grab onto your hips and effortlessly drag you closer to his face, prying your legs wide open, nails digging into the backs of your thighs as his eyes drink in the filthy sight of your slicked up centre.  

 Your brain malfunctions when you hear a not-so-subtle inhale.

Did he just...smell you?

You hands move on their own, clinging onto his hair, pushing him down, while your hips lift just a tiny bit, and before he can protest, his nose bumps into your swollen bud.

He doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve practically shoved his face into your folds. His tongue makes contact immediately, licking from your entrance to your clit, lightly at first, the tip of it barely making contact, almost tickling you. Then he repeats the action, a little bolder each time, edging you.

A wide swipe of the pink muscle against the whole expanse of your throbbing pussy sends a shock through your system. And when his tongue swirls around your swollen bud, you let your head fall back and your eyes close in bliss. “Holy shit, you are good at this.”

You’re awfully aware of the sigh that slips out of you, but at this point you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Decorum is the least of your worries when your best friend of three years has his face buried in your most private parts.  

 Awareness flies out of the window too when Haechan’s full lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently before his tongue joins with languid strokes. You can’t tell how loud you’re being, all you can focus on is the pleasure and the wet slurping sounds he’s making.  

 “Told you.” He mumbles mid lap and before you can think of a smart comeback, his tongue briefly sneaks down to your entrance, collecting more of your arousal before travelling back up to flick gently. Your hips unintentionally buck into his face, searching for more friction.  

 He’s clearly teasing you. Toying with you. Trying to make a point. Greedy asshole. 

 “Fuck!” You exclaim in surprise when his thumbs spread your pussy lips, isolating your clit and lifting the hood so that his mouth can suck harder than before. Your back arches, the direct contact with the nerve endings making your legs shake involuntarily. Your fingers curl in his strands in despair and your eyes roll back when he doesn’t let up. His harsh flicks come in up and down motions, before turning into long, persistent swirls and then repeat. “Hah—wait—fuck, I’m—” 

 “Shut up and cum.” He rasps harshly, his voice alone making you clench around emptiness.

You feel his spit combined with your juices trickling down to your ass, possibly staining his sofa too. You’re so close you can taste it. Your pussy throbs from the sensitivity, thighs shake uncontrollably, the backs of your knees where your legs are bent drip in sweat, your lungs are struggling to keep up, the coil in your tummy so close to bursting.  

It's nothing close to what you had in mind. He's making you look like a fool for ever doubting his skills. You find yourself feeling irrationally jealous of all the women that have experienced this when you'd been having to act and scream out fake moans.

 He suddenly pulls back a little, and your head instantly shoots up at the loss. Your eyes meet his hooded ones, the lower half of his face covered in you, and as if the sight wasn’t already scandalous, the thick string of saliva that dribbles out of his mouth and directly onto your clit, completes the piece of art of whatever the fuck this is.  

 “Jesus.” You huff when you let your head loll back down, and then his tongue is on you again, flicking faster and harsher than before, hitting a spot on one side of your clit that makes stars appear behind your eyelids. “Fuck, right there.”  

 You hold his head exactly where you need him, and he obliges without a word. The assault of his mouth combined with his hand blindly reaching up to give your boob a light squeeze, make your whole body lock up for a moment before shakes of intense pleasure take over you. The broken whine that escapes your throat, barely registers as you cum hard on his tongue. You don’t even realise that your trembling hand engulfs the one he's got on your breast, interlocking your fingers with his while trying not to drown in the abyss of the high.  

 It’s impossible. Not when he keeps licking and sucking, completely unbothered, moaning like he’s experiencing this as intensely as you are, gripping onto your thigh and fingers like he’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t offer every bit of pleasure he can. 

 He lets you ride it out quite literally on his face. Doesn’t stop you from grinding on his nose and tongue. He happily stays there as you use him until you’ve had enough. And even when you can't take more, he still doesn’t stop. He slowly drags his tongue between your folds before he lets it dip into your leaking hole. As far as it can go. Tasting your release from the source. And when his arm curls around your thigh, fingers coming to touch you from above, rubbing harsh circles on your clit, you have to get away. Before you lose your fucking mind.  

 Simply asking him to stop does cross your mind for half a second, but for some reason you go with what should feel forbidden. You grab onto the collar of his top, your other hand already curling around the back of his neck, pulling him up until his face is directly above yours, and before he can question your actions, you’re claiming his mouth with yours.  

 No testing the waters, no permission asked. Just parted lips against parted lips, your tongue shoving past them, tasting your own arousal. You feel him go rigid for a few seconds, and you’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t stutter with worry at the thought of scaring him away. At the thought of crossing a boundary. But then you feel his body melt into yours and his soft lips start responding, matching your eagerness, jaw slackening to let your tongue tangle with his.  

 It’s kind of gross. Saliva mixed with your essence drips from the corner of your mouth. It’s messy. Lazy. But it feels nice. And oddly sweet. And warm. And you hate that fresh heat blooms in your belly just from a kiss.  

 His hand coming to cup your chin possessively does something to you. His fingers lightly squish your cheeks before they trail up, palm engulfing your jaw, tilting your head a little so he can deepen the kiss with a satisfied hum. Such a simple gesture, but it sends tingles down your spine, makes your breath hitch and your hips stutter with newfound want. His thumb tracing your cheek reminds you that he’s still in control of the situation.

That he really did prove you wrong.

But you're not annoyed. If anything, it turns you on even more. As twisted as it may sound. The thought of your best friend sticking the very same tongue he made you cum with down your throat, should make your skin crawl. Instead, it makes you want more.   

 “Fuck.” He exhales in your mouth, pulling back just enough to take a look at you with slightly widened eyes, pupils blown out. A thin string of saliva connects you for a second before you lick your lips, breaking the bond.  

 All you keep thinking is 'has he always been this pretty?'. Rosy cheeks, swollen pink lips, nose and chin still glistening with your slick, making more of it gush from your sensitive heat.  

 “I need to cum or I might go fucking nuts.” He complains with a frown, head dropping forward so he can peep between your bodies, and you can’t help but do the same. 

 You see it. The dark stain at the front of his grey sweats, the very prominent bulge of his erection brushing your stomach, barely touching you.  

 “Okay.” You mutter weakly, but then panic when he moves to get off you. You instinctively grab onto his t-shirt, pulling him back down, his erection now trapped between your lower halves. “Where are you going?”  

 His blinks quickly, surprise evident at your resistance. “Bathroom?”  

 “Why?”  

 He lets out a confused laugh. “I don’t know. I thought— 

 You shake your head at him, hips bucking slightly to meet his, a gentle grind, enough to help him get the message. “You don’t have to go.”  

 His lips part at the friction, eyebrows furrowing adorably, eyes fluttering closed as he allows his weight to sink back on you.  

 “Fuck.” He whispers, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder when you grind a little harder this time. “You wanna watch me or something?”

 “Whatever you want.” You mumble in his ear, hand burying in his hair to comfort him with gentle strokes. You hope he catches on the hidden meaning behind your words.  

 “That’s a little misleading.” He lifts his head to meet your eyes again. “I could want things you might not.”  

 “I doubt that.” You say, a restrained smile tugging at your lips. “Unless you wanna put it in my ass.”  

 His light chuckle evokes relief in your tense muscles. “Ass is where you draw the line?”  

 “Sorry.” You smirk teasingly, letting your free hand slip under the hem of his top, fingertips caressing along his spine. You bite back a smile at the little shiver that visibly runs through him.  

 His amused smile and wondering eyes make you feel flustered. Your cheeks burn and you pulse quickens, but you try to remain calm.

“S’okay, not what I want right now anyway.” He lets his hips press flush against yours, completely unashamed of showing off how turned on he is.  

 “You’re good then.” You sneak a hand around his nape to pull him down for another kiss, but he resists this time.  

 He giggles at your confused expression. “Cute.”  

 You pout angrily in response, earning another playful laugh from him.  

 “So, like, just so we're crystal clear,” He leans closer, nose nuzzling yours as he cages your head with his arms. “What you're implying is that if I said I wanted to have sex with you...you'd want that too.”  

 You daringly stare into his eyes when you reach between your bodies and give him a teasing squeeze through his layers.

The stuttering gasp he lets out is hard to miss. “That's not an answer.”

“Then learn to take a hint.” You press harder, reveling in the cute whine that slips out of him.  

 He finally gives up and closes the small gap, kissing you again, with more urgency this time, his tongue sneaking in your mouth while you slowly stroke him through his sweats.

He’s bigger than you expected. Not too long, but thick enough for the stretch to sting at first. You can almost feel it in your walls as they pulse around nothing, desperately needing to be filled.

It feels like torture.

You’re about to complain when you feel him shift his weight a little, your arms quickly coming to wrap around his neck, preventing him from interrupting the kiss.  

 You realise his bottoms are out of the way when his heavy cock slaps against your stomach. In any other occasion you’d feel embarrassed at the way your hips wiggle, seeking for relief and the whimper your let out against his lips.  

 He doesn’t try to shame you or tease you, like the Haechan you know would. He simply responds with a shaky exhale and a slow roll of his hips before kissing you harder, deeper, messier. He keeps devouring your lips even when the velvety head of his cock prods at your entrance, separating your folds with a little squelch. His tongue slides against yours smoothly as he breaches past your tight opening, just the tip going in, testing the waters. He moans when you let your legs spread wider for him, silently inviting him in your soaked heat.  

 Your mouth hangs open, eyes squeezing shut when he’s suddenly pushed halfway in, the burn intense but still somehow laced with pleasure, making your body tremble a little and your fingers curl into his shoulder blades, nails catching onto the soft cotton of his shirt.  

 “Does it hurt?” He checks in a whisper, hips halting when he meets resistance, your pussy tightening when it all becomes too much. He's too big for you to just take in one go.  

 “Stings a little.” You nod, eyes still closed even when you feel him staring at you.  

 “I'll go slow,” He lands a wet smooch on your cheek, earning a giddy smile from you. “Just relax for me.”  

 “M’trying.” You whine pathetically. “Why’s your dick so fat? What the fuck?”  

 He breathes out a chuckle into your neck. “Why’s your pussy so tight? You a virgin or something?”  

 You can’t find it in you to play along anymore, especially when he pulls back out to the tip before sliding back in the same amount as before. He starts building a slow rhythm, thrusts shallow, only going halfway in. Until your walls start to gradually relax around him, allowing him to sink in a little deeper each time.

You both sigh in unison when his hips finally meet yours.  

 “Shit, that's too deep.” You gasp into his shoulder, arms hugging him closer as your trembling body seeks more of his warmth, trying to somehow subdue the mix of pain and pleasure.  

 He grinds upwards, rolling his hips in an angle that makes his cock graze a perfect spot along your snug walls. Your muscles still try to adjust to the thickness, but you welcome it nevertheless. He stays there for a little while, not moving while he scatters lazy kisses along your neck, clearly trying to help you loosen up. His fingers hook into the neckline of your blouse, dragging that side down the slope of your shoulder along with your bra strap, revealing more skin to cover in kisses.  

 “Can we take our clothes off?” He asks while he slowly drags his plush lips and eager tongue along your collarbone.  

 “Yes, please.” You nod a little too eagerly, jittery hands already sneaking under the sides of his t-shirt, helping him get rid of the annoying layer.  

 He sits up a little, length still sheathed in your leaking pussy as he quickly removes his top, revealing ravishing golden skin and lean muscle. His chest is a little more buff than you remember from your summer holidays, his biceps a tiny bit more prominent. 

You could eat him up. 

 “Stop staring.” He gives you bashful smile, hands engulfing your hips, lifting your ass off the sofa just a little so he can spread his knees more and rest your thighs over his.  

 Your lips part in a quiet moan when you feel his cock move inside you, tickling that spot again. “Sorry, it’s all just a little...”  

 “Strange?” He completes your sentence for you.  

 You nod with a little airy laugh, earning another grin from him. 

 “Take this off for me?” He drags the hem of your top just below your ribs, and you quickly take action, fumbling with shaky hands to pull the thin office blouse over your head. “Bra too.”  

 Again, your hands move of their own accord, just following his instructions. You reach behind you, fingers pinching the clasp of the bra, unhooking it with a snap, allowing the lacy garment to loosen on your skin. You watch his expression as you peel the straps down your arms slowly, before flinging the lace somewhere across the floor.  

 You’re both completely naked now. The subtle throb of his stiff length inside you is a reminder of the situation you're in.

Your eyes remain on his face, while his drink in your nudity, roaming shamelessly, like you’re an intricate painting that needs studying. From your lips to your collarbones, to your tits - where they linger - over your stomach, then down to where you’re still connected.  

 “Pretty.” He mutters quietly, and it feels like the word isn’t even aimed at you, but at your pussy.  

 “Stop staring.” You throw his own words back at him, but his intense gaze sends a fresh flood of arousal out of your clenching heat anyway, drenching his cock in it too. You can't help but secretly love how he's ogling, eyes glazed with what could only be pure lust.   

 He blatantly ignores you. Just takes hold of your waist with one hand and plants the other one flat by your shoulder to support his weight. And then his hips start moving. Finally.  

 You grip onto the soft skin of his thighs as he drags his length out to the tip before slowly sinking back in. The wet sounds are humiliating and arousing at the same time, and you can’t help but involuntarily squeeze him in.  

 It seems that brings him out of the trance he's in, making him lose whatever was left of his patience. Without warning he pushes your legs up, squishing your knees against your tits. Giving you no time to react, he starts ramming into your dripping cunt, no care in the world. Completely opposite to his previously careful actions. No easing you in, no letting you adjust. Just vigorous, hard snaps of his hips, his balls slapping against your ass, creating obscene sounds combined with the slurps of your cunt around him.  

 You’re still somewhat in shock, trying to comprehend what he’s putting your body through, but when he slightly adjusts his angle and starts jamming directly into your g-spot, you let out a whiny shriek. 

 “Yeah? You like that?” He rasps, dark eyes finding yours, consuming your pleasure.

 “Uhuh,” You moan out, your nails dig into his thigh muscles. “Please, keep going.”  

 “So needy.” He mocks, leaning over you and folding you in half, testing your flexibility as your legs hook over his shoulders. The penetration is too deep, too intense. Makes your legs shake so much you have to wrap your own arms around the backs of your thighs to minimise the tremble.  

 “Fuck you.” You scoff, the words laced arousal even though frustration boils in your chest.  

 He laughs. So mean but so sexy. “Always wondered what you'd sound like.”  

 “Shut up, you’re so gross.” You whine, your pussy squelching as it tightens again. He’s taunting you and getting a kick out of it. A sick sick man. A sick man who's got you dripping on his sofa. Because he's too fucking hot right now.  

 “And you’re kind of a slut.” He points out with a hard thrust, bulbous head hitting against your cervix, making your eyes roll back into their sockets,. “Begging me to fuck you like this.”

 “Nggh f-fuck, Hyuck, don’t call me that.” You try your best to sound grossed out, but it only comes out as a weak plea. 

 “Awh, why? Like it a little too much?” More like loved it, but you know better that to ever admit that. “Yeah, you do. Look at you, fucking creaming.” He’s greedily staring between your legs, at how his cock is abusing your needy cunt. “Who knew you’d be so thirsty for dick, baby.” He blabbers aimlessly, sounding a little too far gone to care. “My cute little bestie is such a slut, hm?”  

 You have to bite your lip to prevent yourself from screaming. Your face and neck feel like they’re on fire, but your sensitive walls keep inviting him in regardless.  

 “Knew you’d be a fucking yapper.” You grit, hoping to piss him off.  

 “Mm.” He offers you a lazy smile instead. Like a dumb fucking idiot. “You know me so well.”  

Your pussy flutters at that, and strangely, so does your heart.

 He keeps fucking into you at the same pace. Not too fast, but hard enough for your ass to ache from the slaps of his hips. You want him closer.  

 “My leg’s cramping.” You lie mindlessly.  

 You’re not sure if he sees right through you, but he slips your legs off his shoulders anyway, letting them loosely settle around his hips, and you seize the opportunity to pull him closer, a hand grabbing onto the back of his neck.  

 He groans lowly at the forced proximity. “Shit.”

 “Faster.” You demand, hands tugging at his hair as he buries his face in your neck. He doesn’t say a word, just does as told. Fucks you faster and a little harder than before, cock barely pulling out before jamming back in, creating a delicious vibration against your clit and front wall. “Oh, my god, yes.”  

 “So good, baby.” He whispers raggedly in your ear, the pet name causing goosebumps to raise on your sweaty skin and turbulence in your chest. “So warm and slippery.”

A particularly sharp thrust makes you cry out, your legs closing in on his hips, preventing him from moving for a second, before he shoves them open again.

“Just take it.” He grunts, hips resuming their assault as his teeth graze your jaw before trapping your earlobe between them. “You asked for this, didn't you?”  

 “Fuck, please.” You whimper out pitifully, not entirely sure what you’re begging for at this point. Your focus is interchanging between the way his chest rubs against yours, stimulating your aching nipples, and his fat cock stretching your cunt like it's carving out its shape in you, as though he's trying to ruin you for anyone else.  

A hand buries in your hair, pulling hard enough to make you gasp, your head lolling back, giving him enough space to lap the sweat off your neck, lustful, angry kisses littering the sensitive skin.

It's too much. Too dizzying. And so fucking good.

 You’re so close. Right on the edge. You just need something to push you over. Something you’re too shy to ask for.

You let your fingers wrap around his wrist instead, guiding his hand to your neck. It lies there limply for a second, just at the base of your throat, and then he lifts his head a little, forehead resting against your temple, nose nuzzling your cheek. Once again, your wish is his command. His palm engulfs your throat, fingers applying the perfect pressure on your pulse points. So perfect that your eyes roll back and your hips stutter, while his don't falter even a little, maintaining their intense rhythm.  

 “Hyuckie,” You whisper the loving nickname weakly, too lost in the daze, not able to care about how vulnerable you sound. You need him to know how fucked up he's got you. “Can I cum? Please?” 

 “Fuck, you're so cute.” Haechan whines, the tenderness in his voice contrasting his demanding thrusts. “It’s okay, baby, Huyckie's got you.”  

 His sweet, reassuring words combined with every single of your nerve endings being stimulated to the max, send you into an all-consuming climax. Just a couple more thrusts and your pussy squeezes him so tight, kneads his shaft in rhythmic pulses, to the point you’re worried you might actually push him out, but you’re so thankful he doesn’t let up.

His hips smack into yours harder, faster, prolonging your orgasm for as long as he can. Your muscles spasm from the aftershocks, hands grabbing onto his back, legs quivering around his waist. And just when you’re floating in bliss - body and mind feeling light and fuzzy - you utter something that would have shocked you, weren't you in this delirious state.  

 “Hyuck?” Your voice comes out shaky and breathless. “You’re still my best friend, right?”  

He stills for a moment, slamming deep inside you, pulling a yelp out of you.

 “What the fuck.” He growls out, sounding enraged as well as surprised. His cock kisses your cervix, before it drags against your incredibly sensitive walls, the pleasure bordering pain when he starts fucking you like he wants to punish you, your body torn between needing a way out and begging for everything he’s giving you. Especially when he sounds so wrecked. “You can’t say that unless you want me to nut inside you.”  

 “Yeah, please.” You put on the whiniest voice you can, hoping he cracks. “Want it.”  

You've already lost the battle. You might as well act reckless now.

 “Jesus fuck.” He pants in awe. “Are you insane or did I actually fuck you stupid?”

The blissed-out laugh that rolls out of you, makes you sound completely dumb and out of breath. Maybe he did fuck you stupid.

An arm slings around your shoulders securely, holding you close as he grabs onto your thigh with his free hand, hooking your leg higher on his waist. His thrusts are messy now, cock stuffing you in uncoordinated short plunges, slipping out a few times due to the wetness, but quickly finding its way back in your quivering hole. 

 “I’m such a good bestie, right?” You prod, loving his little whines and how responsive he's suddenly become.  

 “Yes, baby, you're so so good to me.” His blunt nails dig into the flesh of your thigh, harsh breaths hitting your collarbone in hot puffs. He’s slightly trembling and your heart aches a little at how pliant with need his is, how soft his skin feels on yours, so you thread your fingers through his messy hair, caressing gently to offer some relief as he nears his peak. “Oh fuck... oh god—I’m gonna—” 

 “That's it.” You praise in a whisper, struggling to keep your legs spread wide open for him, toes curling from the overstimulation, breaths stuttering against his neck. "Please please, cum in me, wanna feel you." 

 “Shit, ffffuck—I’m cumming... I’m cumming.” He moans, all strained from the building pressure, and then he’s visibly shaking, his whole length burying deep inside, to the hilt, as his hot cum paints your walls in quick spurts, filling up your spent pussy, just like you begged him to. He's so vocal; mewls and broken whines rolling out of him as he delivers a few more messy pumps that turn into languid grinds. 

 You can’t help but moan with him, clenching on purpose to milk everything out of him, loving the claim he’s laying upon your body. And when he lifts his weight a little, just to look down, you find the most sinful sight. He grinds one last time before pulling out slowly, the head of his softening cock bumping into your clit, making you flinch while smearing both your releases all over your puffy folds.  

 “Shit.” He exhales in wonderment, damp chest moving up and down, covered in pink blotches, giving his already pretty skin a breathtaking glow.  

 Your hand moves on its own, in need to feel the mess you've both created. Your let your fingers dip between your wet folds, shamelessly stroking up and down your slit, his intense gaze spurring you on as you gather some of his cum that’s already started to spill out. You revel in the fascination his eyes hold as they follow your every move carefully.  

 Your lips wrap around your index and middle fingers while holding his gaze. His tongue dips out to lick at his bottom lip as he takes in the sinful act with furrowed brows, like he's angry.

Before you can put on more of a show, his hand is on your jaw, your fingers ripped out of your mouth as his tongue replaces them, shoving into your mouth like he just needs a taste, prying your lips open without hovering for permission.  

 And then he abruptly breaks the kiss with a wet smack. Wild eyes find yours again when he mutters quietly, “Do you want all of it?”  

 You know what he's implying. You know you should refuse. You really should.

But you nod instead. 

 He doesn’t waste time. Just shuffles down, head buried between your thighs in record time, tongue eagerly licking all over your folds. You flinch when his nose nudges against your clit, mouth greedily sucking at your entrance to gather as much of his cum as he can. It feels soothing in a way, as opposed to the tingling sensation his cock left behind after the repeated stretch. You know you’ll feel sore tomorrow, but you focus on his soft lips, sighing out in relief at the lazy laps.  

 It ends before the pleasure can start building back up, and he’s hovering above you again, shielding your naked body from the cool air of the room. His mouth is just above yours, sealed tight as he awaits.  

 You cup his face in your hands to pull him closer before parting your lips for him, tongue sticking out flat. You let a moan slip when he lets your combined juices mixed with his spit dribble onto your awaiting mouth. You can only close your eyes when you briefly taste and then swallow the thick and slightly salty substance.

And then he's slotting his lips with yours again, kissing you slowly this time, tongue gliding savouringly against yours until you're out of breath and your lips feel numb.

He hesitantly pulls away with a little nip on your bottom lip, before he licks at the corner of his mouth, where some of his - or your - saliva has smeared.   

 “Well, that fucking escalated.” He says with a tired, amused sigh.

You don't even try to tone down your staring as you take in his flushed face, slightly baffled expression making you smile. 

 “In a good way?” You test, letting out an exhale of your own when he drops his weight on you carefully. He rests his head on your chest, cheek squishing just above the swell of your left boob, exactly where your heart threatens to jump out of. The softness in his actions helps your limbs relax a little.

He hums contentedly when you run a hand through his hair, combing through the fluffy strands absentmindedly.   

 “A little too good, unfortunately.” He teases, tone playful as always.  

 “Mm, sorry, I guess.” You play along, eyes closing briefly when his warm palm engulfs the breast he’s not using as a headrest. He kneads the supple flesh gently. Then just holds.

 “Maybe it’s a sign.” He says quietly, sounding like he’s in deep contemplation.  

 “That we’re both equally deranged?” You joke with a soft chuckle. 

“That too. But also, that you've been fucking the wrong people.” He states, like it’s the only explanation. 

“And fucking my best friend is so right.” Your tone is sarcastic, but it holds truth. How is this right?

He chuckles lightly, warm breath hitting your skin. “Didn't feel wrong, I'll tell you that for free.”

“Aren't you sweet.” You tug a little harder on his hair — a silent warning.

“No, seriously, though.” He traces the underside of your breast with his thumb, slightly tickling you. “There's obviously tension.”

You don't confirm or deny. “Okay, and? What's your point?”

“Maybe we should just fuck it all out.” He suggests a little too casually.

 “Isn’t that what we just did?” You keep playing with his hair, needing a distraction from the slightly confusing conversation. 

 He tilts his head up to look at you, bottom lip trapped between his teeth, brown eyes glimmering with mischief in the soft lighting of his living room, like he's unlocked something that maybe should've stayed hidden.

“I dunno,” Haechan mutters, voice sounding honey-like. “Do you feel like you’re done with me?”  

 The quickening of your heartbeat and the strange, tingly feeling that still lingers in your tummy are enough of an answer.  

“I think we’re all very excited to see where you go in your culinary journey,” the host smiled. “Any final takeaways from this whole experience?”

Another gasp for air, the cogs in your mind turning at a rapid pace. “I think, at the end of the day, food and cooking for others, that’s my love language, and I’m never going to stop doing what I love.” 

One:

Since gaining your title as Top Cook two years ago, you’ve written a cookbook and done several private catering events for the filthy rich, but you’ve never been in a home like this one. 

It’s an ultra-modern design, all right angles and large glass windows to let in the LA sunshine. The interior is very minimalistic, but it’s clear to you that every piece of furniture is expensive, and the home smells brand new, as if the man next to you is a real estate agent and not the manager of your new client.

Doyoung is a regal man. He’s dressed in a suit, and his hair is styled just so. He’d already explained to you that he works for his cousin, Jaehyun, who is a renowned professional basketball player whose contract was recently renewed with a groundbreaking salary bump.

He’d explained that Jaehyun is in need of a personal chef. That he’d already had a dietician do a full diagnostic, the details of which are in an inch-thick folder he’d handed to you. So here you are, carrying around your new research material, as Doyoung shows you the home. 

“This is where you’ll primarily be working,” Doyoung explains as you enter one of the most beautiful kitchens you’ve ever seen. Sure, it’s a little medical in its all white template, but the marble countertop of the oversized island is spectacular, and the gas stovetop looks custom and extremely expensive. 

“You’re free to arrange things in here however you’d like, and that goes for the outdoor kitchen as well.” Doyoung leads you through a set of adjoining French doors. 

It’s as if you’ve stepped onto the set of Barbecue Masters or something- there’s an entire covered outdoor cooking space. You immediately notice three different smokers and a pizza oven, along with every other appliance you could ever need for barbecue. 

“I presume you’re familiar with everything you see here?” Doyoung asks.

“Yeah.” You nod, swallowing thickly. It’s not entirely a lie; you recognize all the tools, but you can’t say you’ve used all of them. But… how hard can it be to look up how to properly use an egg smoker? 

“I’ll let you get acquainted with everything later, but for now, I’ll show you where you’ll be living.”

To your surprise, Doyoung doesn’t go back to the main house; he continues through the outdoor kitchen. You stumble to follow, tripping over yourself as you walk past the large pool. 

“This is a casita that we had built before Jaehyun moved in,” Doyoung explains, punching a code into the keypad that lets him open the door. “It’s one thousand square feet, fully furnished, includes a kitchen, living room, flex area, bedroom, ample closet space, and one bathroom.”

Now he definitely feels like a real estate agent. 

“Since you’ll be Jaehyun’s chef, you’ll be living on the property for the duration of your time of employment. We did discuss this over the phone when I conducted your first interview.”

“That’s correct,” you nod. 

“You’ll find Jaehyun’s schedule for breakfast, lunch, and dinner in your folder,” Doyoung tells you. “Other than those three meals, prep time, and clean up, you’re free to do as you wish. We have many facilities on the property, and you are welcome to them.”

“Only three meals a day?” you question. “Am I on call for random snacking or spur-of-the-moment munchies?”

Doyoung cocks his head at you. “Look, I’ll be honest with you. Jaehyun parties too much. He eats too much junk food and drinks too much alcohol. The new food schedule and hiring you as his private chef are measures intended to get him onto a regimented track so he doesn’t mess up this new contract and opportunity with his basketball career.”

“Oh.” You think about it for a moment. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Jaehyun will not be doing any of the shopping. If he tries to ask you for Takis, chips, or beer, you are to say no. The only ingredients bought should be things that are necessary for his meals. You also have a live out allowance of two hundred dollars a day to buy any food you’d like for yourself, other than what you cook for him. All details about that are in your folder.”

“I’ll take some time to look over it,” you assure him.

“Good.” Doyoung lets out a sigh, as if this whole introduction had been tedious for him. “Now, I’ll introduce you to Jaehyun, and we will conclude the tour.”

You set the folder down and follow Doyoung from the casita. While you’d seen the outdoor kitchen and pool part of the yard, it turns out there’s an entire basketball court just out of view, and that’s where you find one of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen. He’s practicing shooting hoops, and as you stand there and watch, you see five hoops in a row before he turns to you.

“Oh my God, you’re y/n!” Jaehyun’s eyes light up, and he jogs over, holding out a hand for you to shake. 

As you’re reaching for it, he abruptly pulls back.

“Sorry, I’m sweaty.” Jaehyun rubs his palms on his red jersey, and you can see his cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment. 

This is the pro basketball player who just signed on for a multimillion-dollar contract? He’s way too boyish- 

“I’m uh, a huge fan from your Top Cook days,” Jaehyun admits, having a second go at shaking your hand.

“You are?” you ask in shock. 

“Definitely, the season you were on was showing during the time when I was first hired for my current team. The guys all watch Top Cook on flights and other shit, we were all on your side to win the finale.”

You can’t wrap your head around a basketball team watching competitive cooking shows in their free time.

“I uh, actually requested you by name,” Jaehyun says shyly. “When Doyoung said I needed a private chef, you were the only person I wanted to hire.”

You’d assumed Doyoung had scouted you out, and there’s something special about the fact that Jaehyun had been the one to actually make the choice.

“I always sort of resonated with what you said about food and love languages. I grew up in Korea, but I did most of my schooling in Connecticut, and we had this one maid or housekeeper or whatever you want to call her, and she was like my second mom,” Jaehyun admits. “She always said the same thing about cooking for the soul and from your heart, and no dish is complete without a bit of love sprinkled in- I know it’s kind of cringy, but I don’t know. You kind of remind me of her, in some twisted way.” 

So… this man has some mommy issues, some issues about transference of affection to a housekeeper, maybe a maid who cooked for him, and now you’ll be the woman of the house who controls his diet. This isn’t a psychological madhouse at all. 

“I appreciate that you thought of me,” you end up saying, choosing your public relations training over verbalizing what’s going on inside your head. “This is a wonderful opportunity, and I can’t wait to get started.”

“I have a meeting,” Doyoung sighs, “But here’s your credit card for purchasing food, your folder explains where receipts will go for accounting purposes, and here are the keys to one of the SUVs to make grocery runs or other trips.” 

As you take the keys and credit card, there’s a shiver that runs through you. You’re really doing this. Taking a live-in private chef job for a young basketball star who’s apparently obsessed with you hadn’t been your first intention when you won Top Cook, but fuck it, the money is too good to pass up on. 

Two:

You’ve been working for Jaehyun for about a week now, and you already feel like you’re acclimatizing to the schedule. 

Jaehyun works out every morning, and the breakfast you provide for him afterward is his jumpstart to the day. You make up three plates, one for Jaehyun, one for Doyoung, and Jaehyun had insisted you make one for yourself as well.

You pick at your food while cleaning the kitchen, and Doyoung goes over the schedule for the day with Jaehyun in the dining room or outside by the pool deck. 

Lunch is more sporadic, and Jaehyun favours easy handheld items. His favourite seems to be various meats with parilla leaf or veg, but he’s also up for shawarma wraps, burgers, and anything he can shovel into his mouth- as long as it fits a detailed protein-to-carb ratio as outlined in the folder you’ve done your best to memorize. 

Dinners are the most elaborate, but you enjoy cooking them the most. Jaehyun’s not very picky, so you’ve had the freedom to branch out and try cooking things that many clients would reject. 

Fridays are the one day of the week when a lean dessert is allowed, so tonight, you’re making green tea frozen yogurt. The sun has set, and dinner was over an hour ago. You’ve cleaned up the kitchen while the ice cream maker quietly whirls next to you, and you’re so focused you don’t even realize Jaehyun has entered the kitchen until he says, “Hi.”  

Your body reacts, jolting with shock, and you spin to look at your client.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, dimples on display as he rubs the back of his neck. 

“The frozen yogurt will be ready soon,” you assure him.

“I’m not in a rush,” he tells you, sitting at the large island countertop. “Doyoung just left, and it’s been a busy week. I haven’t been able to talk to you much, so I figured now would be a good time to get to know you better.”

Your heart thumps roughly in your chest, and you swallow the lump in your throat. “Oh.” You pat your hands on your apron, deciding to finish up your morning prep after Jaehyun is gone so you can give him your full attention. “What do you want to know?”

“I mean… tell me about being a private chef?” he suggests. “I seriously thought you’d do the whole restaurant thing; it seemed like that was a dream of yours.”

You consider his question. “Honestly, I know I’m young, and I think I was intimidated by the… caliber of chefs I was contending with. Winning Top Cook was one thing, but competing in the restaurant industry is an entire other monster.”

“I can understand that.”

You stare at him for a moment. “Did you ever feel apprehensive when you got into basketball?”

“I mean, if you spend the whole time looking around at the other players, you’re never going to dunk any hoops.”

A giggle escapes you, and you quickly cover your mouth. Jaehyun grins, chuckling along with you at the metaphor he’s just used. 

“I think I just had to hope my reputation and skills preceded me, especially since I started pretty young,” Jaehyun admits. 

“I suppose you’re right,” you agree. “It might be a little different, though. I mean, some people are very familiar with my work, but it’s a bit of a niche. I’m sure you get recognized everywhere you go.” 

Jaehyun only shrugs. “I think you’re pretty cool. Most of my team would recognize you on the streets.”

“Well, I’m flattered to hear that.” 

Jaehyun smiles, looking down at his hands for a moment. “That reminds me, some of my teammates are coming over on Tuesday for dinner, I hope that’s okay.”

“Definitely. What would you like me to cook for them?”

The basketball star considers it for a moment. “I want to say elevated but simple, and my mind keeps going to burgers for some reason.”

“I can elevate a burger,” you assure him. “We could do bison or lamb instead of beef if you want, that sort of thing, add cheese to the patty depending on what you prefer.”

“That sounds good,” Jaehyun nods. “Surprise me.”

“Will do.” Yet another instance of you having creative freedom, and it feels so good.

“I uh… I should warn you, most of the guys coming are pretty charming- not as charming as me-”

“Of course not,” you giggle.

Jaehyun grins. “They all love you from your time on Top Cook. Some of them were pretty pissed when I was able to hire you. So… don’t let any poach you away from me, okay? No matter how charming they are.” 

“Don’t worry about it, I’m pretty impervious to flirting.”

Jaehyun lets out a laugh. “You are, huh?” 

“I’m single and I’m focused on food, so you could say I’m married to being a chef.”

“Right, food is your love language,” Jaehyun nods. “It’s nice to know you’re loyal.”

“To a fault, at times,” you admit.

“Making a living doing what you love is important,” Jaehyun notes. “We’re lucky we’re both able to do that, even if it can get in the way of… You know, other relationships.”

Money and Love can often get muddled, and to pursue one can sometimes mean giving up the other, at least for a short while. 

Before the conversation gets too deep, you realize the ice cream maker has finished, and the topic changes, which is a nice reprieve. 

Three:

You had decided to do two different types of burgers, a lean bison option, and a fattier lamb version, too. Both have their own cheese pairings, and other elaborate mixtures such as an olive tapenade and yogurt for the lamb, and smoky chipotle bacon jam for the bison.

While you cook at the outdoor barbecue, the boys are littered around the pool area. A few had been kind of star-struck when they met you, but none more so than Johnny, who has taken to standing next to you and discussing food pairings.

Johnny is a hundred percent hitting on you, but he’s also making cocktails for his teammates, cracking jokes like, “Maybe you should hold off on the sweeteners, Mark, we’ve already got the sweetest chef in town,” and other cringy one-liners that make you laugh and shake your head.

Finally, Johnny lets out a sigh. “I’ll talk business now, if you don’t mind.”

“By all means.”

“What’s Jae paying you? Because I will pay more.” 

You look over at Johnny, and then your eyes find Jaehyun, who’s watching you from a lounger. He’s been watching you and Johnny a lot, and you realize that Johnny is the man Jaehyun was worried about poaching you.

While you’re not huge into basketball, you know about Johnny Suh. He’s a little older than Jaehyun, and he’s had good contracts for longer, too, so he could definitely afford more for a private chef than rising star Jaehyun.

“I don’t think I’m at liberty to discuss my salary,” you admit.

“That’s a rich person's answer,” Johnny laughs. “Your PR training is kicking in, little Miss Top Cook.”

Jaehyun stands in the periphery of your vision, and he comes to join you at the barbecue.

“You’re trying to poach my chef, aren’t you, Suh?” he asks.

“Maybe.” Johnny only grins. “It would be stupid of me not to try.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not entertaining his monkey business,” you tease.

“That’s my girl,” Jaehyun nods, and a jolt fires through you.

This type of brush with wealth is somewhat new to you. Most private catering events are a one-and-done type of deal, where other prospective clients have no worries about approaching to enquire about your services.

Being a private chef to a basketball star is a whole different ball game - pardon the pun - and you’re becoming increasingly aware that being a cute, young female in this style of industry must be something of a commodity. 

Regardless of the money, however, you’re very happy working for Jaehyun, and although he’s given you a few flirty glances, you know he respects you for your talent as a chef, and not just your body. He gives you freedom, and now that you’ve had a taste of that, you’re not willing to give it up- even if a six-foot-plus gorgeous basketball star named Johnny is promising to make all your dreams come true. 

Four:

You’ve been working for Jaehyun for two months now, and things are going very well. While there are some flirty interactions with Jaehyun, for the most part, everything is professional and easy, and you couldn’t wish for a better job.

You’re cleaning up the kitchen after making breakfast for Jaehyun and Doyoung, and while your mind is half consumed with scrubbing grease off the stove, in the back corner of your periphery, you hear the words, “PR relationship.”

Trying not to make it obvious you’re listening, you slow down on your cleanup. 

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” Jaehyun sighs.

“PR relationships are always contracted to be mutually beneficial,” Doyoung insists. “Rose is an up-and-coming model, and her manager sent over a proposal. It’s very… Kendall Jenner and Blake Griffin, or any of the other relationships she was in with big-name men that the public saw as potentially PR related. It could be good for your image.”

“Right,” Jaehyun chuckles. “Kendall Jenner and Blake Griffin, or any of the other relationships she was in… I don’t want to be just ‘one of those guys.’” 

“It would draw in viewership,” Doyoung points out. “There’s a whole audience of young women who are interested in Rose but not in sports. If Rose comes to your games, it would potentially draw more fans, more revenue, more-”

“Money,” Jaehyun cuts his cousin off. “Yeah, I understand.”

“Meanwhile, Rose will gain attention from the sports world. She could come to events, meet your team, and open up brand deal opportunities.”

“I get the reason why people do PR relationships,” Jaehyun repeats. “But I don’t think that’s something I ever want to try. You know how it is, some famous athlete starts dating a superstar, and his game goes downhill.”

“This isn’t about Travis Kelce,” Doyoung tuts.

“I didn’t say his name, you did.”

You can practically hear Doyoung roll his eyes. “I must insist that the two of you meet each other. Your opinion on Rose might change over some dinner.”

“As long as it’s dinner here and not some bougie restaurant.” 

There’s silence for a few moments, then Doyoung sighs. “Fine. I have a meeting to go to, but I’ll set up the date.”

“The meet up,” Jaehyun corrects.

Doyoung clicks his tongue as he collects his belongings, and as he exits through the kitchen, he stops at the island counter. “Please plan for a special meeting this Thursday between Jaehyun and a VIP,” Doyoung tells you. “The VIP is vegan, so you’ll have to work around that.”

You turn to face him, nodding as you wipe your hands on the apron. “Absolutely.”

“A cocktail pairing would also be nice.”

“I’ve got a few in mind already,” you assure him.

Doyoung nods, and with that, he exits. 

Once it’s clear Doyoung is gone, Jaehyun enters the kitchen with a sigh. “Did you hear any of that bullshit?”

“Bits and pieces,” you respond.

“Can you believe he’s trying to set me up with a model?”

“And a vegan, at that,” you sympathize with a laugh.

“I don’t think I’ll survive this.”

“I can sneak some meat onto your plate or something,” you tell him. “The only problem will be you won’t be able to kiss her after, because, you know, that might be considered a vegan lack of consent or something.”

Jaehyun stares at you in shock for a moment, then a laugh bursts out of him. “Holy shit. I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

“I’d hardly say you agreed to it. Doyoung strong-armed you,” you point out.

“So you were listening,” Jaehyun teases.

“I find it interesting, is all.” You shrug. “I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with this type of thing. I’m just a D-list celebrity chef.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

“Not bad, just a fact.”

“Well, you’re an A-lister to me, so watch out for PR relationship requests.”

“I’m so scared,” you joke. 

“You should be,” Jaehyun teases, and you both laugh at the notion. 

Being with Jaehyun is so easy, and you wonder in what ways you’ll have to censor yourself when it comes time for this ‘date’ with Rose.

Five:

Rose has only been here for ten minutes, and you can practically feel the awkwardness radiating from the dining room as you finish up dinner.

The model is dressed in a skimpy little outfit. She has a black miniskirt and a red, silky, patterned shirt that looks like it could be a scarf she’s simply repurposed. Her stilettos look uncomfortable at best, and the amount of filler in her lips and face would be outlandish even by doctor standards.

But… you’re trying not to judge, as you toss the vegan salad, and cook the vegan mushroom steak with vegan coconut thai soup.

The cocktails you had prepared are a coconut base too, but you’ve already heard Rose make a statement about coconuts being high in calories so… well, you’re not sure how any of this will be received. 

Jaehyun is much quieter than usual; however, from how much Rose is gushing about her different modeling gigs, and being in Italy, and Paris, and France, and God knows where- it’s not like the basketball player has much room to voice his own opinion.

As you begin plating, you sense eyes on you, and you look up to see Jaehyun.

“Give me a moment,” he excuses himself from the dining room, quickly joining you by the stove. “Oh, great, mushrooms and vegan things!” he says loudly.

“Are you okay?” you whisper as you plate. 

“This is the worst idea Doyoung has ever had,” he says back under his breath.

“You’re doing great.”

“I’m not doing anything. I’m just sitting there while she talks at me.”

You stifle a laugh. “It will be over before you know it.”

“It will be, which is why,” Jaehyun takes a breath, increasing the volume of his voice, “I insist you join us for supper.”

“Huh?” You nearly drop the tweezers you’re using to put the final garnish on the dishes.

“Have dinner with us,” Jaehyun repeats. “This is me insisting.”

Your gaze moves to the dining room, and Rose is glaring at you. If her eyes had lasers, you - along with the entire kitchen - would be lit aflame.

“I couldn’t possibly intrude-” you try to weasel your way out of it, but Jaehyun flashes you a hard look.

“I insist,” he says, yet again, and you realize you’ve lost.

With a sigh, you grab two of the plates, and to your surprise, Jaehyun grabs the third, following you to the dining room. You hesitantly place Rose’s food down, and then Jaehyun’s.

“So, Rose, I don’t know if you know my chef. Her name is y/n, and she won Top Cook, which is a super intense, very competitive cooking show,” Jaehyun explains. “I personally requested her, because she’s very renowned. She’s written a cookbook and done many private events. She’s just amazing.”

You stand there in shock at what Jaehyun has just said. On instinct, you begin to regurgitate what the dinner is tonight, and Rose watches you with narrowed eyes.

“So, the soup is coconut cream-based?” she asks.

“With vegetable broth.”

“It’s so thick,” she grimaces, swirling a spoon in the beautiful orange curry liquid. “And so high calorie.”

“Well, in this house, we cook for flavour and substance,” Jaehyun says pointedly as he takes his seat. “But there’s salad for you.”

Now Rose is glaring at Jaehyun, who simply smiles to himself as he takes his first taste of the soup. 

“Oh my god, I wouldn’t even be able to tell this is vegan, amazing job,” he tells you.

Rose audibly rotates her plate so she has the salad in front of her, and then, she begins to pick at it.

“So what inspired the food?” Jaehyun asks, giving you his full attention.

“Well, some people use mushrooms to substitute for meat. It’s not unusual for a large slab of meat to be on top of a currey or ramen bowl, so I wanted to do that for the mushroom.” You feel like your words are getting away from you, and you’re so uncomfortable to be in this position that you can hardly think.

“Turns out Rose doesn’t really like coconut drinks,” Jaehyun muses, already reaching for the untouched glass, “how about you enjoy it since she won’t.”

“I really shouldn’t-”

“You really should,” Jaehyun corrects you. “I’m not supposed to drink alone, says that somewhere in the instruction manual Doyoung gave you, right?” 

You suppose that’s true, so you take a sip of the coconut margarita. 

Jaehyun begins to talk about all the food you’ve cooked since becoming his personal chef, and before you know it, he’s done eating. With a happy sigh, he pushes his plate away, and you jump at the opportunity to grab it and escape to the kitchen. 

You begin your cleanup routine, happy to be out of the awkward situation. But you can still hear Jaehyun and Rose talking, and Jaehyun is very clear when he says, “This isn’t going to work.”

“It would be good for our careers,” Rose argues.

“My career is set already, but thank you for your concern.”

“So that’s it?” she gasps. “After I wore entirely designer, got my hair done, did everything for you-”

“You could have shown up in Fashion Nova, and this still wouldn’t have worked,” Jaehyun tells her. 

“Well, this was a waste of time.”

“Might as well not waste any more.” 

You hear chairs scraping as both people stand up, and the clickity clack of Rose’s high heels as Jaehyun escorts her to the front door. 

“See ya,” Jaehyun says, and then shuts the door heavily.

He releases a sigh, and then he comes back into the kitchen. “So,” he huffs, “what’s dessert?”

“Vegan avocado chocolate mousse,” you laugh, pulling two out of the fridge. 

“Sounds horrible,” Jaehyun groans, but he picks up a spoon to take a bite. You watch his expression change, brows raising. “Is there anything you can’t make taste good?” 

You laugh. “I’m not allowed to disclose that, and as per our contract, I’d never be allowed to feed it to you anyway.”

Six:

It’s the morning after the failed date, and Doyoung is not happy. He’s been bitching at Jaehyun all throughout breakfast, and the basketball player has simply been taking it while he eats.

Finally, Jaehyun speaks. “Look. I’m not an actor. I’m an athlete. If you think for one moment I could pretend to be interested in Rose, then you don’t know me as my manager, or as my cousin.”

Silence ensues, and you’re shocked that Jaehyun has found a way to leave Doyoung - ever the anxious ranter - speechless. 

“We’re not doing some dumb PR bullshit, especially with the preseason training coming up,” Jaehyun says, and there’s authority in his voice, which is very unlike him. “In fact,” you hear his utensils scraping as he cleans his plate, “I want to go for a week's vacation. Somewhere warm. Maybe Mexico. I’m going to chill out for a bit, bring y/n to cook, and get my head in the game.”

Another period of quiet, and then Doyoung sighs. “Fine. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Air BnB,” Jaehyun tells him. “Something nice, not in a huge tourist spot, with a pool. And see if any of my teammates want to come, I think we all need some preseason fun.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Seven:

It’s interesting being the personal chef for Jaehyun’s impromptu preseason trip to Mexico. For starters, you’re cooking for Jaehyun and a number of his teammates. Jungwoo eats like a sumo wrestler, Hyuck is constantly snacking, Mark hardly eats at all, and Johnny… well, he’s still hitting on you.

Jaehyun had insisted that you would only be dealing with two meals every day, and he’d also gotten every teammate to help pay for your extended services on this vacation, which is a nice bump in pay.

Right now, you’re cooking lunch, and Johnny is attached at your hip.

“It’s been four days and I’m still obsessed with everything you make,” the tall man muses, watching you prepare the cold Thai noodle salad with grilled chicken. “Do you ever run out of ideas, or is this a twenty-four-seven recipe machine sort of deal?”

 You laugh. “There are so many different combinations,” you admit. “I don’t think I’ll ever run out of ideas.”

“That’s such a Top Cook answer,” Johnny scoffs. “When are you going to loosen up a little and drop the PR angle with me?”

“While I’m on the clock, never.”

“Boring. I should get you off the clock sometime.”

“I don’t think I have an opening in my schedule anytime soon.”

“Jaehyun doesn’t need you all the time,” Johnny points out. “I’m sure I could steal you away for a drink or something.”

“I don’t think so.” Your eyes move to the doors that open to the pool. Jaehyun is on a lounger, but it’s been clear to you that he’s not done much relaxing this trip.

Something is bothering him, and for some reason, that bothers you too.

Jaehyun sits up, and he turns to meet your gaze. 

“Give me a moment, Johnny,” you say, excusing yourself to approach the stressed basketball player outside. “Are you alright?” 

Jaehyun sighs. “Just thinking a lot.”

“About Rose?”

“Not really. Well, yes, and no. I don’t know.” Jaehyun shakes his head. “I thought being here with my teammates would help me distract myself from a few things, but I’m still feeling… bleh.”

“Can I make you a drink, or bring you a snack?”

Jaehyun stares at you for a moment. “I think… maybe I need to get out of here. As much as I love your cooking, and I know you’ve planned dinner already, how do you feel about going out somewhere? Just the two of us?”

You consider his request for a moment. While Jaehyun frequently asks you to eat with him, and you’ve eaten together many times, it’s always been with you cooking. You’ve always felt like you’re still working, but going out to dinner with him- not being the person behind the dish- it feels different.

“I wouldn’t want to overstep-”

“You’re not overstepping,” Jaehyun assures you. “I’m inviting you.”

“What about your friends?”

“They can cook their own dinner tonight.”

Your eyes find Hyuck and Mark, neither of whom you trust, behind the barbecue.

“Johnny will take care of it,” Jaehyun says. “Let’s get dinner.”

“You know, Johnny just suggested I go out with him sometime, and I told him my schedule is pretty packed.”

“Well, he can cry me a river,” Jaehyun laughs. “We’re getting dinner.” 

Eight:

One thing that you’ve realized that Jaehyun appreciates about not being in tourist towns is that no one here knows who he is.

He’s not some professional basketball player that everyone is staring at and trying to get autographs from; he’s just Jaehyun, and you can see the way his shoulders relax as you order appetizers, then mains at the cute restaurant by the ocean.

“I feel like we should get a bottle of tequila or something,” Jaehyun muses, and your brows raise at him in response.

“Tequila?”

“It’s my vacation,” he insists. “I don’t know, maybe we could do something fun with it. Two truths and a lie or something.”

You consider it for a moment and decide that it is a vacation. 

You’ve been Jaehyun’s personal chef for a while now, and you’re allowed one night of letting loose.

“Fine,” you agree. “But we can’t tell Doyoung.”

“Was never planning on it,” Jaehyun grins, waving over a waiter.

A short while later, there’s a bottle of tequila in front of you, and two shot glasses.

“I’ll go first,” Jaehyun offers. “Two truths and a lie. I dislocated my shoulder when I was sixteen and almost stopped playing basketball altogether. My favourite author is Agatha Christie, and I have a record collection I’ve been working on since I was twelve.”

You think about it, staring at Jaehyun in the hope that something in his expression will tip you off.

“Reason says guess Agatha Christie is a lie, but on the flip side, you wouldn’t know who she was if you didn’t read her,” you point out. “And I doubt you’d ever actually consider quitting basketball, so… that one’s the lie.”

Jaehyun stares at you for a second, then he grins. “Drink up.”

“What?!”

“The lie was about my record collection. I started that in my last year of high school.”

“So wait, you’re saying you actually considered quitting basketball?” you ask in shock.

Jaehyun shrugs. “I was sixteen, I had no idea where life would take me.”

You shake your head in shock, accepting the shot in front of you.

As the harsh liquid goes down your throat, you try to think of your own two truths and a lie. “Okay,” you let out a breath. “I fell in love with cooking when I was younger and helped my mom prep for dinner parties she would throw. I hate cooking with innards like liver and kidneys, and I got my first KitchenAid mixer when I was twenty.”

Jaehyun chuckles. “You got your first Kitchenaid when you were sixteen, so that’s the lie. It’s no fun if you only do food-related ones. You talked about all three of those things on Top Cook.”

A wave of embarrassment floods through you, but also something a little like awe. You don’t even remember half of the things you said while on your season of the show, but it’s clear Jaehyun does.

“Take your shot,” he encourages you.

You glare at him as you do as you’re told, and the burn of the tequila is even worse than the first time.

“Fine, if you’re so good at this game, go again,” you tell him.

“Easy. I was the tiniest kid in my class in fifth grade, I went to boarding school in Connecticut, and even though I’ve had girlfriends, I’ve never really felt like anyone has loved me for me, at least, not the way I want them to.” 

You blink, considering the gravity of his last confession. That can’t be a lie… It’s too detailed, but… Jaehyun can’t really feel like no one has ever loved him, can he?

“Your lie is that you were the tiniest kid in your fifth-grade class,” you say quietly.

“Winner winner, chicken dinner,” Jaehyun sighs, lifting his shot of tequila.

“You really don’t think anyone has loved you?” you ask.

Jaehyun only shrugs. “I think any love pre-university was shallow, and anything after that was based on the fact that I was the star on my university basketball team and everyone knew I’d be going pro. So… you can’t really count any of those things, can you?”

You frown. It’s yet another difference in your celebrity statuses. Jaehyun has so much baggage from being an athletic prodigy his whole life- it’s very different from when you’re just a cute girl who knows how to cook.

“I think that’s why I like you so much,” Jaehyun admits. “I know you had no idea who I was when we met. My whole professional basketball thing didn’t mean anything to you; hell, you’ve catered for A-list actors and politicians and all sorts of people. You just treat me like a person, and that's kind of rare. Most people give at least a tiny shit about sports, but you seriously don’t give any.”

“Hey!” you laugh. “I give a mini shit about sports.”

“Maybe just because you like me,” Jaehyun teases. 

“Who says I like you?”

“Your cooking,” he points out. “Your dedication to it.”

“Well, maybe you like me,” you counter.

“Maybe.” Jaehyun can only smirk, and you deflate immediately, your skin flushing with heat. 

It’s silent at your table, aside from the mariachi band playing, and you suddenly don’t know where to look.

“I… I think the tequila is getting to me,” you admit.

“Two shots can do that to a goodie-goodie professional Top Cook like you,” Jaehyun laughs. “Listen, let’s get the bottle to go, and we can go find ice cream or something. If it’s my cheat night on my diet, I need dessert.”

“Okay.” 

Soon, you find yourself sitting on a cement block overlooking the ocean. Jaehyun and you are both finishing up your ice cream, and your skin tingles every time your mind reminds you that - as natural as this feels - it also feels an awful lot like a date.

“So Johnny is still hitting on you, huh?” Jaehyun asks.

“How could you tell?” you laugh, rolling your eyes. 

“Well, A, he sticks to your side like glue, and B, you mentioned he was trying to ask you out for dinner.” Jaehyun shakes his head at his own words, as if the behaviour of his teammate offends him on a deep level. 

You find yourself shrugging. “I’m not taking it too seriously.”

“I am.”

“Because you’re jealous.”

“Maybe.”

Another question answered with ‘maybe,’ and you’re starting to feel more and more like Jaehyun might actually have feelings for you. 

It’s not a foreign idea. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to him, if you hadn’t grown fond of him in the past months. 

You’re suddenly aware of Jaehyun watching you, and you turn to meet his gaze. The intensity of it makes you crumble immediately, and you blush, turning away. “What?” you ask, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Do I have ice cream on my lip or something?”

“Let me see.” Suddenly, two gentle fingers touch the bottom of your chin, and he guides you to face him again. You freeze, staring at the beautiful man as he inspects you. “Nope, you’re perfect, as always.”

Jaehyun retracts his hand, and you swallow thickly, finding it more and more difficult to breathe. 

He looks out at the ocean, and you can tell that he’s lost in thought. “You know how I said I’ve never felt loved by a girl I’ve been interested in? I’m going to say something crazy, and I just need you to hear me out on it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I told you about my maid who was like a second mom, and how your cooking reminds me of hers. Well, I never questioned that she cared about me, and in a similar way, I guess, I don’t question that you care about me anymore either. And I mean that as more than just a boss, or a basketball player with a stupid diet. I know that you care, because I can taste it in the food. You’re like, a scheduled hit of dopamine every day, someone I can rely on, in a way I’m not used to relying on people.”

You simply stare at him, a loss for words, but when Jaehyun turns to meet your gaze, it’s clear he’s expecting some sort of reaction.

“I mean,” you swallow thickly, “I do care about you.”

“But you have that professional boundary,” Jaehyun points out.

“I have to. I can’t risk my job for a… a whim,” you tell him, finding it hard to choose the right words. 

“You’re so PR trained, but look, I have you tongue-tied,” Jaehyun grins.

“Stop it,” you laugh, pushing his shoulder. “You know what I’m saying.”

“What if I promise you won’t lose your job, that things won’t be awkward?”

“You can’t possibly promise that.”

“What if I promise that if we give this a try, and for any reason you want to pull away, I will release you from your contract and let you go work for Johnny, or set you up with someone else who needs a private chef?”

You take a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything, just let me kiss you, and decide later.”

Jaehyun stares at you unmoving, and it’s clear he’s not going to jump the gun until you give him permission. All of your willpower is failing, and all you can do is look between his beautiful lips and his passionate dark eyes.

“You can kiss me,” you tell him, voice just above a whisper.

“Yeah?” You can see the relief in his expression, and he shifts closer.

“We just won’t tell Doyoung,” you say, trying to make a joke of it.

Jaehyun lets out a laugh. “Definitely not.”

Both of you begin to lean in, and on a hillside looking over the Gulf of Mexico, professional basketball player Jung Jaehyun presses his lips to yours for the very first time.

All the thoughts dissipate from your head, and you’re pleasantly surprised to find Jaehyun still tastes like his chocolate ice cream. You’re nothing if not an avid lover of food and tastes, so you eagerly lean in for more, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth.

Jaehyun groans, his hand rising to cup your cheek as you both deepen the kiss. 

You’re so lost in him that you hardly think of anything else, and you lose yourself so completely that you don’t think to pull back.

The two of you kiss for a couple of minutes, so in tune with each other that there’s not one blunder, not one clash of teeth, or a breath hastily caught. 

It’s Jaehyun who actually pulls away, but he only does so because he can’t stop smiling. The two of you blink at each other as if seeing one another in a new light.

“I like you a lot,” Jaehyun admits.

“I like you too,” you assure him.

“Should we try to keep this a secret from the guys at the house? I might not be able to keep my hands off of you for the next couple of days while we’re here.”

You consider it. “The Top Cook in me says we should keep it secret, but something tells me that would be a disservice to both of us.”

“So you’re saying we can be open?”

You shrug. “Why not? Doyoung’s halfway across the continent.”

“Fucking Doyoung, I really need to have a talk with him about how judgmental he is.”

“He’s your cousin, he just wants what's best for you.”

“Well, he did manage to get you hired, so I guess I can’t fault him completely for being so anal.”

You laugh, pressing your lips to his again. “I guess not.”

Nine: 

By the time you’d gotten home after dinner and making out on the beach, everyone had gone to bed. With a few sneaky kisses, you and Jaehyun had gone to your separate rooms, and when morning comes, none of his teammates are any the wiser to what had happened last night.

Johnny is just as flirty with you as you make breakfast, but you leave it to Jaehyun to take the lead on letting his friends know that the two of you have taken a new step in your relationship.

To be fair, a bit of kissing doesn’t necessarily mean exclusivity, and you don’t want to make assumptions. 

Surprisingly, Jaehyun allows Johnny to flirt with you, but you can see him biding his time. 

When everything is done cooking and put onto plates on the dining room table, Jaehyun finally approaches you. 

He doesn’t say anything, simply grabs you by the hips and tugs you to his chest. His lips press against yours, a wordless affirmation to the world that you belong to him, in more ways than just being his private chef. 

Your skin heats with the embarrassment of feeling multiple eyes on you as Jaehyun kisses you, but you don’t pull away. You’ve decided to let Jaehyun lead, and that’s what he’s doing. 

When he finally does stop kissing you, he simply grins. “I think I want breakfast in my room, if you’re up for that.”

It takes you a second to realize what he’s saying, but when it clicks, you feel your skin heat even more.

“I uh,” you swallow thickly. “Yeah.”

It feels a little fast, if you’re being honest with yourself, but at the same time, you’d decided last night to fuck your public relations training and do what feels right.

You can still feel eyes on you as Jaehyun grabs your hand and leads you toward the primary suite in the Airbnb. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t jump in sooner,” you tell Jaehyun as the door to the bedroom closes behind you.

“You were working, I wasn’t about to try to pull you away from the middle of cooking,” Jaehyun laughs. “I know enough about you to know that probably would have only pissed you off.”

He does know a lot about you, and he understands you to the point that he can predict your reactions to things. It feels special, and you can feel your walls breaking down around Jaehyun every time he says something that points to his deep knowing of you.

“Why are you smiling?” Jaehyun asks, flashing a nervous smile.

“I guess I’m just thinking about how you get me.”

“I do get you,” Jaehyun muses, gently grabbing your hips and tugging you to his chest again.

“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that,” you laugh, resting your hands on his strong shoulders.

“I know you probably think this whole thing is going a little fast-”

“Another way that you know me,” you giggle.

Jaehyun returns your grin. “We don’t have to… You know, fuck or anything right now, if you don’t want to. But I did mean it when I said I want breakfast in bed.”

“You do, do you?” you tease.

“Everything you cook tastes so good,” Jaehyun points out, his voice lowering as he moves forward, his lips ghosting over your ear, “I just know you taste good too.”

Your entire body tingles with his words. 

A professional basketball player who is offering to give head instead of insisting he receives it? 

You really have found yourself a winner, and no matter how much willpower you have, there’s not enough willpower in the world that could convince you to say no to an offer like this one. 

“Let’s start slow first,” you tell him.

“Whatever you want, angel.” Jaehyun presses his lips to yours, and your entire body is still tingling from the pet name and the anticipation of what comes next.

He’s such a good kisser, you become lost in him almost instantly, and you hardly realize as he slowly guides you back toward the bed.

Jaehyun is gentle as he helps you down onto the mattress, and you spread your legs to welcome his weight on top of you as you continue to kiss the breath away from each other.

He feels like heaven as he slowly begins to grind down against your core, and the summer dress you’re wearing makes it easier than ever to get the stimulation you want. You find yourself moaning against Jaehyun’s lips, and your sounds prompt him to begin exploring your body with his hand.

He’s careful as he moves to cup your breast, gently squeezing you through your bra. Jaehyun is testing the waters, and you make sure to give him sounds of affirmation that tell him you’re comfortable with what’s happening.

His lips move to your throat as he massages your breast, and you whimper into the quiet of the room, tangling your fingers in his silky dark hair. 

Jaehyun’s mouth continues to descend, and you adjust to slip your hands under your back, undoing your bra. You can feel him look up at you, brow quirked in a question, and when you pull the top of your dress and bra down to reveal your pebbled nipples, it’s as much of an answer to his nonverbal inquiry than anything could ever be.

He licks his lips, massaging your breast as he draws his mouth to your sensitive bud. He’s so soft at first, simply stroking his tongue along your hot skin, and when he begins to suck, you have to throw your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from releasing a loud moan.

Jaehyun chuckles against your skin, teasing your nipple and sending shivers of pleasure through your body.

You haven’t been fucked in so long. 

God, you’ve been so married to your work for the past two years that you haven’t gotten laid, and everything Jaehyun is doing feels like it’s the first time. Your body is awakening from its long slumber, and already, you can feel yourself becoming addicted to the pleasure that Jaehyun is providing you. 

Your hips begin to wiggle, and Jaehyun notices. His hand slips down from your breast, and he toys your dress higher up your thigh. He continues to suck on your nipple as his fingers tease past your panty line, stroking your inner thigh tantalizingly.

“Please,” you moan, knowing that this next step is preferable with a verbal affirmation. You don’t want there to be any confusion that you want this, and something tells you that Jaehyun cares a lot about consent- more so than the average professional athlete, or so you’ve heard. 

He rubs his fingers past your core, teasing you through your panties, and Jaehyun releases a groan. He pulls off your nipple, shifting so he can kiss your throat again.

His breath is hot against your skin. “You’re soaked, angel.”

“Just eager,” you tell him, feeling slightly embarrassed that your body is betraying you.

“It’s sexy,” Jaehyun tells you. “When was the last time someone touched you like this?”

You’re aware that he knows it’s been at least a couple of months since you’ve been without sexual contact, since he employed you. There’s nowhere in your contract that says you can’t have men over for personal reasons to your casita, and nowhere in your contract that says you couldn’t head out after dinner to have sex just as long as you’re back to make breakfast- but you’ve simply put all of your energy into this new job.

“A while,” you admit. 

“I’ll make this worth it then,” Jaehyun promises. 

With that, he slips his hand under your underwear, his fingers making direct contact on your sensitive core. He teases you, testing your wetness, before he gently circles your clit.

When you begin to moan, he presses his lips to yours, muffling the sounds with groans of his own. He continues to play with your clit, and then, his hand adjusts down. He stokes your slit, slowly pushing one finger into your core.

You whimper, your hips moving, searching for more stimulus. 

Jaehyun obliges, pushing another finger into your core. He shifts his hand, his palm rubbing your clit as he begins to finger fuck you, the pads of his digits crooking up to stroke your G-spot. 

You groan louder against his lips, your body moving of its own accord, grinding down against his hand.

“If you cum for me, I’ll eat you out,” Jaehyun smirks against your lips. 

“Then make me cum,” you respond, breathless.

Jaehyun only kisses you deeper, pressing his palm more firmly to your clit. He applies more pressure to your G-spot with his fingers, and you allow your body to get lost in the sensation.

Soon, you’re gasping, your muscles clenching tighter and tighter as your orgasm rises.

“Shit,” you whimper, the first time you’ve cussed in front of him. “I’m close.” 

“I want you so bad,” Jaehyun groans. “Want you to cum for me so I can finally taste you.”

His words tip you over the edge, and you shiver as your orgasm slams into you. You claw at his shoulders, biting your lip to muffle the sounds of pleasure that radiate from deep within you.

“So pretty like this, angel,” Jaehyun coos as he finger fucks you through your high, clearly intent on prolonging it. 

But all good things come to an end, and as your orgasm dissipates, you slump against the bed, breathing heavily.

“Let me know if you want me to stop,” Jaehyun tells you, as he pulls his fingers from your core and gets off the bed. 

You watch him under half-shut lids as he licks his digits clean, groaning at your taste. And then, you remove your dress and bra. Jaehyun helps you with your panties, taking off his own shirt for good measure before he sinks to the ground on his knees next to the bed. 

His strong hands grab your ankles, and he pulls you to the edge of the mattress. His lips find their way up your calf and inner thigh, and he looks up at you, adjusting your legs over his shoulders.

“Eat me,” you tell him, the words coming out more shuddery than the confident way you’d intended them.

“If you insist,” he teases, and then, Jaehyun practically dives in.

Some men are more tentative about eating girls out, but to your surprise, Jaehyun’s not one of them. He has no fear about getting right up in your pussy, his tongue pushing in and licking at your walls as his nose bumps your clit deliciously.

“Fuck,” you groan, and you can feel Jaehyun smirk against your pussy in response. He licks the entirety of your pussy, swirling his tongue around your clit. You jolt from the stimulus, thighs quaking on his shoulders.

His hands reach up to steady your legs, and he teases your clit, making you whimper.

“Feels good,” you tell him.

“Tastes good,” he counters, making butterflies erupt in your stomach. “Might insist on this for breakfast from now on.”

“Honestly,” you breathe a sigh of relief, “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Might have to… what’s the word, amend your contract,” Jaehyun laughs.

“Fuck my contract.” The words come out of you so suddenly, you don’t even have time to think, and Jaehyun quirks a brow at your statement. “Can we talk about it later?”

“Of course, angel, there are more important things to focus on right now.” Jaehyun goes back to eating your pussy, his eyes closing as he sucks on your clit.

It’s clear he’s enjoying this too, and that only pleases you more. You close your own eyes, giving yourself over to the sensations as Jaehyun licks and sucks your sensitive pussy.

Soon, you’re once again on the edge, and you know Jaehyun can tell. He sucks your clit even harder, pushing two fingers into your wet hole to stroke the same spot that had made you come undone for him last time.

Your body tenses more and more, your breath coming out in gasps, and then, your second orgasm slams into you, making your toes curl. Your thighs go to close around Jaehyun’s head, but he holds you open with his free hand, eating you through your high. 

You can feel him everywhere, and there’s never been a devotion like his.

His entire focus is on giving you pleasure, and it radiates from the tips of your toes all the way to the top of your head. It’s a heavy, golden, somehow electric fog, and your entire body is tingling from its effects. 

Soon, you’re coming down, and Jaehyun pulls away from your core. He stands up, looking down at you.

“So that was breakfast and dessert,” he muses jokingly, “should we try a sneaky snack, too?”

“How about your fingers were breakfast, your lips were lunch, and now your cock is dinner?”

“That works for me,” Jaehyun chuckles.

God, you’re both such dorks, but you kind of love it.

The two of you just work in ways you can’t even describe. 

It’s a cellular level of connection, or perhaps a connection of souls, you can’t quite describe it.

Jaehyun takes off his pants, and as he goes to push down his underwear, he stops. “Condoms?” he asks. 

You blink at him. “I’m clean and on birth control.”

He pauses for a moment. “I can still wear a condom if you want, it’s up to you.”

“No condom,” you tell him after quick consideration.

“Sounds good, angel.” Jaehyun pushes his underwear down, and you find yourself staring at the prettiest cock you’ve ever seen.

It’s a good size, not too big, but not small by any means either. It’s got a nice pink tip, and as Jaehyun joins you on the bed, you promise yourself to suck him off sometime soon. But right now, you just need him inside of you, and Jaehyun is more than happy to oblige. 

You wrap your legs around Jaehyun, drawing him close. Your lips meet as his cock rubs between your pussy lips, teasing your clit deliciously.

His tongue gently strokes yours, and you find your own hand slipping between your bodies to line him up with your core. He pushes in slowly, giving your body time to adjust to his size.

The kiss breaks so you can moan, and his lips find your throat, worshipping you while inch after inch buries into your sensitive core.

You tangle your fingers in his silky hair, keeping him at his throat as he remains fully inside of you, and once you feel like you’ve adjusted, you draw his lips back to yours again.

“Okay,” you tell him. “Fuck me now.”

“Whatever you want, angel,” Jaehyun grins, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he begins to thrust.

He starts slow, clearly wanting to be gentle, but his pace picks up gradually, and you find yourself moaning from the sensation.

Missionary position is a very intimate position, and you love the way it gives access for kissing and stroking his shoulders, you play with his hair and press your breasts up against his chest, enjoying every minute.

“I’ve wanted you since the moment we met,” Jaehyun pants.

“You’re cute,” you tell him, unable to echo the sentiment.

It seems Jaehyun had been half in love with you since watching you on TV, but you’d never known who he was before Doyoung employed you, so you had no precedent on which emotions to reside. But you’ve grown to care about him, that much is true.

“Want everyone to know you belong to me now. We belong together,” Jaehyun groans.

“They’ll know,” you assure him, stroking his silky hair.

Jaehyun moans at your response, burying his face against your throat as he fucks you even harder.

“I’m close from eating you out,” he admits, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, “but I want you to cum with me.” 

“I can get there,” you tell him, slipping your hand between your bodies to rub your clit.

“Fuck, you just got so tight,” Jaehyun practically whimpers. “Fuck Doyoung for ever trying to set me up with a fucking model.” 

“Silver linings,” you laugh, and the laugh turns into a whimper as you rub your clit even harder.

“Made me realize I only wanted you,” Jaehyun admits. 

“Lucky me,” you giggle, your core getting tighter around Jaehyun’s cock as you get closer and closer to the edge.

He’s such a simp, but you kind of love it.

You know he’s in deeper than you are, but you can see yourself falling fast now that you’ve taken the leap, so you give yourself over to the feeling that’s beginning to bubble inside of you.

“Okay, I’m close,” you tell him, more moans slipping from your lips as you rub your clit harder and harder.

“Want you to cum with me, please, fuck-” Jaehyun’s shivering with the effort of holding back his own high, waiting for you before he allows himself the release.

“Kiss me,” you tell him, feeling suddenly very dominant as you grab the nape of his neck, dragging his lips to your own.

You kiss him deeply, your chests pressed together, bodies fitting like puzzle pieces.

Your orgasm hits you suddenly, and the moment your core clamps around Jaehyun, he explodes too.

You both moan desperately against each other’s mouths, gasping as your orgasms ravage your bodies with unthinkable pleasure.

All you can do is hold tightly to Jaehyun, allowing your highs to wash over you both in perfect harmony.

You’re both panting as you come down, holding onto each other like long-time lovers. 

This is the start of something good; of that, you have no doubts. 

Ten:

“Congratulations on yet another unprecedented win,” the reporter grins, standing next to Jaehyun on the side of the basketball court at the completion of a landslide win. “You’ve had an amazing start to the season, some would say it’s one of the most impressive starts for a newly signed player. What do you think has contributed to that drive you have?” 

“First, I want to thank my cousin, my manager, Doyoung, who’s the one who pushed me to get to this place in my life. And second, I want to thank my amazing girlfriend, y/n, who is up in the stands right there with my cousin. She’s the most amazing person in my life, she feeds me, body and soul, and everything I do is for her.”

“Social media platforms like X are buzzing about you and y/n, who, notably, is a winner and alumni of the hit TV show Top Cook. I saw a few TikToks of the two of you cooking together. How long have you been dating?”

“About six months.”

“So it’s still pretty new, huh?” the reporter laughs.

Jaehyun can only shake his head. “Look, when you know, you know. And we both know. I had a great game, a great night with the team, and all I can say is thank you to the fans, to the coaches, and thank you to all the loved ones who made this possible.” 

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🔮 preview. “Want you to cum while fucking your dirty private chef on her new countertop,” you tease, knowing that Jaehyun’s always found the idea kinky and arousing. You’re his dirty private chef- or at least, you had been, and in a way, you always will be.

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, sex in a kitchen, foreplay, dirty talk, praise, oral, fingering, multiple reader orgasms, mutual orgasms, blow job, teasing, slight man handling, pinning the reader's wrists, fucking on a counter, Jaehyun fucks the reader while she’s in a dress, etc…   I petnames. (hers) angel.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.2k I teaser wc. 200

🌙 starring. Jaehyun x afab!Reader

bonus

It’s been three years since you and Jaehyun started dating, and things have changed in a way you never would have imagined. It hadn’t been ethical to continue as Jaehyun’s private chef, and the two of you had sat down to discuss options.

He’d suggested you try to build a TikTok following, and he’d convinced you that many people were still fans from your time on Top Cook. You could live with him, and he’d take care of everything as long as you continued to cook for him and worked on building your platform.

Pretty quickly, you realized that your specific relationship was a niche of its own. In an odd way, you got from Jaehyun what Rose had been attempting to secure. His fans flocked to your TikTok, and his teammates gushed about you and your cooking to help draw even more interest. 

You began to make decent money off your TikTok account pretty quickly into the process, and fans there suggested you make another book. So you’d worked on it, having a food-based TikTok with speckles of relationship vibes. Restaurants started inviting you and Jaehyun to dine for review, and Jaehyun helped open your world to an entire venue you never could have imagined.

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There were too many noises, the sounds of the whistle blowing through the air and the swimmers taking off into the water. There was chatter from each of the teams, making the environment seem louder. 

Your coach turns to you to speak, getting his familiar pep-talk ready. “You’ve done this a hundred times. This isn’t anything new. Trust your start, keep your rhythm, and finish strong. You know you’re good — now just go out there and show it.”

You nodded curtly and walked over to your position, the tile beneath your feet is cold and slick with water, but you barely feel it. Your heartbeat is louder than the crowd now, thudding steadily in your ears as you step toward the block. 

You exhale once, sharp and steady, then lift your gaze.

And there he is. 

Anton is already at his block, rolling out his shoulders and infuriatingly calm – as he usually is before a race. His body is all lean lines and strong muscles, but tense. His teammates watch from behind him, trading jokes and last-minute advice, but Anton isn’t really paying attention to any of it. 

He’s too busy looking at you. 

It’s quick, a flicker of his attention locking onto yours almost like it's purely instinctual. His gaze makes a nauseous twist sit in your stomach. His lips lift just barely, an infuriating smirk on his face. Provoking you. 

Maybe it was a challenge, maybe an invitation for something else. You couldn’t tell. You never could with him. 

You force your chin up, refusing to be the one who looks away first. Not today. You held his gaze, refusing to let the flicker of smugness in his eyes burrow further beneath your skin. Anton didn’t blink, didn’t look away, not even when the starter's voice rang out in the humid air calling your attention. 

His eyes narrowed slightly, sizing you up – likely to see if you were the same girl he had beaten last month. He seemed to think he had you all figured out when he broke his gaze and let out a little chuckle to himself. 

The air was thick with the smell of chlorine and the adrenaline coursing through you. 

The whistle blew, the shrill sound cutting through the strong tension between the two of you. You got into position, your muscles coiled tight and ready. For a half-second, your focus drifted back to Anton, the cocky little tilt of his head and the flex in his own muscles as he took position. 

The buzzer sounded. 

You launched yourself, the world narrowing down to the rush of air and the cold feeling of the water on your skin. 

______

You barely had time to breathe and relish in your victory before Anton found you by the bleachers with your team. He started making his way over with the same infuriating smirk that was always on his face. Your skin was still wet as you met him halfway, not wanting your teammates to hear the bullshit he was most likely about to say. 

“Congrats,” he drawled, voice low. “Didn’t think you had it in you. Must’ve been luck, hm?” 

Gosh, he was insufferable. Your cheeks felt hot. 

You glared, pretending you didn’t notice the way his gaze slid over you. You also pretended you didn’t notice the way your skin prickled, blaming it mostly on the water giving you temporary hypothermia. 

“Luck?” you scoffed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. “You can call it whatever you want.” Your voice surprised you – a little more breathless than you intended, but solid. 

Anton stepped closer, his presence cutting off the noise of the pool and the shouts of your teammates. You could smell the hint of chlorine and his body wash still clinging to him. For a second, you wondered if anyone was watching from the bleachers. If they could see your tense body language. It would be just your luck to have someone catch you even slightly flustered. 

“Or maybe you’ve just been watching me too much,” you added when he didn’t respond, your chin lifted. 

His mouth curved. It was most definitely a challenge. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said softly, but his gaze lingered on your lips. “I just like knowing you’re not as good as me. Makes it easier to win.” 

He was so close now, the heat of his body radiant against your skin. Your heart hammered in your chest, and you could feel it in your throat. 

You knew the smart thing to do would be to brush him off and walk away, remind him that he’s just a smug asshole who has nothing better to do than annoy you. But you didn’t. You stood your ground, matched him glare for glare, your lips tingling from the way his eyes kept sweeping over them.

“Oh is that what happened today?” you sneered, the words coming out lower than you intended. “Becuase it looked like you were chasing me for a while there. Couldn’t catch up?” 

He laughed, but the sound was softer than you’d expected. You saw his jaw flex, and for a moment the competitive edge in his eyes shifted to something else. Something heavier, darker, and more personal. 

Before you could analyze the look in his eyes, your coach’s voice sounded in your ears, telling your team to pack it up so that you could head out. 

Anton blinked slowly, a lazy grin curling at his lips before he stepped back, leaving you with your pulse jumping and a flush high on your cheeks. You turned and walked away, not daring to look over your shoulder even though you could feel his eyes burning between your shoulder blades. 

Your team packed up, voices buzzing with post-race adrenaline and stupid gossip. The van ride back to the hotel was a blur of tired limbs and damp towels. Only when you stepped into the lobby did you realize Anton and his teammates were sprawled across the armchairs in the lobby, looking perfectly at home. 

Of fucking course. Just your luck. 

Your team found their own places to sit while your coach checked you in. You didn’t dare go anywhere close that asshole, but you could feel his heated gaze on you, never leaving. 

Your coach walked back up to your group and started handing out room keys. 

“Now, since there’s an odd number of us, someone gets their own room.” He grunted out. Your other teammates immediately started asking for it, not wanting to share a room with anyone else. You were too distracted by the gaze on you to partake in the begging. 

“Now, now, I’m giving it to our winner for today. She deserves it.” He said, handing the key out toward you and snapping you out of your daze. You smiled tightly and took the key card from him, your other teammates jokingly booing at you. You laughed and flicked some of them off. 

As you and your team walked up to your floor, you still felt those eyes on you, except this time you didn’t acknowledge him. 

You made your way down the corridor, damp hair still slinging to your neck, the low hush of your teammates' voices fading behind you as you drifted further from their cluster. The key card was thick between your fingers and you spun it around and around, unable to keep the restless energy from your hands or the sense of being watched from crawling up your spine. 

You told yourself you didn’t care. You had beaten him. You’d gotten the solo room. He could look all he wanted. 

The hallway was quiet, carpet muffling your footsteps and the air thick with the lingering scent of pool chemicals and the faint trace of someone’s cologne. Maybe his. You shoved that thought right back down where it came from and pushed your door open. 

The room was bright, a single bed crisply made, and silent except for the echo of your heart in your chest. 

You kicked your shoes off, dropped your bag by the desk, and peeled off your jacket. The adrenaline from earlier was still slightly there, and you sighed as you checked your phone for any new notifications. 

The knock at the door had your head snapping up from your phone to the door. 

They’re already knocking at the door? You saw them two minutes ago.

When you got to the door you pulled on the handle and opened it, ready to make a teasing remark at your teammate about already missing you. Only it wasn’t your teammate. It was Anton. 

He stood in your doorway, as if he belonged there. As if he’d been invited, when you both knew he hadn’t. He filled the space with unapologetic energy, one arm braced casually against the doorframe, his body still lean and strong and his hair slightly darker, like yours, from lingering moisture. The smell hit you: chlorine, the clean scent of his bodywash, and that cologne, subtle and sharp and unmistakably him.

You blinked. For a breathless second, neither of you spoke.

He smiled, slow and deliberate, with a hungry, slightly amused glint in his eyes. “Expecting someone else?” His voice was deep, edged with laughter.

You leaned your shoulder against the door, half blocking his view of the room. “You must be lost. The asshole convention’s down the hall.”

He huffed a short laugh, not moving. “I thought I’d congratulate you properly.” His eyes flicked from your face to your neck, to your collarbone. You felt the heat of his gaze like he was physically touching you. For a second, neither of you moved. The air between your bodies felt charged, riddled with tension and something else you couldn’t and didn’t want to name. 

“Funny,” he said, his voice lowering. “But I’m right where I want to be.”

You rolled your eyes, but the gesture felt weak even to you. Up close, his presence was suffocating. The width of his shoulders blocked out the hallway light. His arm, still braced against the doorframe, caged you even as you stood your ground.

“Congratulations delivered. You can go now,” you said, keeping your tone even, your chin up. But you didn’t close the door.

He tilted his head, studying you, and you realized he saw right through the confidence act. “You always this polite to your fans?” he asked, and the words made your skin crawl with irritation. 

But you didn’t take the bait. Instead, you fixed him with that look you’d perfected over the years of racing side-by-side – sharp, unimpressed. He leaned in, just enough that you could see the pretty shade of brown in the details of his eyes, and for a moment you allowed yourself to breathe him in.

“Only the ones who lose as pathetically as you,” you shot back, the words coming out huskier than you meant. It was impossible to ignore the way his eyes darkened at that, the twitch of his jaw as he processed your nearness. He was so close you could count the freckles across his collarbone, could see the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

He didn’t move back, but stepped closer, shifting his weight so that his hips brushed the edge of the door. His arm remained above your head, effectively pinning you in place, but you didn’t shrink away. You could feel the tension in his stare.

It vibrated between you, not quite touching, but almost – like electricity.

You licked your lips. His gaze tracked it, sharp and intent. Every sensible thought in your head told you to make a snarky comment and slam the door in his face, but you just… didn’t. Maybe you liked the way the air got thick when he stepped this close, the way his voice dipped when he spoke to you, just for you. Even if every word was meant to rile you up.

You wondered if he could see your pulse beating in your throat. It felt obvious, loud, like it was beating for his attention.

Anton dropped his face a little nearer, the shadow of his jaw cutting a clean line only inches from yours. “Go on, then,” he murmured, voice low. “Prove you’re better, yeah?”

The words set something wild loose in your chest, and you felt something pulse inside you. You should’ve laughed. You should’ve pushed him out, locked the door and gone straight to the shower and then to bed. But here you were, pulling him into your room and slamming the door shut behind him. 

He barely had a chance to react before you shoved him back, hard, the force of it sending his spine gently to the wall. You caught the flash of surprise in his eyes, but it only made his mouth curve higher. For a second, neither of you moved; you just stood together in that bright, silent room, close enough that your breaths mingled and the tension between you felt raw and almost physical.

He looked at you, really looked, heat pooling in his gaze, and you realized with a fierce jolt that he wanted this as badly as you did. You pressed forward, erasing the last bit of space, and kissed him.

It was nothing like you’d imagined—not soft, not tentative, but fever-hot and reckless, hungry and desperate and the taste of chlorine and him. He caught your lower lip between his teeth, sharp with need, and you felt his hands find your waist, fingers digging into your skin.

You let him, for just a moment, because it felt good and right and you wanted to hear what he’d do if you stopped pretending to hate his guts. 

But you didn’t give him all the control – not for a second. You pushed up on your toes, kissed him harder, your mouth parting under his, and the soft surprised sound he made vibrated straight through your chest and down in between your legs. 

His hands slid lower, splaying over your hips and dragging you flush against him, and you knew he was just as breathless and done for as you. 

He kissed like he competed: relentless, greedy, all-consuming. He caught your bottom lip between his teeth, not gentle, and he groaned against your mouth, one palm fisting the back of your shirt to pull you impossibly closer. 

The tension was so messy, and when your fingers tangled in his still-damp hair, tugging, he broke away just enough to let out a shaky breath against your cheek. 

You didn’t wait for him to say anything clever. You nipped sharply at his jaw, felt the muscle tense under your teeth, and heart the way his breath hitched. He chased your mouth, catching it again, but you tugged him back by his hair and continued your attack on his neck. 

You could feel the coiled tension in Anton’s arms, the way his fingers curled possessively around your hips, and the way his mouth kept trying to find yours hungrily. 

“Didn’t expect this to be your way of proving you’re better,” he said, a smirk on his mouth and his voice soft against your ear, “is it my turn yet?” 

You scoffed, let your teeth find his earlobe for just a second, sharp enough to make his take in a harsh breath, before you eased back just barely enough to meet his eyes. 

Anton’s hands tightened on your hips once more, bruising, like he was fighting the impulse to just take. The thought made you feel hot and dizzy. 

You wanted him, you wanted this, and the need was suddenly so sharp it scraped through your composure. You dragged Anton toward the bed, not caring how graceless it looked. 

His lips were on yours again, and your hands yanked desperately at the hem of his shirt. He returned the favor, fingers rough and greedy, hauling your clothes over your head and discarding them somewhere behind you. 

Everything was teeth and tongue and fumbling hands, hips bumping against the edge of the bed as the both of you reached for each other's bare skin. You laughed breathlessly when you finally got his shirt off, immediately eating him up with your eyes. You saw him half naked during competitions all the time, but it was different in this context – almost like you were truly seeing him. 

His eyes were devouring you. His hands were already sliding up to your chest, groping you as if he needed to touch every inch at once. You were pressed so close there was no space left at all. 

You felt Anton's fingers drag down your stomach, a rough, greedy slide that had you shivering and arching into his touch. 

“Look at you, already desperate for it,” he murmured, a smug, dark laugh pressed against your neck. He didn’t wait for you to respond, just slipped his hand between your legs, cupping you through your underwear. His fingers stroked you, slow at first, then harder, until you gasped against his mouth. 

“Knew you’d be greedy,” he said softly. “Could feel you looking at me all day. But I didn’t think you’d be this fucking wet, sweetheart.” The words made you clench around nothing, not even able to form a response, and when he finally slid your panties aside and pushed his fingers inside you, you nearly sobbed. 

He stretched you ruthlessly, thumb rubbing hard circles and making you squirm. He ran his other hand down to your waist, pushing down and holding you in place. 

“Please, I need- please…” you begged, needing him inside of you. 

His lips turned up into that infuriating smirk you love. He could tell you just wanted him to fuck you already. 

“I’ve gotta stretch you out first, angel. You can’t take all of me without it.” He said, so soft it was barely above a whisper. You couldn’t catch the hint of condescendence in his tone, you were too far gone already.  

You whined and whimpered until you felt pressure building in your stomach. Anton’s fingers kept their steady pace, his thumb working those intense circles on your clit until you shattered against his hand, his voice gentle and reassuring in your ear. 

“That’s right, show me how good you are. Bet you’ve never cum this fast for anyone else,” he breathed into your ear, and the words burned straight through you. 

You arched helplessly, muscles clenching around his fingers, your body already trembling with aftershocks and the humiliation of how easy he made it look. But you didn’t care – you wanted more, all of it, especially when his mouth found yours again, almost tender now, as if he was tasting just how desperate you were. 

You barely registered the way he manhandled you up onto the bed, dragging you higher so you sprawled beneath him, your legs open and shivering as he slotted his hips between them. 

You could feel his cock, hard and heavy, pressed right against you through his still-clinging briefs. He made no secret of how desperate he was, grinding into you just once, slow, so you could feel every inch. 

You reached for him without thinking, your fingers yanking the waistband down, impatient, and he let you, watching you through his lashes, his eyes heavy and blown as you freed him. 

He groaned softly, the pleasure in his eyes so vivid and unrestrained in the way he looked at you. You wrapped your fingers around him before you even thought about it, desperate to feel his weight and how hard he was for you. 

Anton was so thick and hot against your palm, and his hips jerked forward, the motion desperate and hungry. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, barely more than a groan, and you felt it everywhere, your body tightening with a new frantic need to have him inside of you. 

He caught your wrist and pinned it above your head, holding you there with holding you there with unsurprising ease. It was primal, the way he wanted to control the pace, and the way he didn’t want to give an inch without making you work for it. 

He finally pulled your panties off, your wetness sticking to them and making them practically see through. He threw them where his pants were on the ground, smirking at you. “I’m keeping those for later.” 

You rolled your eyes and tugged at his shoulders. “Just fuck me already. Please I’m so…please, Anton.”

He bit his lip at the sound of his name, the way it rolled off your tongue in that needy tone, and he swore he would’ve snapped and eaten you up right then and there if it weren’t for his impeccable control. 

“Say it again for me.” He demanded. He definitely wasn’t asking, and he made that clear through the look in his eyes. 

Your own eyes fluttered, breath sharp in your chest. “Anton,” you repeated, and it came out just as thin and just as desperate as the last time. “Please. I need you so bad.”

He looked at you like you’d never been rivals at all m and stripped away the last inch of space between you bodies. His hips slotted flush against yours. He lined himself up at your entrance, dragging his cock up and down your cunt, lubing himself up with all of your slick. You could feel the thick head of his cock pushing, just barely there, not enough, just a tease. 

He leaned over you, his mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, his voice hungry and rough. 

“Good girl.” The praise seared through your nerves. “You want it so bad, don’t you? Want me to fuck you so hard you can’t stand tomorrow?”

You nodded, too far gone for words. He grinned that pretty grin of his – all teeth and dimples – and bit his lip. 

He pressed into you. The slight stretch burned, his fingers only helping so much from how thick he was. 

You gasped, the sting of the stretch punching the breath out of you, his cock pressing into you slow and relentless. Anton watched you with a dark, greedy intensity, like he was cataloging every twitch, every whine, every whimper. He eased forward, sinking deeper, the drag of him inside you obscene.

Your thighs were shaking from how good he filled you up. His grip on your waist was bruising, and somewhere in the back of your mind you hoped the marks would show for more than just a few days. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his forhead pressing to yours. You could feel him trembling slightly, his restraint becoming thinner and thinner. He wasn’t gentle, but he didn’t rush, letting you feel every deserved inch as he bottomoned out, hips flush to yours, bodies fused together. 

You clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He smirked, feeling your cunt squeeze impossibly tighter around him. It was taking every single atom in his body to not pound into you right then and there. 

His hips have a shallow, testing thrust. The friction was dizzying; you arched into him chasing it, desperate for more.

“Look at my pretty girl, hm?” Anton murmured, voice thick with hunger. “Taking it so well for me.” His breath was hot against your cheek, his body bracketed over you. You wanted every bit of him. You wanted him to leave you shaking and full and ruined. 

He pulled out to the tip, slow, and pushed back in so deep you thought he might be rearranging your guts. Each thrust was deliberate, hard enough to jolt the headboard and send a filthy noise into the echoey hotel room. 

You clung to him, nails raking his shoulder blades, and he groaned at the sting, rutting against you harder. The world blurred to the heat of his skin, the weight of his body on yours, and the slick friction with every roll of his hips. 

You tried to fight the sounds spilling from your lips, but it was useless – the moans, the needy, desperate whimpers. Anton ate up every sound, his mouth finding your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp and clench around his pulsing cock. 

“Wanna fill you up so bad. You like this don’t you?” he panted against your throat. He was getting talkative, and that made you think maybe he was going to cum soon. “I know you do, baby. I know.” 

You shuddered, unable to hide it, your legs locking hard around his waist. You wished you could say something – beg for something, dirty talk to him too – but nothing was making its way out of your mouth except the punched out little moans from his deep thrusts. 

The sound you made on a particularly harsh thrust was almost embarrassing, but Anton drank it in, his hips grinding deep and slow, the drag thick and obscene. He kept you pinned with one big hand, the other moving possessively over your throat and jaw. Not tight, just enough to remind you who had you, who was inside you, stretching you so wide it left you breathless. 

“You’re so needy for it, fuck. You keep squeezing me like that, I’m gonna cum.” 

You tightened around him again, just to feel how his hips stuttered inside you, his control fraying with every wet, slick thrust. You wanted to see him lose it, wanted to ruin him the way he’d already ruined you, so you let your hips rock up, catching the thick grind of his cock just perfectly. The sound he made was so raw, desperate. 

“Yeah?” you whispered, voice trembling but so fucking proud. “You gonna cum inside me, Anton?” You said his name like a taunt – or a promise – your lips brushing his jaw, your tongue flicking out to taste the salt and sweat where his pulse pounded. 

“Angel,” he gritted out, mouth hungry on your neck. “You feel so good, you have no idea.” He moaned, hand tightening at your throat just slightly, his big palm spanning across your jaw and cheek as he fucked into you rougher, harder, like he needed to imprint you on every part of his body. 

Anton’s other hand tightened on your hip, possessive. “You gonna take it for me?” he rasped against your mouth, his breath coming out in rough pants. “Let me fill you up?”

You nodded, dizzy, your entire body strung out and your mind gone with all of your thoughts. 

He watched you through hooded, hungry eyes, the lines of his face sharp with focus and something primal. He wanted you full and messy and gasping, and he wasn’t shy about it. With every thick, punishing thrust, he brought you closer to the edge, body pinning you hard to the mattress, his voice rough, but with a certain softness to it, in your ear. 

“That’s it, fuck…Let me feel you.” His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, his thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth, demanding, obsessive, yours to bite or suck or moan around if you dared. 

You did, lips parting so he could press his thumb inside. You sucked at it, greedy, eyes fluttering shut from the obscene pleasure of being taken this way, and Anton nearly came inside you right then and there. 

He swore, voice guttural against your skin, and the pace of his thrusts stuttered for a split second as you sucked at his thumb, greedy and shameless. He seemed to savor it, every slick pull of your mouth, and his hips surged forward with a new, frenzied need. The way he filled you was devastating and relentless – a slow, thick grind that made your entire body tighter in anticipation. 

“Such a good fucking girl, hm? So pretty, so fucking needy for me.” he whispered, forhead pressed to yours, obsession and awe wound together in every syllable. 

“Don’t stop, fuck, please- don’t stop.” You begged, your words slurring together and barely making it out of your mouth. You were so close to coming and you could tell it would be intense. 

The tension inside you built sharp and unyielding, pleasure turning molten, until you could barely hold yourself together. Anton’s body pressed you down, thick cock stretching you so perfectly, and the bed creaked beneath every rough thrust. His thumb dragged out from your mouth, wet with your spit, and he pressed it to your lips, watching the way you chased the touch, needy and shameless. 

The only sound in the room was broken breathing and the slap of skin, the wet pulse of your cunt around him, and the way you whimpered when he hit just right, over and over. You were making him lose his control and his restraint with every squeeze. 

“Listen to yourself,” Anton panted, his fingers digging deeper into your hip. “You’re soaking for me, I can hear your pretty pussy leaking for me.”

You whimpered, the shameful sound muffled by his hand as your body seized suddenly, pleasure snapping so hard you almost sobbed. Anton felt you clamp down and only rutted deeper, his hips never faltering, cock grinding against the spot inside you with brutal, perfect certainty. 

“Fuck that’s it. Knew you’d cum for me, but I didn’t think you’d fall apart this easy,” he taunted, voice rough, and his lips dragging a filthy smile across your jaw. 

You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, not when the aftershocks were already too much. Your thighs shook, muscles fluttering uncontrollably, but he didn’t give you a moment to recover. 

Instead, his fingers slid down, rubbing your clit mercilessly, circling fast and slick and mean. You jerked, crying out loudly and trying to squirm away, but Anton pinned you flat with his weight, pushing harder. “Sensitive now, aren’t you? Bet you can’t take it, yeah?” he crooned, his hand working you while his cock drove in and out. 

The pressure building in your stomach exploded again, your cunt getting even wetter, helpless under the overstimulation. Anton’s laugh was low in your ear as he forced you through another, even harsher orgasm. 

You writhed, sobbing into his shoulder, everything inside you seizing hard as the orgasm washed over you, pussy fluttering and squeezing around Anton’s cock. He fucking loved it. You could hear it in the way he let out a ragged, triumphant sound. You could feel it in the way his hips ground deeper, reducing to let you go. 

“Fuuuck, that’s it, just like that,” he choked, voice full of awe and hunger. “You’re milking me, sweetheart. Squeezing my cock so fucking perfect.” 

You couldn’t breathe, your nails scraping down his back again as he pounded you through every single trembling aftershock. He didn’t show you any mercy, fucking you even harder, the slap of skin echoing in the hotel room, the sound obscene. 

“Taking it so good, baby. You were made for this, weren’t you?” His hand slid up, cupping your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek and wiping your tears away. 

And then he reached up, found your hands gripping tight onto the sheets, and tangled his fingers with yours above your head. His grip was so sure, so grounding, you would have gasped at the intimacy of it if you were present instead of your brain being so fuzzy. 

His pace stuttered, and you felt him shudder above you, holding you through the way his body tensed, every muscle straining and trembling as he fucked you even harder, chasing his own orgasm. 

“I’m gonna fill you up, just like you want, Angel. Gonna make sure you know just who you belong to.” he growled, voice harsh and shaking slightly. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and perfect and sensitive. 

Your whole body arched to meet him, and you could feel his control slipping, unraveling right where you wanted him. 

He slammed into you, harder and harder, his rhythm erratic now and his breath ragged at your ear. “Fuck, fuck, you feel so good,” he gasped, every word running straight through you. “You’re gonna take it, yeah? Gonna let me give you all my cum?” 

You nodded, choking on a moan, your whole body seizing as his hips stuttered inside you one last time and he thrust into you one more time, his cock hitting so deep he touched your cervix. 

The moan he let out was animalistic and guttural, filling the room with raw noise. His body trembled over yours as he came, cock pulsing inside you, spilling himself deep where you ached for it. You felt every spasm of his, and the way he ground his hips down to make sure you took every desperate drop, like he wanted to fucking drown you in it. 

He stayed inside you, not loosening his hold on your hands, his forehead pressed into your neck and both of you panting like you’d just raced the length of the pool. Your whole body trembled, and you felt like the aftershocks were never ending. 

You could sense he was about to pull out, but you needed to be close to him. You couldn’t let him go just yet – not when he had just filled you up like he was trying to impregnate you. 

You freed your hands from his and wrapped your arm around his back, tugging him closer. “Don’t pull out. Wanna stay like this, want you to make sure your cum doesn’t go to waste.”

His cock twitched violently at that, and he let out a groan, his teeth gritted together like he was in pain. “Don’t say shit like that, Angel,” he said. It was already taking everything in him not to get hard again and fuck you through the night. 

But you liked the way his pulse jumped under your palm, the way his cock twitched inside you, overstimulated but still greedy for more. You wrapped your thighs tighter around his hips, locking him to you and not letting a single drop escape. 

You shouldn’t have said it, but you couldn’t help the way you ached, the way you’d take him over and over if he wanted. You wondered if he could tell, or if he’d just assumed you’d be done after that. But you weren’t. Every inch of you was perfectly sore, oversensitive, still trembling from the aftershocks of him, and yet, still greedy for whatever came next. 

Anton buried his face in your neck, breathing hard. His cock throbbed once inside you, a deep, hungry pulse. “You’re trouble,” he muttered, that pretty smirk on his lips. 

You stroked a slow line down his back. “If you get needy again…you can use me. Even if I’m asleep. Just wake me up, or don’t. I don’t care.”

His breath stuttered, and you felt the way his whole body tensed, the way his cock tried to harden inside you again at the promise. He pressed his lips to your jaw lingering there, claiming you with the press of his body and the heat in his eye. 

“Careful,” he whispered, “I might take you up on that.” 

section I: tumblr

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⤷ fwb2l, slow burn, co-workers au; fluff, angst, smut.

⤷ professor!jungkook x professor!reader.

⤷ wc: 123.3k (series).

➤ best mistake by @lovieku

⤷ dilf au, forbidden love, age gap (oc 21 | jk 38), best friend's father au; angst, smut.

⤷ dilfljk x inexperienced!fem reader.

⤷ wc: 17.4k (oneshot).

section II: youtube

i’ve never really read youtube fics and i still don’t, for the VERY obvious reasons. but someone recommended jaz fics, and i completely fell in love. she’s the only writer i read on youtube and the only reason i ever go there for fics. her writing is genuinely so good, the plot and storyline are solid, and i’d 100% recommend her channel.

• west wing by @jazfics

⤷ e2l, royalty and nobility au, slow burn, cursed prince, complex romance, smut.

⤷ ongoing series.

• one rule by @jazfics

⤷ e2l, mafia au, slow burn, smut.

⤷ completed.

• trapped by @jazfics

⤷ e2l, unrequited love (at first), contract marriage, smut.

⤷ completed.

section III: wattpad

i stopped reading wattpad fics because the app didn’t work in my country without a vpn for a long time, which made it frustrating. i recently found out (literally rn) that it works now, but i don’t really want to read there anymore lol. i do have a lot of favorites and even a reading list on wattpad, but if i included them here, this list would be very long. and since most of the fics here are tumblr-focused, i’m trying to keep this very minimal.

❤︎ motorsport by -kimtaesan

❤︎ landslides by dappleddaisies

❤︎ almost home by whippednation

❤︎ stardust by whippednation

❤︎ eye candy by SinCircus_

The resort pool glitters under the moonlight, cool and inviting against the lingering heat of the day. You slip into the water, the quiet slosh a welcome sound after hours cooped up in your air-conditioned room. It’s late, the usual splashing families long gone, leaving just you, a few other residents and the gentle hum of the pool filter. You float on your back, staring up at the star-dusted sky which is dimmed by the lights of the resort, letting the water cradle you. Peace.

Then you feel it. That prickle on the back of your neck, the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze. You roll onto your stomach, treading water, and scan the poolside lounge chairs. There, half-hidden in the shadow of a potted palm, is him. The guy from breakfast yesterday, the one with the intense dark eyes that seemed to follow you as you piled fruit onto your plate. And the day before that, lingering near the pool bar while you sunbathed. Tall, broad-shouldered beneath a simple t-shirt, with that gorgeous face—big, soulful eyes framed by long dark lashes and thick brows, surprisingly plush lips set in a strong jaw. Handsome in a way that feels solid, capable. Like he could easily lift you, pin you, whatever he wanted. The thought sends a warm shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the water.

He doesn’t look away when you catch him. Just holds your gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt to his head. Not creepy. You find it intriguing. A little thrilling. You hold his look for a beat, letting a small, knowing smile touch your lips before deliberately turning away, diving under the surface. The cool water rushes over your heated skin. Yeah, his attention strokes the ego. Especially when you resurface a few meters away, glance back and he’s still watching, a lazy, appreciative curve now playing on those lips.

You see him everywhere after that. Catching his eye over coffee cups at the bustling breakfast buffet, his gaze lingering a fraction too long. Passing him on the path to the beach, a shared, fleeting look that crackles in the humid air. He’s always there, a quiet, attractive presence you’ve started unconsciously searching for. The attention is a constant, low thrum under the surface of your holiday relaxation.

The heat of the afternoon sun gives way to the softer warmth of early evening. Seeking something more soothing than the cool pool, you head towards the secluded hot tub tucked away near a screen of lush tropical plants. Steam rises invitingly from the bubbling water. Perfectly empty. You shed your light cover-up, leaving just your swimsuit, and slip into the deliciously hot water with a sigh. Bliss. The jets massage your tired muscles, the steam curling around your face.

You’ve barely closed your eyes when you hear the soft splash of someone else entering the water. Already preparing to feel the disappointment of disturbed solitude you open your eyes again just to see if whoever joined you is tolerable enough to stay. But it’s him. Of course. He settles on the opposite bench, the hot tub suddenly feeling much smaller. Water laps around his broad chest. His dark hair is slightly damp, clinging to his forehead. Those big eyes fix on you again, but this time, there’s no pretense of looking away.

“Seems like we have similar taste in relaxation spots,” he says, his voice a deep rumble that resonates pleasantly in the steamy air. It’s smooth, confident.

“Looks like,” you reply, your own voice sounding slightly breathless even to you. You adjust your position, sending ripples across the surface between you. “It’s the best one. Always quiet.”

“Quiet is nice,” he agrees, a slow smile spreading across his face. It lights up his features, making him even more disarmingly handsome. “Especially for unwinding. Or... getting acquainted.” He leans forward slightly, resting his arms on the tiled edge. “I’m Seungcheol.”

You offer him a smile and your own name in return. The space between you feels silently charged, thick with the steam and something else entirely.

The conversation flows easily, surprisingly natural despite the simmering tension. You talk about the resort, the food, the awful humidity, your lives back at your hometowns. His eyes never really leave yours, or sometimes drift lower, appreciative, unhurried. The heat of the water sinks into your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth spreading through you under his unwavering attention. He laughs at something you say, a rich, genuine sound, and shifts closer, ostensibly to hear you better over the bubbling jets. His knee brushes yours underwater. Neither of you pulls away.

His gaze drops to your mouth. “You have a really nice smile.”

The compliment, however basic, delivered in that low voice, feels like a physical touch. “Thanks,” you murmur, your heart pounding against your ribs. The air crackles. The few inches of bubbling water between you might as well be a mile. “You're not so bad yourself, Seungcheol.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He moves, closing the distance smoothly. One large hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. His skin is hot, damp and this sensation sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Not so bad, huh?” he repeats, a playful challenge in his eyes that’s quickly overtaken by pure heat. “Let’s see about that.”

His lips meet yours. It’s not exactly tentative, he only searches your eyes for half a second to see that you want it. The kiss is confident, searching, immediately deep. A jolt of pure electricity shoots straight through you and your lungs refuse to cooperate at first. You take a choked breath against his mouth, your hands flying up, one tangling in the damp hair at his nape, the other gripping his solid shoulder. He tastes faintly of chlorine and mint, and something that you can only describe as him. The kiss deepens, turning hungry. His other arm wraps around your waist, hauling you effortlessly off your seat and onto his lap, straddling him. The jets churn violently around you.

The hot water sloshes as you grind against him. The thin barrier of your swimwear does nothing to hide the hard ridge of his growing erection pressing against your core, or the way your own body pulses in response. His hands are everywhere—sliding up your back beneath the water, fingers tracing the edge of your swimsuit top, palming the curve of your ass, pulling you harder against him. Your own hands explore the expanse of his chest, his shoulders, the damp skin of his neck. Soft moans escape you, muffled against his mouth, lost in the sound of the bubbling water. He groans, low and guttural, when you roll your hips, seeking more friction. His lips leave yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. You arch into him, gasping, your fingers tightening in his hair.

You whimper, burying your face in his neck, breathing in the clean, masculine scent of him mixed with steam. His hands slide lower, under the edge of your bikini bottoms, fingers brushing against the slick heat there. You gasp, pushing yourself harder against his touch, against the hard length of him. It’s frantic, messy, the water making everything extra challenging but impossibly erotic. You’re teetering on the edge though it keeps, ironically, slipping away from you, the world narrowed down to the feel of him, the sounds you’re both making, the churning water…

“Hey, is this thing on? Looks steamy over there!” A loud, cheerful male voice, startlingly close, cuts through the haze of pleasure like a bucket of ice water.

You freeze. Seungcheol goes rigid against you. His hand stills instantly beneath the water, but he doesn’t pull it away completely. His head whips around towards the path leading to the hot tub. You follow his gaze, your heart hammering against your ribs. Two figures are silhouetted against the resort lights, approaching.

“Shit,” mutters under his breath, low and urgent. His eyes snap back to yours, dark and dilated with arousal and sudden frustration. The spell is shattered, replaced by a jarring wave of exposure. He pulls his hand from your swimsuit, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second, a silent apology and promise. He shifts his body subtly, creating a sliver of space between you, trying to make the scene look less like what it was: two strangers moments away from combusting in a public hot tub. You hastily remove yourself from his lap.

The newcomers—a couple laughing together—reach the edge. “Mind if we join?” the man asks, already stepping in, oblivious to the crackling tension he just interrupted.

“Not at all,” Seungcheol manages, his voice rough but surprisingly calm. He throws you a look—intense, frustrated, simmering with the heat that hasn't dissipated, only been banked. He leans close, lips brushing your ear, breath hot and sending a new shiver down your spine despite the warm water. “Room 312,” he murmurs, the words barely audible over the renewed bubbling and the newcomers’ chatter. “Top floor, west wing. In an hour. Don’t make me wait. Please.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, just gives your thigh a final, firm squeeze under the water, a silent anchor point, then smoothly pulls himself out of the tub in one fluid motion. Water streams down his body as he grabs his towel, not even bothering to dry off, just wrapping it loosely around his hips. He throws one last searing glance your way before turning and walking swiftly down the path, disappearing into the shadowy foliage without a backward glance at the oblivious newcomers now settling into the water.

You’re left sitting in the suddenly too-crowded tub, your body humming with unmet need, the ghost of his hands and lips imprinted on your skin. The water feels tepid now. The laughter of the other couple jars your nerves. An hour. Room 312. Top floor, west wing. Your heart kicks against your ribs again, a frantic, exhilarating rhythm. The decision feels inevitable. You take a deep, shaky breath, the scent of chlorine and tropical blooms suddenly sharp in your nostrils, and start counting down the seconds.

The steam from the hot tub still clings to your skin like a phantom caress as you stumble back towards your own resort room, the gravel path crunching unnaturally loud under your sandals. Every nerve ending feels electrified, raw, and hyper-aware. The taste of him lingers on your lips. The imprint of his large hands on your hips burns beneath the thin fabric of your bikini. And his words, low and desperate in your ear, echo like a strangely pleading command you have no intention of disobeying: Room 312. Top floor, west wing. In an hour. Don’t make me wait. Please.

An hour. It stretches before you like a lifetime and a blink simultaneously.

Inside your cool, impersonal room, the silence is jarring. You lock the door, leaning your forehead against the smooth wood, trying to catch your breath that keeps hitching in your chest. Your reflection in the full-length mirror startles you—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, eyes wide and dark with a mixture of lingering arousal and dawning panic. What are you thinking? He’s a stranger! The thought crashes through the haze of desire, sharp and cold. You barely know his last name, let alone anything substantial. This is reckless, potentially dangerous, the kind of thing you read about in cautionary tales.

But then the memory floods back: the confident pressure of his lips, the possessive squeeze of his hand, the pure, unadulterated heat in his eyes that promised oblivion. The way your body responded instantly, arching into his touch, grinding against him with a desperation that shocked you. The ache between your legs, momentarily soothed by the churning water but now throbbing back to life, persistent and undeniable. It wasn’t just lust, though that was a roaring fire. It was a connection, intense and immediate, crackling in the humid air between you since that first locked gaze by the moonlit pool.

You pace the small room, the plush carpet muffling your frantic steps. Stranger danger wars with stranger sex fantasy. Your sensible side screams retreat. Your body, humming with anticipation, screams go. You glance at the clock. Forty five minutes.

Shower. You need a shower. To wash off the chlorine, the steam, the feeling of his skin against yours. Or maybe just to stall. The water is lukewarm, a feeble attempt to cool the internal furnace. You scrub mechanically, your mind racing. What if he’s not what he seems? What if it’s awkward? What if you change your mind halfway through? What if you don’t change your mind and it’s incredible? The last thought sends another jolt of heat straight to your core.

Drying off, you face the mirror again, the panic subsiding slightly, replaced by a fluttery, nervous excitement. You’re going. The decision settles, warm and heavy in your stomach. You want this. You want him. The reckless abandon of it thrills you almost as much as the memory of his touch.

Now, what to wear? The simple sundress you packed—light blue cotton, spaghetti straps, falling just above the knee. It’s innocent enough for walking through the resort corridors, easy to slip off. But is it too innocent? Too try-hard? You rifle through your suitcase. A silky camisole? Too obvious. Jeans? Absolutely not. The sundress it is. Underneath... You hesitate, holding a simple cotton brief. No. You reach for the one piece of lingerie you brought on a whim, delicate black lace bikini bottoms, barely there. Too much? The critical voice pipes up again. He’ll just take it off anyway. But the thought of him seeing it, his big hands peeling it down your legs... You pull them on. The lace feels foreign and exciting against your skin. No bra. The dress is forgiving enough, and the thought of his hands, his mouth, finding you bare beneath the thin cotton sends another shiver through you. Definitely too much. But you leave it. This is your secret, your small rebellion against your own inner voice.

You check the mirror once more. Hair slightly damp, falling loose around your shoulders. Minimal makeup reapplied—just a touch of gloss on your still-sensitive lips. The flush on your cheeks is genuine. You look... eager. Vulnerable. Ready. Your heart hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Five minutes. You grab your keycard, take a deep, shaky breath, and step out into the softly lit hallway. The walk to the west wing elevator feels endless. Every guest you pass seems to look at you knowingly. The elevator ride to the top floor is agonizingly slow, the mirrored walls reflecting your nervous fidgeting. The plush carpet of the top-floor corridor swallows the sound of your footsteps. Room 312. It looms at the end of the hall. You pause, hand raised to knock, your pulse roaring in your ears. Last chance to turn back.

Before your knuckles can connect, the door swings open.

He fills the doorway, backlit by the warm lamplight inside. Changed out of his swim trunks into low-slung grey sweatpants that cling to the powerful lines of his hips and thighs, and nothing else. Your breath catches. The poolside glimpses, the hot tub proximity—none of it prepared you for the sheer impact of him like this, half-dressed and waiting. His torso is a sculpted landscape of muscle—broad, defined shoulders tapering to a narrower, incredibly taut waist. The planes of his chest are smooth, his lower abdomen dusted with just the faintest hint of dark hair leading down under the waistband of his pants. His arms are thick with muscle, veins subtly tracing his forearms. His dark hair is towel-dried, slightly tousled. And his eyes... those big, dark eyes lock onto yours, intense, searching, simmering with the same heat from the tub, but tempered now with a watchful stillness.

“Hey,” he says, short greeting a low rumble in his chest. His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sundress, the bare shoulders, the nervous energy vibrating off you. A slow, appreciative smile touches his lips, but his eyes remain serious, focused. “You came.”

“Told you I would,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. You never told him that, what are you even saying? You try very hard not to fiddle with your hands and leave them unmoving at your sides to hide the anxiety that’s been festering in you for the past hour. The proximity, the sheer maleness of him, is overwhelming. The nervous flutters intensify, mixed with a fresh wave of pure desire.

He doesn’t point out your words, just steps back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

The room is spacious, a luxury suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the moonlit ocean. A large bed dominates the space, neatly made but looking suddenly, profoundly significant. The air carries a faint, clean scent—soap, maybe cedar—mixed with the undeniable, warm scent of him.

He closes the door softly behind you, the click of the lock echoing in the sudden quiet. You stand awkwardly just inside, the confident woman from the hot tub replaced by this jittery version. He doesn't immediately move towards you. Instead, he leans back against the door, studying you, his gaze traveling over your face, down your neck, lingering on the thin straps of your dress. The silence stretches, thick with anticipation and your own racing thoughts.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer now, deeper with concern. The question is simple, but the weight behind it is immense. It’s not perfunctory. He’s genuinely checking. His intense gaze holds yours, waiting, giving you space. “Being here? After the tub... things got intense fast. I need to know you're still good. That this,” he gestures loosely between you, “is what you want. Right now. No pressure. None at all.” His eyes are unwavering, open. “You can say no. You can leave. Right now. Just tell me.”

His directness, the absolute seriousness with which he asks, cuts through your nervous haze. It’s the opposite of the demanding stranger persona your anxiety had conjured. And it loosens the knot of tension in your chest.

You take a shaky breath, meeting his gaze. The desire is still there, a live wire, but the fear is receding, replaced by a growing certainty. “I’m... nervous,” you admit, the honesty surprising you. “But I’m good. I want to be here. I want…” You trail off, heat flooding your cheeks again. I want you. The words hang unspoken but felt.

He pushes off the door, closing the small distance between you in two slow strides. He stops just before touching you, his presence enveloping. “Nervous is okay,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration you feel in your bones. “Tell me if anything feels not okay. At any point. Promise me.” It's not a request; it's a non-negotiable term.

“I promise,” you whisper.

His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away. His knuckles brush your cheek, a feather-light touch that sends sparks skittering across your skin. “You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck exposed by the sundress. “This dress…” His thumb strokes your cheekbone, mirroring his touch in the hot tub, but gentler now. “Can I take it off you?”

The question, so blunt yet so considerate, steals your breath. You nod, unable to speak. His fingers find the thin straps of your sundress. He eases them down your shoulders with agonizing slowness, his gaze fixed on the revealed skin. The soft cotton pools at your waist, then falls completely, puddling around your ankles on the plush carpet. You stand before him in just the delicate black lace bikini bottoms, suddenly exposed under the warm lamplight.

His breath hitches, a soft, audible intake. His gaze roams over you, hungry, appreciative, but still controlled. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word thick with awe. “Look at you.” His eyes linger on the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the lace hugging your hips. “Perfect.” His hand returns to your cheek, then slides slowly down your neck, over your collarbone, coming to rest lightly on the curve of your breast. His touch is warm, possessive, yet infinitely patient. “Still good?”

“More than good,” you breathe, the nervousness melting under the heat of his admiration and his touch. Your hands lift almost of their own accord, drawn to the solid wall of his chest. Your palms flatten against warm, smooth skin, feeling the powerful beat of his heart beneath. The contrast between his hard muscle and the softness of his skin is intoxicating.

He leans down, his lips finding yours again. This kiss is different from the hungry clash in the tub. It’s slower, deeper, a rediscovery. His tongue slides against yours, tasting, exploring. His hand cups your breast fully, his thumb circling your nipple, teasing it into a hard peak. A soft moan escapes you, swallowed by his mouth. Your fingers curl against his chest, nails scraping lightly.

He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, returning to the sensitive spot just above your collarbone he’d discovered earlier. He sucks gently, then soothes it with his tongue, sending shivers down your spine. One arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The hard ridge of his erection presses insistently against your lower belly, even through the fabric of his sweatpants. The evidence of his desire is thrilling.

His free hand drifts lower, fingertips tracing the top edge of your lace panties, dipping just beneath. “These are a surprise,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice husky. “A very fucking good one.” His fingers slide lower, tracing the seam of you through the damp lace, finding the heat and slickness waiting there. You gasp, pushing your hips forward against his hand, seeking more pressure. “So wet already, princess,” he groans, his fingers applying delicious friction. “Just for me?”

The sudden endearment sends a jolt through you. “Yes,” you whimper, your head falling back as he adds a second finger, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. “Just for you.”

He eases his hand away, eliciting a soft sound of protest from you. Before you can process it, his hands are on your hips, turning you gently. You face the large bed now. His hands slide down to your waistband. “Lift your foot,” he instructs softly. You comply, and he carefully peels the lace down one leg, then the other, letting them fall. He guides you back until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. “Sit.”

You turn and sink onto the cool duvet. He stands before you, his eyes dark pools of desire as he drinks in the sight of you completely bare. The intensity is almost too much. Then, without breaking eye contact, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushes them down, along with his boxer briefs, in one smooth motion.

Your breath stops.

He is magnificent. Powerfully built everywhere—thick thighs corded with muscle, a firm, sculpted ass, the defined V-cut leading down from his hips. And his cock... thick, long, already fully erect, curving slightly upwards from a neat nest of dark, coarse hair. The contrast is striking—the smooth expanse of his chest and stomach giving way to this thatch of dark curls framing his impressive erection. You usually prefer smooth, but the raw masculinity of it, the primal contrast, sends a jolt of pure, unexpected desire straight through you. You can’t tear your eyes away.

He sees your stare, a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “See something you like?” His voice is thick with amusement and pride.

“You're... yes,” you breathe, the honesty raw in your voice despite the fact that words are miserably failing you at the moment. The sheer size is intimidating and thrilling all at once. “You’re… incredible.”

He steps closer, his cock bobbing slightly. He places one knee on the bed between your legs, then the other, kneeling over you, caging you in. His hands frame your face. “You’re the incredible one,” he counters, his thumb brushing your bottom lip and your gaze darts up to meet his. “You sure you’re ready for this?” His eyes search yours again, the question layered. Ready for him? Ready for the intensity he promises?

Your answer is to lean forward and press a kiss to his abdomen, just above his navel. Then lower, tracing a short path with your lips towards the dark trail. You feel him tense, a sharp intake of breath. You look up at him, meeting his heated gaze. “Show me what you can do,” you whisper.

A groan rumbles deep in his chest. He shifts back slightly, giving you space. “Fuck yes. But first…” He guides you gently to lie back on the bed. “Let me taste you.”

He moves down your body with deliberate slowness, kissing his way down your sternum, over the swell of your stomach. He nips gently at your hip bone, then spreads your thighs apart with firm hands. He pauses, looking up at you from between your legs, his eyes holding yours, asking permission one final time. You nod, biting your lip. His gaze drops, focusing on you with an intensity that makes you tremble. Then he lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a revelation. Slow, broad strokes from bottom to top, savoring you. He groans, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh. “So sweet,” he murmurs, his breath hot. Then he zeroes in, his tongue circling your clit with firm, focused pressure, flicking over the swollen bud, trying different methods until he finds the one that works best for you. Your back arches off the bed, a mewl tearing from your throat. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he devours you. He alternates between broad, lapping strokes and pinpoint flicks, building the pressure relentlessly. One hand slides down, his thumb pressing rhythmically against your entrance while his tongue works your clit. Then, a thick finger slides inside you, curling upwards, finding that sweet spot instantly.

“Oh god! Seungcheol!” You writhe, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, holding him to you. He adds a second finger, stretching you gently, his tongue circling your clit. The combination is overwhelming—the wet heat of his mouth, the skilled thrust and curl of his fingers, the pressure building like a tidal wave. He's relentless, attuned to every gasp, every twitch of your body. “Yes! Right there! Don’t stop!”

“Come for me, princess,” he rasps against you, his voice thick and muffled. “Let go. I've got you.” His tongue lashes your clit faster, his fingers pump harder, curling perfectly. The coil snaps. Pleasure explodes through you, white-hot and shattering, radiating out from your core in pulsing waves. Your thighs clamp around his head as you cry out, body bowing off the bed, lost in the sheer, blinding ecstasy he wrings from you.

He gentles his touch as the tremors subside, lapping softly, easing you down. He presses a final, lingering kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. His cock, rock-hard and leaking, presses against your stomach. “Fuck, that was beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes dark with satisfaction and renewed hunger. “You’re so fucking responsive. Looks like no one fucked you properly in a while.”

You’re still trembling, floating on the aftershocks, but the sight of him above you, the feel of his hard length against you, reignites the fire. “I need you,” you gasp, reaching between you to wrap your hand around him. He hisses, his hips jerking forward into your touch. He’s impossibly hard, velvety smooth skin over the hot girth of him. “Inside. Now.”

He kisses you again, hard and possessive. “Condom,” he breathes against your mouth. He leans over to the nightstand, fumbling slightly, ripping open a packet with his teeth. You watch, mesmerized, as he rolls it on with efficient, slightly shaky hands. The sight of him sheathing that thick length is intensely erotic.

He settles back between your thighs, his weight braced on his forearms on either side of your head. The broad head of his cock nudges against your slick entrance. He holds your gaze, his eyes burning into yours. “Ready?” he asks, the word strained. “Tell me.”

“Ready,” you breathe, lifting your hips to meet him. “Please.”

He pushes forward slowly, inexorably. There’s a moment of intense pressure, a delicious stretch as your body yields to accommodate his size. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. He pauses, fully seated but not moving, letting you adjust. “You okay?” His voice is tight with the effort of holding still.

“Okay,” you gasp, the fullness incredible, overwhelming. “Move. Please, Seungcheol.”

He begins to move, slow, deep thrusts at first, withdrawing almost completely before sinking back in. The friction is exquisite, the stretch perfect. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your reactions. “Feel so good,” he groans, his breath coming faster. “So tight. Fucking perfect.” He drops his head, his lips finding yours, his tongue licking into your mouth with wet sounds mixed with your breathing. His pace gradually increases, his thrusts becoming deeper, more powerful. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into the firm muscles of his ass, pulling him deeper still. The slap of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with your gasps and his guttural groans.

His hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is almost too much. “Look at you,” he rasps, his voice rough. “Taking me so well. My perfect little fuckdoll.” The slight degradation, the possessiveness in his tone, sends a fresh jolt of heat through you, coiling your muscles tighter.

“Harder,” you beg, arching your back. “Don't stop!”

He growls, a purely animal sound, and obliges. His thrusts become harder, faster, pistoning into you with a force that steals your breath. The bed creaks in protest. He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that deep, sweet spot with every plunge. Stars burst behind your eyelids. "There! Oh god, Seungcheol, right there!" you scream, your body tightening around him like a vise.

"Come on, princess," he commands, his voice ragged. "Come on my cock. Now." His thumb presses harder, his thrusts become brutal, perfectly angled. The command, the relentless stimulation, tips you over the edge again. Your orgasm crashes over you, even more intense than the first, a wave of pure, mindless pleasure that rips a scream from your throat. Your inner walls clench rhythmically around him, milking him.

He curses, a low, drawn-out groan. "Fuck! That's it. Squeeze me just like that." He drives into you a few more times, hard and deep, then buries himself to the hilt with a final, shuddering thrust. His body tenses, a guttural cry tearing from his throat as he finds his own release, pulsing deep inside you. He collapses onto his forearms, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping, trembling, slick with sweat.

He stays buried inside you for long moments, catching his breath, pressing soft, almost reverent kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your forehead. “Jesus,” he finally breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re... fucking unreal.”

He eases out of you carefully, disposing of the condom. Then he gathers you against him, pulling you onto your sides facing each other, your bodies still humming. His arms wrap around you, strong and secure. One big hand strokes your hair, the other rests on your hip. “Alright?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. “That was... intense.”

“Intense is an understatement,” you manage, snuggling closer into the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the rapid thud of his heart slowing down. “But yeah. Alright. More than alright.” You trace the smooth skin over his pectoral muscle. “You’re... you’re really good at that.”

Seungcheol chuckles, a low, satisfied rumble, then kisses the top of your head. His hand drifts down, cupping your ass, pulling you tighter against his softening cock and you can feel the warm wetness of your release between your thighs even more like that.

The tremors from your climax are still rippling through you, a sweet, fading echo that leaves your muscles liquid and weak. A profound, sated exhaustion is already seeping into your bones, a heavy warmth that makes your limbs feel like they are filled with sand. When his lips find yours again, the kiss is different—slower, hungrier, but tinged with the same shared fatigue. It tastes of salt of sweat and him, already a familiar, intoxicating flavor. His hands move over your body with possessiveness that is both thrilling and daunting, mapping your spent form as if assessing its limits for what comes next.

“Round two,” he murmurs against your mouth, the words a dark, thrilling promise, though his voice is even more ragged now, stripped raw and breathless. He rolls off you, the loss of his weight and heat a sudden chill. He sits up on the edge of the bed, his broad back to you, and you see the muscles there tremble faintly with the aftermath of his own release. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before turning to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes are black with intent, but the lids are heavy. “Turn over. On your knees.”

The command is direct, but it lands differently now. A fresh wave of heat, liquid and urgent, pools low in your belly, but it’s followed immediately by a deep, internal tremor of fatigue. Already? your body seems to cry out. You feel fucked out, overstimulated after just two orgasms, every nerve ending raw and singing. Pushing yourself up is an effort. Your arms shake, your core muscles protesting as you awkwardly get onto your hands and knees, presenting yourself to him. The position is profoundly vulnerable, and the awareness of his gaze burning into you, taking in the sight of your well-used, sensitive flesh, makes you shudder and clench with a mixture of anticipation and sheer, overwhelming sensitivity.

“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, his voice thick with awe and a lust that seems to override his own tiredness. His hand comes down, not in a slap, but in a firm, possessive grip on one cheek, squeezing, kneading the flesh. You flinch, the sensation almost too much on your sensitized skin. “All mine for the night.” He leans forward, and you feel the hot, wet stroke of his tongue, lapping up the evidence of your release from your inner thighs. The obscene, sloppy sound he makes vibrates through your oversensitive core, and you drawl a throaty moan, a jolt of pleasure-pain shooting through you. “So fucking sweet.”

You gasp, your arms trembling violently now, struggling to hold yourself up. The mix of reverence and filth in his act is dizzying. He’s worshiping and defiling you all at once, and your body, though exhausted, responds to his filthy devotion with a fresh, aching throb of need.

You hear the tear of another foil packet, his movements slightly slower, less efficient this time. The rustle as he sheathes himself again seems louder in the heavy, post-coital silence. Then his hands are on your hips, his grip firm, almost bruising, holding you in place. The broad, sheathed head of his cock nudges against your tender entrance, teasing, circling, smearing your wetness. The contact is electric, almost too intense.

“Tell me you want it,” he demands, his voice a low, evidently tired growl against your ear as he leans over you, covering your body with his. His chest is slick with sweat as it presses against your back.

“I want it,” you pant, the words a breathless struggle. You push your hips back against him, the movement feeling sluggish in your exhaustion, but the need is still there, persistent and insatiable. “Please, Seungcheol. I need it.”

“Beg for it,” he insists, nipping at the shell of your ear. “Tell me how much you need this cock.”

The vulgarity, the sheer nastiness of his words, sends a final, desperate jolt straight to your core. “I need it,” you whimper, your voice breaking with fatigue and want. “I need your cock. Please, fuck me. I need you to fuck me hard.”

With a grunt of approval that seems to come from the depths of his being, he pushes forward. There’s no slow easing this time, but the thrust is not as brutally swift as before. He drives into you in one long, steady motion, burying himself to the hilt in the deep, claiming angle only this position allows. The force of it is breathtaking, a choked cry ripped from your throat at the overwhelming fullness, the delicious stretch around him. You are so full, so thoroughly possessed.

“God, yes,” you moan, your head dropping between your shoulders, your spine arching.

He sets a punishing pace, but it is a tired pace still, the rhythm of it born of muscle memory and stubborn will rather than boundless energy. He pulls out almost completely before slamming back into you, each thrust a profound jolt that shakes your entire weary body. The sound is obscenely loud—the wet, sloppy slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings, his guttural, breathless groans, your high-pitched, overstimulated mewls. He leans back, his hands locked on your hips, using them as leverage to piston into you with a relentless, driving force that you feel is costing him as much as it is you.

“You take me so fucking good,” he rasps, his voice strained and hoarse with the effort. “So deep like this. Can you feel it? Can you feel how deep I am inside you?” Every word is pushed out on a labored breath.

“Y-yes!” you cry out, your fingers clutching weakly at the rumpled sheets, your body rocking helplessly with his movements. Each thrust hits a spot so deep and sensitive it borders on painful, a blinding pleasure that your exhausted system can barely process. “Right there! Oh god, don't stop!”

He doesn’t. His pace is unwavering, a testament to his stamina, but you can feel the fine tremor in his thighs where they press against yours with every slap of flesh against flesh, the sheen of new sweat on his skin. One hand leaves your hip and slides around your front, fingers finding your oversensitive, swollen clit. The touch is almost too much, and you jolt, arms giving out, a sob catching in your throat. He rubs rough, frantic circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts, the dual assault pushing your screaming nerves towards another shattering peak.

“You gonna come again?” he grunts, the question a breathless challenge. “Gonna come all over my cock while I fuck you like this? Do it. Cum for me. Now.”

The command, the relentless stimulation amidst the crushing fatigue—it’s too much. Your orgasm crashes over you, a violent, convulsing wave that is as much a release from tension as it is pleasure. You scream his name into the mattress, the sound muffled, your body bowing and shaking as your inner muscles clamp down on him, milking his length for what it’s worth. You feel him pulse inside you in response, a hard, sharp throb.

But he doesn’t stop. He rides out your climax, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic, chasing his own. The room is a cacophony of spent sex—your sobbing, exhausted breaths, his animalistic, tired grunts, the sopping sound of your cunt taking the pounding, the wet, rhythmic slapping that seems to grow louder and louder as you both lose the strength to care.

Bang. Bang. BANG.

A sudden, furious pounding on the wall from the adjacent room cuts through the noise. A muffled, angry shout follows. “Keep it down in there, for Christ’s sake! Some of us are trying to sleep!”

Seungcheol freezes, buried deep inside you. For a second, there is silence, save for both of you panting, chests heaving. You heave a breath of relief thinking you can finally put your frying nerve endings to rest. Then, a slow, wicked, breathless chuckle rumbles in his chest. He leans over you again, his lips at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

“Oops,” he whispers, his voice dripping with dark amusement. He gives a slow, deliberate, utterly exhausting roll of his hips, making you whimper. “We’re being too loud, princess.” He does it again, a lazy, deep thrust that feels like it reaches your soul because the moan that leaves you comes exactly from there. “Think we should be quieter?”

Before you can answer, he slams into you again, hard, a direct contradiction to his question. A broken, tired cry escapes you. He does it again. And again, and again, each thrust a monumental effort.

“Answer me, pretty,” he demands, punctuating each word with a sharp, deep, weary thrust. “Should we be quieter?”

“N-no!” you manage to sob, the last of your energy going into pushing back against him. “Don’t stop! Fuck me, please!”

He laughs, a low, vicious sound of pure, exhausted delight. “That’s my girl.” He covers your mouth with his hand, muffling your sounds. “Then I’ll do exactly what my sweet princess is asking of me. But you’ll have to be quiet for me. We don’t want anyone banging on our door next time, do we? So can you be quiet?” He sets a final, brutal, fast pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more focused, fueled by a last reserve of strength. The only sounds are the wet slap of flesh, the bed hammering against the wall, and his ragged, stifled breathing. You try to stifle your cries against his palm, your body trembling with the struggle of staying quiet under such an intense, final assault.

He’s relentless, driving into you with a single-minded focus. You feel the tension coiling in him, the telltale tightening of his fingers on your hip, the way his whole body strains. With a final, gut-deep groan that he stifles against your shoulder, he pours himself into you, his body shuddering violently with the force of his release, a complete and total expenditure.

Seungcheol collapses over you, both of you spent, slick with sweat, and utterly demolished. His weight is a crushing, comforting pressure. He is heavy, boneless, and so are you. He removes his hand from your mouth, replacing it with his lips as soon as you turn your head to the side, kissing your shoulder blade softly, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your skin.

After a long moment, he carefully, slowly, with obvious effort, pulls out and disposes of the condom. He returns a moment later with a damp, cool towel, moving with a weary tenderness. He gently cleans between your thighs, the act starkly contrasting the animalistic way he just fucked you. He helps you turn over onto your back. Your legs feel like they don't belong to you, your entire body humming with a deep, sated, absolute exhaustion.

But the look in his eyes, as he kneels on the bed between your legs, is still dark with hunger, though it’s now blurred by fatigue. His cock is already half-hard again, a testament to his insane stamina, thick and heavy against his thigh. The sight sends a fresh, aching throb through your oversensitive core, a pulse of pure need that feels separate from your body’s desperate plea for rest. It is daunting. The thought of moving, of taking control of your body once again, feels like an impossible task.

“Your turn on top,” he says, his voice a hoarse, broken scrape. He lies back against the pillows with a heavy sigh, his hands going behind his head, putting himself on display for you. He is a magnificent feast for the eyes—all hard muscle, dark trail of hair leading and bushing around his cock, and rampant, male hunger—but you can see the weariness in the lines of his face, the slow rise and fall of his chest. “Ride me. I want to watch your pretty tits while you bounce on my cock, wanna see you come undone.”

The command is irresistible, but your body screams in protest. A soft, pathetic whimper escapes you. “Seungcheol... I’m so tired,” you breathe, the admission feeling both vulnerable and necessary. When you made a decision to follow your little stranger sex fantasy you didn’t think it would turn into this multiple round thing of your pussy getting absolutely destroyed. You thought that you’d get one decent round at best and go back to your room. And now here you are, your muscles feel like water, your core aches with a pleasant but deep soreness. “I don’t know if I can.”

His expression softens a fraction, the intense hunger in his eyes shifting into something more patient, more coaxing. He reaches out, his hand finding yours, lacing your fingers together. His grip is strong, but his skin is warm, comforting. “I know, baby. I know you are. I am too.” The pet name makes something in your chest squeeze tightly. He brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “But just for a little while. Just show me. Let me see you. You don’t have to do all the work.” His thumb strokes your palm. “Come here.”

His gentleness undoes you. It coaxes a second wind from somewhere deep within your spent reserves. You nod, a slow, hesitant movement. Crawling over him is a monumental effort. Every muscle protests. You straddle his hips, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his powerful thighs. Your hands splay across the hard, sweaty planes of his chest for balance, and you feel the frantic, tired beat of his heart beneath your palm. He guides himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, dark and demanding but also incredibly patient.

You sink down onto him slowly, achingly slowly, taking him inch by exquisite, overwhelming inch. A low, mutual moan of effort and pleasure escapes you both at the feeling of being filled and enveloped so completely this way. Once he’s fully sheathed, you pause, your body trembling from the strain of holding the position, adjusting to the deep, stretching fullness that is now a familiar, welcome ache. If this is going to be just a resort fling, you think, it’s going to be the one you’ll remember for the rest of your life and brag about to all of your friends until they are sick of hearing the story.

His hands come to rest on your hips, his thumbs drawing slow, soothing circles on your skin. “Move,” he commands, but his voice is now a rough, encouraging whisper. “Just a little. Show me how much you like it.”

You begin to move, a slow, hesitant, rolling grind of your hips. It’s not the energetic bounce of fantasy; it’s a tired, sensual undulation. The angle is different, allowing you to control the depth, the friction. You rise up with a shaky, trembling effort until just the tip remains inside you, then sink back down, taking him all the way with a heavy, satisfying sigh. His eyes flutter closed for a second, a low, appreciative groan rumbling in his chest. Then his hands come up to fondle with your breasts, massaging the undersides, rolling and lightly tugging on your pebbled nipples, and making you moan louder than you should. You throw your head back, eyes rolling into your skull from pleasure.

“Eyes on me, pretty,” he grits out when he notices you’re not looking at him. It makes you snap your head back and meet his gaze only to find it burning with intensity that belies his exhaustion. “I want to see your face when you cum.”

You try to increase your pace, but it’s a feeble, bouncing motion, your thighs burning with the effort. Your hands brace on his chest, your nails digging into his skin for purchase. The sounds are different now—softer, wetter, the slick, tired sound of your bodies joining over and over, mixed with your breathy, exhausted moans and his gruff, whispered encouragements.

“Yeah, just like that,” he groans, his own hips lifting slightly to meet your downward strokes, taking some of the burden from your weary muscles. His hands tighten on your hips, helping you move, guiding you onto him. “Fuck, you look so good on my cock. So fucking perfect.”

You feel another orgasm building, a slow, deep coiling in your belly, different from the sharp, frantic peaks before. This one is a slow, rising tide, built on exhaustion and overstimulation and the profound intimacy of his unwavering gaze. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of something vast and warm. He sees it on your face, in the way your movements become even more languid, more focused.

“Play with your clit,” he orders, his voice tight but soft. “Make yourself cum. I want to watch you fall apart.”

You obey, one hand sliding between your bodies with a tired sigh, your fingers finding your swollen, hypersensitive bud. The touch is almost too much, but it’s the final key. With a soft, broken cry, you shatter, a slow, deep, rolling orgasm that feels like it drains the very last dregs of your energy. Your inner muscles clench around him in slow, rhythmic pulses, your body slumping forward onto his chest as you ride out the long, gentle waves of pleasure that draws an orgasm from him as well and you feel his cum fill you in rapid bursts. But you’re too fucked out to care that he just came inside you without a condom. You’re on a pill anyways.

He holds you through it, his arms wrapping around you, his hips still moving in tiny, gentle circles, prolonging the sensation. When the last tremor subsides, leaving you completely boneless, he gently rolls you over onto your side, slipping out of you. He spoons behind you, pulling you tight against his chest, both of you slick and trembling and utterly spent. He nuzzles into your hair, his breathing slowly evening out.

“You're incredible,” he breathes, the words slurred with impending sleep. He holds you tighter, a full-body embrace that feels like both a claim and a shelter. One hand rests possessively on your hip. “Round three... after a nap,” he mumbles, his voice fading.

You don’t know how long you sleep. It’s a deep, black, dreamless void, a complete systems shutdown for your utterly spent body and mind. Consciousness returns not with a jolt, but as a slow, warm tide. The first thing you’re aware of is the weight. A heavy, solid arm draped across your waist, anchoring you to the bed. The second is the heat. The press of a powerful, sweat-damp chest against your back, the solid line of his body curled around yours, fitting against you like a second skin. The third is the soft, even puff of his breath against the nape of your neck.

You are still exhausted, a deep, cellular weariness that makes the idea of moving seem impossible. But beneath that, something else is stirring. A low, familiar hum of awareness. The scent of him—sex, sweat, skin—is everywhere, intoxicating even in your semi-conscious state. The memory of what you did, what he did to you, plays in a hazy loop behind your eyelids.

You shift slightly, a tiny, experimental movement, and a soft, contented sound rumbles in his chest behind you, much like a purr. His arm tightens around you, pulling you infinitesimally closer. His hips press forward, and you feel him, thick and already half-hard again, nestled against the curve of your backside. A fresh, aching throb answers deep in your own core, a pulse of pure need that feels separate from your body’s fatigue. It’s a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished.

He stirs, his lips brushing your shoulder blade. “You awake?” His voice is gravelly with sleep, deeper and even more rough than before.

“Barely,” you murmur, your own voice a sleep-rasped whisper. You turn in his arms, a slow, languid movement that feels like swimming through honey. Facing him, you see his eyes are half-lidded, dark pools in the dim room. The intensity is still there, but it’s softened by sleep, by unguarded tenderness. He looks younger and gentler like this, and the sight makes your chest ache. Not that he looks particularly rough any other time you can recall seeing him around the resort. But there’s something special about the fact that he’s so comfortable with showing his softer, vulnerable side to a practical stranger. And that it happened to be you.

His hand comes up, his knuckles brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. The touch is infinitely gentle. “Feel okay?”

You nod, nuzzling into his touch. “Sore,” you admit quietly. “In the best way.”

A slow, sleepy smirk touches his lips. “Good.” His thumb traces the line of your bottom lip. His gaze drops to your mouth, and the air in the room shifts, thickening once more. The tenderness is still there, but it’s being rapidly overtaken by a renewed, hungry focus. The sight of his eyes darkening, the feel of him hardening fully against your thigh, banishes the last vestiges of your sleepiness, replacing it with a different kind of heaviness—a liquid, anticipatory warmth.

The idea, the want, forms fully in your mind. You want to taste him. You want to swallow his sleep-rough groans. You want to prove your own hunger can match his, even now.

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly push against his chest. He lets himself be guided onto his back, his head sinking into the pillow, his eyes watching you with curious, dark intensity. The sheet pools around his hips, putting his magnificent body on display once more—the hard planes of his stomach, the thatch of dark curls, his cock standing thick and eager against his belly.

You move down the bed, positioning yourself between his powerful, spread thighs. The perspective is new, intimidating. He is so much larger than you like this, all muscle and male power laid out before you. You can see the faint tremors of fatigue still in his quadriceps, the slow, deep rise and fall of his chest.

You look up at him, meeting his heated gaze. His expression is a mix of awe and stark, ravenous hunger. He has given so much, taken so much. Now, you will take this.

“My turn,” you whisper, your voice stronger now, laced with a newfound, brazen intent.

A sharp, approving groan escapes him. “Fuck yes,” he breathes, his hands coming up to rest behind his head again, surrendering to your control, his biceps flexing with the movement.

You don’t start slow. You’re both past slow. You lean forward and take the broad, velvety head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the flared crown, tasting the distinct, musky, sleep-warm flavor of him. He jerks beneath you, a guttural, broken “Fuck!” bursting from his lips, the sound raw and startled.

Emboldened, you sink down, taking as much of him as you can. He’s big, stretching your jaw, the thick length hitting the back of your throat. You gag instantly, a reflexive, convulsive choke, tears springing to your eyes. You pull back, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting your lips to him.

“Easy, princess,” he rasps, his voice strained with concern, though his hands remain fisted behind his head, not on you, giving you control. His entire body is tensed, a statue of held-back need.

You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your eyes burning. “Don’t be easy,” you gasp, your voice hoarse with the effort, with desire. You look him dead in the eye, your own vision blurred with unshed tears. “Use me. Use my mouth. I want you to fuck my throat. Use me to your heart’s content.”

Your words are the final key to his restraint. A raw, animalistic sound tears from him, something between a groan and a growl. His hands leave his hair and gently, but with undeniable firmness, tangle in yours. “You’re sure?” he grunts, every muscle in his body taut and quivering with the Herculean effort of holding back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The concern, amidst the filth of what you’re asking for, unravels you. “Please,” you beg, holding his shaft with one hand and trailing kisses and broad licks along the underside of him. “I want it. I want to feel you lose control. I want all of it.”

That’s all the permission he needs. His control shatters. He guides you back onto his cock, not forcing, but leading, feeding himself into your willing mouth. This time, when you gag, he doesn’t pull back. He holds you there, his hands a steady, gentle pressure in your hair, letting you adjust to the overwhelming feeling of him stretching your throat, the primal panic of choking on it. Tears stream freely down your cheeks, dripping onto his thighs. The sensation is a dizzying mix of slight suffocation and intense, dirty arousal, a complete surrender. You think you can cum from just that.

He begins to move, a slow, shallow, experimental thrust of his hips. The sounds are obscene—wet, gagging, choked breaths from you, his ragged, praise-filled groans from above. “God, your mouth,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked, awe-struck. "So warm, so good. So fucking good for me. Taking me so deep.”

He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, more rhythmic, building a filthy, wet cadence. You relax your throat, giving yourself over to him completely, letting him use you for his pleasure. Your own hands move between your own legs, fingers frantically circling your oversensitive, swollen clit, the degradation and the sheer intimacy of the act pushing you towards another shocking, dry peak. Your body bows, a silent scream caught in your throat around his length as your muscles clench around him.

He’s lost in it, his head thrown back against the pillows, the cords of his neck standing out in stark relief. His abs are clenched, his hips moving with a piston-like rhythm that is both brutal and perfectly controlled. “I’m close,” he warns, his voice a strangled, broken thing. “So close. Gonna cum down that pretty throat. Gonna fill you up.”

You redouble your efforts, taking him all the way, your nose pressed into the coarse curls at his base. You hum around him, the vibration wringing a shattered shout from him.

With a final, powerful thrust, he holds himself deep, and you feel his release pulsing hot and bitter down your constricted throat. You swallow convulsively, again and again, taking everything he gives you, until he’s utterly spent, his body going completely limp, a profound shudder wracking his frame.

He gently, carefully, pulls you off, his cock slipping from your bruised lips with a soft, wet pop. You collapse forward, your forehead resting on his muscular thigh, gasping for ragged, grateful lungfuls of air. Your face is a mess of tears, saliva, and him. You are wrecked.

In an instant he is moving. He gathers you into his arms immediately, pulling you against his heaving, sweat-slick chest. He doesn't seem to care about the mess. He presses kisses to your hair, your forehead, your tear-stained, salty cheeks, murmuring soft, incoherent praises into your skin. His own voice trembling, his heart hammering a wild, slowing rhythm against your ear. He holds you tighter, his embrace fierce and protective. “You okay? Talk to me. Was that too much?” The vulnerability in his question is stark.

You shake your head, nuzzling into the warm skin of his neck, your arms wrapping around his broad back. You feel hollowed out, purified, and completely his. “It was perfect,” you murmur, your voice raw and abraded. “You’re perfect.”

He laughs softly, a sound of pure, sated, astonished wonder. “You’re crazy,” he states and it’s filled with so much affection your heart squeezes tightly. He scoops you up effortlessly, manhandling you to stay tucked to his side and pulls the tangled sheets over both of you. He spoons around you again, his body a solid, warm fortress against your back. His hand rests over your heart, feeling its slowing beat.

“Sleep,” he commands, his lips whispering against your shoulder, then briefly reaches out to turn off the nightstand light. This time, it is a gentle order. “I’ve got you.”

You smile in the darkness, your body humming with a deep, sated, absolute contentment. You are already halfway to oblivion, safe in the circle of his arms. “Sure, try and stop me,” you whisper, but the words are a dream, lost to the deep and well-earned peace that claims you both.

The peace of sleep is a shallow pool this time, and you both drift in and out of its warm edges. True, deep rest feels like a distant country, unreachable from the heightened, sex-saturated plane you now inhabit. His arm is still a heavy, welcome weight across your waist, his body a furnace at your back. You float in a hazy limbo, aware of the dull, pleasant ache between your legs, the salt-and-sex scent on the sheets, the steady, strong beat of his heart against your spine.

You shift, a minute adjustment, and his hold tightens instinctively. A low, sleep-blurred sound vibrates against your back. His hips press forward, and the hard, insistent girth of him, already half-ready again, nestles more firmly against the curve of your backside. A soft, answering throb of need pulses deep within you, a quiet but persistent echo of the chaos that came before. It’s a want that doesn’t require acrobatics or screaming passion. It’s a simple, profound need for closeness, for the feeling of him inside you, even if you’re both too wrecked to move.

You press back against him, a slow, languid roll of your hips that is more suggestion than motion. It’s all the language either of you has energy for

He understands. A hum of approval rumbles in his chest. His hand, which had been splayed possessively on your stomach, drifts down. His fingers are warm and slightly rough as they slide down to your entrance, finding you still slick, still swollen and impossibly sensitive from earlier. You gasp softly at the contact, your body arching back into his.

“Still so wet,” he murmurs, his voice thick and blurred with sleep, the words mumbled into the nape of your neck. “Even now. Even after all that.” His touch is not seeking to incite a frenzy, but to confirm a connection. One thick finger slides into you with an effortless ease that makes you whimper. It’s not a thrust, but a presence, a gentle claiming. “This still mine?”

“Yours,” you breathe out, the word a sigh.

He withdraws his finger, and you hear the soft, fumbling rustle of another foil packet. His movements are slow, clumsy with exhaustion. The tear of the packet is loud in the quiet room. He sheathes himself with a tired, unrushed motion. Then his arm is back around you, pulling you tight against him. He guides himself to your entrance, the broad head nudging against you, and with a single, slow, rolling thrust of his hips, he sinks into you from behind.

You both let out a simultaneous, shuddering groan. It’s not a sound of frantic passion anymore, but of deep, profound relief. The feeling of him filling you this way, in the spooning position, is incredibly intimate. It’s lazy and deep, a connection that requires almost no effort. He doesn’t move immediately, just stays buried to the hilt, his body molded to yours, his breath warm on your shoulder.

“Okay?” he slurs, his lips moving against your skin.

“More than okay,” you whisper, pushing back against him, wanting to feel him even deeper.

He begins to move, but it’s nothing like before. There is no pounding rhythm, no frantic slapping of skin. His thrusts are slow, deep, and languid, a gentle rocking of his hips that rocks your entire body with it. It’s a lazy, luxurious fuck, all about the sensation of fullness and connection rather than the frantic race towards a finish line. The sounds are soft: the wet, slick slide of your joined bodies, his deep, quiet groans, your breathy sighs. His hand slides up to cup your breast, his thumb idly circling your nipple, not to tease it to a peak, but simply to hold you, to feel you.

It’s nasty in its own way—the sheer familiarity and repetitiveness of it by now, the way he can be buried inside you with such casual, sleepy possessiveness after just several rounds spent together. It’s filthy in its tenderness. You feel yourself coiling slowly, a warm, lazy build of pleasure that spreads through your exhausted limbs like honey. There are no screams, no commands. Just the slow, inexorable climb, fed by each deep, rolling stroke.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a sleep-rough vibration against your back. “Let go. Just let it happen.”

His words, so soft and encouraging, are your undoing. Your orgasm washes over you not as a crashing wave, but as a warm, rising tide. It’s a full-body shudder, a series of soft, internal flutters that milk his length, drawing a long, low groan from him. He follows you over, his own release a quiet, pulsing warmth deep inside you, his hips stuttering to a halt as he buries himself as deep as he can go.

For long minutes, you both lie there, still joined, breathing in ragged unison. The world has narrowed to this bed, to the feel of his chest rising and falling against your back, to the weight of his arm around you.

Eventually, with a soft sigh, he pulls out and deals with the condom yet again. You expect him to collapse back into sleep, but instead, you feel him shift and leave the bed. You make a small sound of protest at the loss of his heat, but he murmurs, “Shhh, baby, I’ve got you.”

He returns a moment later with a fresh, warm, damp towel. This, somehow, feels more intimate than anything else that has happened. Gently, with a tenderness that makes your throat tight, he cleans you. He wipes your mixed releases between your thighs, over your stomach, the care in his touch so profound it borders on reverence. He is meticulous, wiping away the evidence of your shared pleasure with a focus that speaks to you of deep, inherent respect for the partner, be it one night stand or something committed. You just watch him and know it’s true.

Once he’s done, he drops the cloth aside and pulls the duvet over both of you. He gathers you back into his arms, facing him this time. His eyes are heavy-lidded with exhaustion, but they search yours in the dim light coming through the window. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek.

“You’re staying,” he says. It’s not a question, but there’s a vulnerability in his tone that asks for confirmation anyway.

“Yes,” you whisper, nuzzling into his palm. “If you’ll have me.”

A slow, tired, but genuine smile touches his lips. “Try and leave,” he jokes softly, but his eyes are serious. He takes a deep breath, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “And… all of that. Everything we did. It was… it was still good? For you? You tell me if anything ever isn’t. Even now. Even after.”

The question, coming after such raw, animalistic intimacy, after such tender aftercare, unravels you completely. A sob catches in your throat, not of sadness, but of overwhelming emotion. He’s checking in. After he’s owned every part of you, after you’ve begged him to use your throat, he is still ensuring your consent, your comfort. It is the most heartwarming, devastatingly caring thing anyone has ever done.

“Seungcheol,” you breathe, your eyes welling up. “It was perfect. Everything was perfect. You’re perfect.”

He lets out a breath, as if he’d been holding it—and you suppose he was,—and pulls you tightly against him, tucking your head under his chin. He holds you like that for a long time, just breathing you in, his hands making slow, soothing circles on your back.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs finally, his own voice already getting heavier with drowsiness. “Proper sleep this time.”

You nod against his chest, snuggling into his solid warmth. Just as you’re drifting off, on the very edge of consciousness, his voice rumbles again, a low, sleep-slurred promise.

“Gonna make you cum over breakfast,” he mumbles, his words barely intelligible. “While you eat your fruit. My fingers inside you… gonna be so lazy and good… and then take you on a proper date.”

The filthy, tender promise hangs in the air, a final gift before sleep claims him entirely. A slow smile spreads across your face in the dark. You are staying the night. Of course you are. And the morning, you know with absolute certainty, will be just as perfect.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this!

A/N2: this fucking text took me ALL FKING DAY to read through and edit and I’m tired and it’s late where I am and I hope to go to bed asap. My brain is officially fried and frayed and everything else, I can’t comprehend words anymore to save my life or whatever they say in this case. Even with the volume of it I don’t think it’s the filthiest thing I could’ve produced but I think it’s nasty enough for the first huge thirst trap that this is. Also I can’t write Seungcheol without attaching strings in the end, I just can’t. It’s unfathomable to imagine letting go of such man after THIS! Anyways hope you liked reading this monstrosity ᐢ ᴗ . ᴗ ᐢ

wc: 12,1k

notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷

part ii. epilogue

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss

osaka, japan — summer, 1995.

the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.

at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.

he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.

his rise had been swift and ruthless.

they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.

but fear didn’t keep the police away.

by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.

the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.

“get married,” takuya said.

his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”

yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”

takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”

“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”

but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”

he hated how logical it sounded.

it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.

he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”

yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.

but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.

he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.

the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.

“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”

people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.

hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”

you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”

he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.

“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”

you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.

“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”

no one dares to breathe.

fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.

the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.

by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.

he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.

you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.

so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.

you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.

but that night changed everything.

you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?

the knock at your door startled you.

sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.

you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.

riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.

“we need to talk,” he said.

your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.

“what did you do?”

“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”

you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.

“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”

you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”

“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”

your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.

you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.

and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.

not this time.

the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.

takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.

“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”

yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.

he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.

“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”

before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.

“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”

he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.

takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.

“where did you get these?” he asked.

“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”

yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.

his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.

“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.

riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”

“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.

takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.

“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”

yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.

“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.

“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”

yuta tilted his head slightly.

“opportunity,” he repeated.

there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.

outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.

finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.

“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”

he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.

“and tell her to wear white.”

takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.

as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.

he smiled — slow, dangerous.

“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.

the car wasn’t riku’s.

you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.

you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.

“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”

he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.

“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.

“you sound like someone in trouble.”

he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.

the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.

“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.

you shook your head. “no. who are they?”

he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.

“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”

“you’re talking about the mafia.”

“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”

you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.

he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.

the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.

your stomach tightened.

you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.

riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.

“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”

you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”

quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.

especially not him.

your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.

riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.

you blinked. “riku—”

he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.

“kneel,” he whispered.

your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.

the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.

riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”

a pause.

then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.

“enter.”

the doors slid open.

and there he was.

seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.

he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.

he just looked at you.

like you were something being weighed.

and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.

something shift.

like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.

the room was quiet.

no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.

he hadn’t said anything.

yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.

he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.

like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.

and right now, his eyes were on you.

you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.

your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.

and yuta noticed.

his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.

you swallowed hard.

“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”

you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.

“stand,” yuta said.

your breath caught.

he wasn’t talking to riku.

you.

he meant you.

with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.

yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.

when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.

interest.

“turn around,” he said.

your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.

you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.

then:

“enough.”

you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.

“how old are you?” he asked.

“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.

his gaze narrowed slightly.

“virgin?”

your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.

you didn’t answer.

yuta arched a brow.

“i asked you a question.”

you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“yes.”

a pause.

yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.

“good,” he murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant.

but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.

“leave us,” he said.

just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.

“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.

riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.

and now you were alone.

alone with nakamoto yuta.

his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.

“come closer,” he said.

and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.

as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.

you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.

he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t apologize either.

he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.

“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”

your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”

“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.

the words hit you like a slap.

you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”

“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”

you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.

like you were already part of the machine.

“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”

you almost flinched again. almost.

he noticed.

“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”

you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.

you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.

“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”

you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”

his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.

“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”

you stared at him.

“you want to marry me.”

“i need to,” he corrected.

“and you expect me to just—”

before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.

“enter,” yuta called.

the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.

“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”

takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.

“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”

you swallowed.

takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”

he looked you in the eye now.

“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”

your heart skipped a beat.

“you want me to marry him?”

yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.

“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”

your breath caught.

“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”

you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.

your cheeks burned.

“and what do i get?”

“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”

his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”

you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.

you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.

“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”

he finally spoke again.

“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”

you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.

but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.

you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.

you crossed your arms.

“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”

yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.

“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”

you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”

he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.

“both.”

you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.

“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”

he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.

“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”

your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.

“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”

“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”

you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.

he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.

he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.

“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”

your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.

“wear white again.”

“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.

he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.

“good. you’re learning.”

you didn't sleep the night before.

not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.

riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.

“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”

you pulled the zipper down.

the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.

“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”

“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”

you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.

you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta

you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.

the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.

your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.

you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.

the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.

you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.

he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.

only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.

“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”

the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.

when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.

you turned.

you placed a hand on his chest.

and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.

he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.

the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.

you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”

you didn’t answer.

but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.

the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.

the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.

you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.

the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.

then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.

you hated that your skin remembered it.

later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.

he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.

“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”

you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”

he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”

you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”

he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.

“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”

that startled you more than anything.

“…seriously?”

“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.

you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.

after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.

“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”

you looked up at him, surprised.

“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.

his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”

you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.

“…thanks,” you muttered.

he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”

you snorted. “damn right they did.”

he left without another word.

you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.

and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.

it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.

slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.

you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.

“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”

you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”

he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”

of course he is.

you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.

you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.

yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.

you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.

“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”

he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.

“go ahead.”

you paused. “can i have privacy?”

that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.

as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.

you dialed. it rang twice.

“y/n?”

his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”

you bit your lip. “…i got married.”

silence.

then—

“WHAT?”

you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.

“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”

you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”

“but—why?!”

you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”

he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”

you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”

his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”

you didn’t answer that.

instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”

after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.

then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”

the door slid open slowly.

yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.

his voice was lower this time. unreadable.

“who’s hitoshi?”

you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”

his jaw tightened. “just answer.”

“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”

“you seemed close.”

“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”

he stared at you a moment longer.

and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,

“…you look like you were made for this.”

you didn’t reply.

but you didn’t look away either.

you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.

yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.

you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.

“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.

you only nodded.

the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.

not really.

yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.

you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.

“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.

yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.

“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”

yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.

takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”

yuta’s jaw flexed.

“it’s not that.”

“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”

“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”

takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”

the car pulled away.

inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.

“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.

“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”

the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.

hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.

his expression was pure disbelief.

you sat down without a word.

“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”

“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”

“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”

you met his gaze evenly.

“i’m safe.”

he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”

“hitoshi—”

“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”

your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”

his face froze.

you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”

he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.

he sat back.

“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”

you smiled faintly.

“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”

he watched you for a long moment.

“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“i do.”

he nodded.

then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”

you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.

when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.

yuta was waiting when you arrived.

he didn’t speak right away.

but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.

“how was it?” he asked at last.

“expected,” you said.

he didn’t respond.

so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.

“don’t look at me like that.”

his brow lifted. “like what?”

“like you think he’s more than what he is.”

“and what is he?”

you tilted your chin.

“not your problem.”

the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.

he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.

“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”

you met his eyes without flinching.

“then act like it.”

you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.

he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.

the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.

“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.

you nodded. “always.”

it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.

“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.

you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”

he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.

that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.

you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.

a screech of tires shattered the silence.

your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.

“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.

you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”

his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.

“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.

“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.

“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.

you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”

his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.

“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.

you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”

minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”

you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”

your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”

he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”

they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.

you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.

but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.

“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”

you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”

he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”

just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.

“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”

your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.

takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.

your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.

the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.

the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.

when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.

“you don’t fucking listen.”

“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”

he hesitated.

“where is he?” you demanded.

after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.

room 304.

you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.

he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.

“you’re here.”

“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”

his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”

you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.

“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”

he hummed. “i figured.”

you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.

“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t.”

“you’re not invincible, yuta.”

his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”

“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”

he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”

you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”

a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.

“come here.”

you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.

“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.

“your blood.”

he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”

his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.

“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.

“i’m not,” you lied.

he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”

you didn’t deny it.

then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”

it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.

you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”

his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”

and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.

his lips brushed your forehead.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”

the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.

you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.

you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.

on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.

“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”

you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.

“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”

you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”

the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.

it was absurd.

and yet you killed it.

even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.

but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.

isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?

she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...

you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.

when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.

“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.

“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”

you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”

by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.

no one stopped you. they knew you by now.

room 304.

you entered without knocking.

yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.

“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.

you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”

he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”

you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”

“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”

“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”

he smirked. “should’ve been there.”

you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”

you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.

“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.

“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”

he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.

“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”

“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.

you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”

he raised an eyebrow.

you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.

“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”

he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.

“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”

“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.

“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”

you felt something catch in your chest.

“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”

he swallowed. “i know.”

you reached for his hand. he let you.

“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.

“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”

“it was.”

he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.

“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”

you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.

“how did i look at you?” you asked.

“like i was worth saving.”

you swallowed hard.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.

“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”

you didn’t reply.

you didn’t need to.

you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.

he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.

the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.

the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.

“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.

one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”

yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.

you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.

you didn’t say anything. neither did he.

you didn’t have to.

he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.

the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.

later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.

“you’re hovering again,” he muttered, chopping scallions. “what, worried i’ll poison him?”

“i just want it done right.”

“it is done right.”

“then let me take it.”

“you don’t need to—”

“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”

he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”

“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.

on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.

the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.

“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”

their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.

inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.

when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.

“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”

you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”

“but i like this version of you.”

“the barefoot maid version?”

“the worried wife version.”

you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”

he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”

you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.

“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.

you looked over. “really?”

“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”

your voice softened. “was she strict?”

he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”

“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.

he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”

“where did she go?”

“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”

you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.

“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”

“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”

he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”

you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.

you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”

he didn’t flinch.

“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”

you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”

he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”

you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.

you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”

“you could stay.”

you looked over your shoulder.

he wasn’t smiling now.

just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.

“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”

you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.

he didn’t move it.

neither did you.

you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.

you didn’t dare give it a name.

★ In disguise By @tqmies 13k, Jungwoo x reader (x Doyoung x Yuta), college au, roommates, camboys, romantic Jungwoo & reader, foursome, smut, fluff, friends Mark & Haechan

★ Fuck the police By @loudstan Magic au, werewolf Yuta, police officer reader, reader can read minds, smut, slight fluff, imprinting, slight angst

★ Missing pieces By @woozten-x 18.8k, non-idol au, model Yuta, cafe worker reader, Shotaro is reader's brother, model Shotaro, living down the hall from another, homesickness, fluff, slight angst, comfort, teasing, jealousy

★ Hard to fake [part 1], [part 2], & [part 3] By @irregular-idol-imagines 1.7k & 1.5k & 1.9k, non-specified au, Yuta is a friend's roommate, creepy dates, help getting rid of a creep, fluff, suggestive & sexual nature, awkwardness, dirty talk, making out, phone sex

★ Kitchen flirt By @irregular-idol-imagines 600+, roommates to lovers?, humour, asking for outfit checks, making out, flirting, suggestive nature

★ One of the Girls [part 1] & [part 2] By @irregular-idol-imagines 1.7k & 1.4k, friends to lovers?, fluff, insecure & toxic date, verbal conflicts, stereotypes, drinking together, discussions of relationships & dynamics, "girls night", suggestive nature

★ Highway to heaven & Runaway with me By @justwritedreams 2.1k & 2.2k, college au, established feelings kind of, making out, suggestive nature, slight fluff, parties, friends NCT 127, beach holidays together with friends

★ Rum, eggnog and an accidental confession By @neonun-au 4.2k, holiday au, fake dating to get family pressures of your back, Christmas time, accidental confessions, fluff, pining, past university partners

★ Surprise By @jungcherie 10k, boss Yuta, secretary reader, parenthood au, abandoned child, mentions of them being Yuta's biological son, angst, slight fluff, friend Mark

★ Love me now By @kpophours 7.3k, non-idol au, tattoo artist and piercer Yuta, old college friends, past crushes, fluff, suggestiveness, slight angst, idiots friends to lovers, mutual pining

★ Fuchsia coloured sunglasses By @whereisten 28.5k, rockstar!Yuta, makeup artist reader, soulmate au, fluff, angst, some smut, different dimensions, comedy

★ Delphinium By @taelme 12k, demi god au, Hades' son Yuta, Demeter's kid reader, angst, in depth discussions of grief, parental loss, hurt/comfort, some fluff, comfort from Yuta, slight strangers to lovers

★ Tattoos and tea By @bellalikeskitties 1.9k, flower shop owner reader, tattoo artist Yuta, edgy x sunshine dynamic, cute, reader wants a tattoo, spending time together, fluff

★ Just like me By @bellalikeskitties 1.6k, demon Yuta, immortal au, reader has a sick sister, making deals & selling your soul, God's blessing, mentions of Doyoung

★ Cologne By @jaelvr 3.5k, college au, enemies to lovers, mutual feelings, Jonny is reader's brother, brother's best friend trope, fluff, angst, mutual feelings

★ Just between us [part 1] & [part 2] By @mrkis 9.2k & 14.4k, established relationship between Yuta & reader, inviting Mark to join them, smut, mentions of Winwin being included in their dynamic, slight fluff, teasing, discussions of the rest of NCT having crushes on reader

★ Train crush By @planetkiimchi 4k, strangers to lovers, meet cutes, non-specified au, red-haired Yuta, train crushes, asking one another out, fluff, cuties

★ Sweet deception By @neowinestainedress 19.5k, Haechan|Yuta|Jaehyun|Jaemin|Johnny|Jeno x reader, halloween party, smut, monsterfucking, demon Haechan, fairy Jaemin, incusub Jeno, tentacle monster Yuta, ghost Jaehyun, shadow Johhny, smut, plot twist

★ [1:24am] By @gyeomsweetgyeom Drabble, best friends to lovers, Yuta & reader have a habit of making out while drunk, frat NCT, other 127 members mentioned, pining, fluff, slight suggestiveness, mentions of weed

★ Limo By @springseasonie 1.5k, Yuta x reader x Doyoung, established relationship, polyamorous, smut, driving in a limo, high fashion event, sexual content, semi public sex

3. 1095 days — @luvyeni (s)

EX INMATE CHAN RAHHHHH!! i have akshewally been following ur work for so long n i LOVE!! the way u write :3 thank u for always churning out ur work so fast n being so good at what u do. im obv a sucker for daddy kink considering i eat it up every time n it's so fucking good i love how chan cares for mc n the way he gives it to her once he's back. mark my words i will EAT this man up n this fic whenever i stumble across it

4. milk and honey — @straykeedz (s, f, a?)

user straykeedz u have to stop... ur work too addicting n perfect.. ur depiction of chan too real n crazy (/pos)... they're gonna get u... but seriously i love bffs2lovers so bad n the way u always characterise chan n make him call mc so many cute pet names melts my heart :( i've also been following U for a long time n even tho everything u write is so so soooo good, this has to be one of my faves alongside ur inexperienced chan fic. i hope u don't pressure urself too much to update n jus do what u have to do :D

5. my wife — @chrizzztopherbang (s, f)

ngl i Think this is my first fic from u cus i followed u bcs of it n that's a given honestly cus newly turned husband chan?? eating his wife out metres away from his friends n family on the other side of the door n fucking her within an inch of her life right after they're pronounced husband n wife?? i love it i loved their bickering over who's a pervert n i just love the idea of mc finally calling the love of her life hers forever. i hope they r always happy alongside u

6. sweet nothing — @frenchkisstheabyss (!!!, s, f, a)

this fic actually changed me as a person too not even kidding. i EAT UP exes to lovers n the portrayal of it was so good here bcs there's so much unspoken tension between the two n then chan begging mc to not leave again n her promising she won't bcs all she wants to do is be his at last?? AWOOGAAAAA i need him so bad it's jinja michin (i am so cringe sorry..) ANYWAYS!! i hope u know tattoo artist + ex bangchan is a crazy combo n that the makeup sex was HOT HOT HOT!!! plz keep writing i adore u <3

7. pick you up — @moonchild9350 (!!!, s)

see idk if this is tmi but sex where ure being picked up n fucked is downright nasty in the best possible way n i fear i need to get railed like that by chan so u writing abt is literally u making my fantasies come true. this fic was a delicious mix of cute w chan telling mc he only works out so he can pick her up (based off of his bbl texts obv) n hot w him Actually fucking her within an inch of her life. i love all ur work tee bee eich so keep doing what ur doing!!!

8. spring has sprung — @cbini (!!!, f, s)

miss ems where do i even begin with u.. (u probably Do Not Know me but i know u smirk emoji. soz that was weird erm but ya i am the binnie anon who said u deserve changbin LOLZ) this fic was the perfect mix of cuteness w raw passionate fucking i love the idea of chan getting hard bcs ur dressed so preciously in a pretty dress i think it's rooted somewhere in his slight corruption kink which comes out def when u r all dolled up for him. anyways u never miss n i hope u know that <3

9. walking in on rooomate!chan / pt. 2 — @kacciidubs (!!!, s, f)

going 2 be very honest here i do not even remember what happened in part 1 bcs part 2 of this roommate chan fic actually blew my mind away like Seriously user kacciidubs u r insane!!! all ur work never misses n i am always so eager whenever u post bcs i've been following u n loving everything u put out for so long. ofc ur chan work is my favourite as u can tell but this fic... this fic was crazy the switch between daddy n sir oh my god what if i cream my pants rn. plz never stop writing <3

10. last nerve / pt. 2 — @cb97percent (!!!, s)

user cb97percent let me just preface this by saying whatever u write is INSANE. like i already knew u were a great writer but this fic? changed me as a person not even joking rn. the way mc n chan banter n how chan's an asshole who is pissed off how he can't get it up anymore unless he fucks mc is so funny n how the raw passion between them results in the best sex Ever. n ofc the ending w minho took me out n Yea i just . i have no words plz never stop writing to u as well

11. hush — @petrichor-han (s)

sucker for exhibitionism n sucker for chan so what better way to comemorate this occasion than by reading abt it? this entire scenario was so hot like honestly i can totally imagine chan's bitchass doing this bcs he's so cheeky in nature he would lose himself from the thrill of almost getting caught. u r amazing as always thank u for churning out so much content for kinktober may god or whoever u believe in bless u with eternal inspiration

12. daddy!chan helping you shave — @hyunjins-orange-slice-too (!!!, s, f)

i sent u an ask already talking abt how much i love u n everything u write but THIS. this made me weak in the knees bcs i have imagined this very scenario so many times if im being brutally honest. there's smth so sweet n domestic abt the act of helping ur partner shave n with daddy chan in the mix? kill me now plz. the way he asks if he can play w mc once he's done n how he sternly instructs her to be safe like omgkjdfjhjdfgjhhjg need him in ways that give the pits of hell a run for its money w how hot n nasty im abt to be fr

13. one last time — @baby-yongbok (!!!, s, a?)

like i said, i am a sucker for the exes to lovers pipeline alongside husband chan so while this isn't Either of those things entirely it still scratches the itch in my brain very very well. the way mc n chan exchange snarky remarks n how chan only says he's satisfied once they're done fucking OHHHH MYYYYY GODDDD... need this man carnally like i would dump him just so he can fuck me the way he fucked mc in this fr (that is a lie we r locked in 4 life). u r brilliant as always i always look forward to ur work so next time u r questioning if this is worth it just know lovscb97 on tumblr has ur back fr

14. chan ask drabble #1 — @skzms (s)

maymay.. my eternal luvr... the genius behind smrsmf minsung... ofc u were bound to eat this up n end up on this list. idgaf if it's just an ask answer or drabble bcs the way u write is so . so Elegant. i love how u always use ur words to describe the emotion lingering between ppl in love n the way u do it here w chan n mc, the way he reassures her afterwards n how he promises her he'll give her everything later while fucking his fingers into her ohhhh mannnn.. i can just imagine him in his suit thank u for bringing the vision to life fr

15. you're right, baby — @chlorinecake (s, f)

soft dom chan who is ur fiancé fucking u n claiming u bcs he's a lil pouty that u forgot ur ring?? n then going so far to say he'll cum in u to make sure everyone knows who u belong to?? RAHHHHHH HE NEEDS ME!!! this was written so deliciously i loved the way mc n chan cared for each other n also the ending was so cute LOLZ hope they r happy in every universe n that their wedding goes great fr u r an awesome writer user chlorinecake

16. silence — @valkyriexo (s, a)

make up sex make up sex make up sex!!! i love it so good even tho it hurts so bad when mc realises chan forgot to show up :( but the fact that he makes it up to her by begging her to not leave him n making her cum as many times on his tongue as possible for her to forgive him?? INSANITY!! the longing in their eyes n words n actions from how much they've missed e/o when he finally touches mc n oh man.. u ate this up

17. corruption — @goquokka00 (s)

STEPBRO CHAN RAHHHHH i am a sucker for him (in more ways than one iygwim eheheh.. soz) i loved the sinister blackmail u added into the story n how he fucked mc bcs of her bad grades by making up some shit excuse abt learning how to please someone like y/n u can't be this dense girl!!! (i'd do it too if he asked me #Tbh) ANYWAYS. idk how this didn't have more notes bcs it was hot asfk i hope u keep writing more stuff to come :3

18. chef's kiss — @hyuniepies (s, f)

the tenderness of mc n chan's love mixed w the nasty dirty talk ohhhh hyuniepies u r a GENIUS!! this is exactly how i imagine domestic life w chan would be like; him coming back home to u cooking a dinner n then fucking u absolutely silly on the countertop bcs he just can't wait after getting a look at ur figure n bcs he's missed u so much. i too would be obsessed w bangchan if (read: when) he becomes my husband teehee

19. chan ask drabble #2 — @miupow (!!!, s)

USER MIUPOW UR FUCKING BRAIN!! HOW DO U CARRY SUCH A HUGE BRAIN IN UR HEAD!!! DOES UR BACK NOT HURT FROM HOLDING UP THE DELICIOUS IDEAS OF BCHAN SIZE KINK!!! like i told u yst i love ur writing n i love U so bad. u always eat w every request or idea u come up with n i absolutely adore that for u i hope u truly never stop writing bcs u have a serious gift n i hope ppl keep telling u that constantly bcs i sure as hell will <3

20. pretty mouth of yours — @jeongin-lvr (s, f)

need to give chan head like . Yesterday. but OHHHH MEINNNN GOTTTT fiancé channie w mc sucking him off so pretty u know exactly what im a sucker for u dont u user jeongin-lvr? ur writing is tooooooo good i swear i have read so much of ur work n granted this is one of my fave chan works from u icl i love the jeongin ones even more but i'll add those to my innie recs list later :3 ANYWAYS!! plz never stop writing u r awesomesauce (cringe.) n i love u hope u r having a great day today

21. daddy issues — @hwan-g (!!!, s, a)

HELLO THIS FUCKING FICCCCC... it is so good so delicious so fucking beautifully written that it brought tears to my eyes no joke. i still remember the first time i stumbled across it n like wow.. i think i dmed u on my side reading account too to express how much i liked it bcs i rly Did like it truly was a piece of art n sometimes i can't believe ppl like u just write stuff like this for free?? u should be getting paid good money bcs all ur work ALWAYS eats <3

22. closing the distance / pt. 2 — @thefantasyden (s, f)

ik long distance relationships r tough n it's awful when u can't spend time w each other physically or touch either but hear me out . it would Not suck w chan bcs he'd do everything for u the way he does everything for mc in this fic. from how he shows up n is too nervy to kiss her to them finally touching each other for the first time n then she moves back to him?? ohhhh man i love love n i love U for making this ur work always eats n trust that i'll always come back to this fic when i need to rmb how much i love chan

23. riding chan's thigh/knees — @faeryacha (!!!, s, f)

i love daddy chan so bad im sorry im not even gonna hide it anymore n i love the way he was written here too, from the way he asks if mc wants to play to the way he has her fuck herself on him to get herself off like i'm not even into little space like that but the minute he refers to himself as daddy n speaks to me all soft n protective im on my knees on the floor ready to suck him off like my life depends on it. u ate so bad w this plz continue doing more amazing work in the future!!!

24. steamy desires — @notsoangels (s)

shower sex w chan mngnghfhghgh.. need him so bad id let him fuck me anywhere as he pleases but in the shower?? w the hot water cascading over us w just us in our little world like omgomgomg NEED. i love the simplicity in ur writing too n how it paints a picture in my mind bcs i can vividly imagine all of this happening like him making u squirt on his cock n then rinsing u off so u can spend time wrapped up with each other on the bed like plz. One chance plz.

25. the fuckboy next door — @seospicybin (!!!, s, a)

miss seospicybin.. how do u always do it? how do u always come out w the most mindbreaking jawdropping amazing insane array of fics without even breaking a sweat like hello? this series is so fucking good from the smut to the angst that hurts so good. i love the development of the plot n that chan tries So hard to be true to mc so he can be w her n the way she tells him to do it for himself like :( they deserve each other sm i am very much looking forward to part 4!!!

26. pussydrunk chan — @aeliuss (s, f)

mngngngngjghgh i love pussydrunk chan so bad n i love the idea of him being so infatuated w mc that he just Had to drag her away n eat her out. i also love that he's there to support her in the end n how turned on he gets from her just being herself like that is a real man!!! n the way it's so reflective of how chan is irl too? i feel like this is how exactly how he'd behave— needy but so so soo in love with u too

27. kitty — @bandgie (!!!, s, f)

no joke this fic made my pussy throb. i need him 2 do this to him so bad bcs i need Him so bad. the way u wrote the subspace drop n how immersed mc was in her role n the way chan guides her thru everything n then the aftermath of it like hngnngnfgddjghjgh... i always have loved ur writing but this particular piece rly got to me along w ur kinktober series i hope u continue to do writing bcs u seriously so so SO good at it fr!!

28. angel eyes — @temptaetions (!!!, s, a)

this fic. this fucking FIC. bro this is actual evidence of the fact that literary geniuses exist bcs the way u wrote so beautifully not just the actual smut but the whole storyline?? u r a godsend fr like u should be getting paid to put out work of this degree. not only r u a PHENOMENAL writer but i hope u never stop writing bcs this was actually so so lovely n amazing to read i wish i could revisit the first time i read this T_T

29. just (fucking) friends? — @snowyquokka (s)

HELLOOOO i love possessive fwb chan almost as much as i love ur writing!! the way he's so annoyed at how she said they're just friends so he takes out his anger on her but then at the same time asks her what her color is to make sure she's still okay WOWZAAAA.. need him Bad. n in the end when they both agree they don't wanna be just friends like chan.. i don't want 2 be just friends either.. come 2 me plz... anyways very yummy work fr

30. american whiskey — @straywrds (!!!, s, a)

this fic... how do i even begin w this fic... the way u write is actually so . so otherwordly yk? u rly pour all ur passion into ur writing n the way u describe everything like every emotion every detail every feeling it's so raw n real that it touches my heart. i can Feel what each of the characters go thru n the SMUT... the smut is so so delicious ofc. i've read ur other work n u r such a good writer plz keep going with what u do i will always support u fr

31. free use w/ soft dom chris — @hwanghyunjinenthusiast (s, f)

the dirty talk in this.. hngnngkgjjdgjjh. i need free use w daddy!chan just as bad as i need to reread this fic ten times until it's ingrained in my brain n any telepath w the ability to read minds out there is disgusted by how many times i think abt it (idk what this analogy was i am sorry). the way he eats mc out n the way he fucks her omgfkjdgjhjhgjh NEED HIM RAHHHHH u did so well w this

32. play tight / pt. 4  — @roseykat (s, a)

squirting w chan squirting w chan SQUIRTING!! W CHAN!!! the way he makes mc do it once n then immediately goes "yea i need to feel that on my dick" n fucks her within an inch of her life like ohmygodjkdjhsfghj i did eat up the angst too but the way u wrote them fuckinig was so nasty n delicious I ENJOYED IT SM!! this entire series is such a good read even tho it's not chan centered idk if there r more parts to it but if there r plz link me to them!!

33. dream you — @charmercharm3r (s, f)

ok i know we r discussing smut n all n trust that i will get to that but THIS!! this was so cute n precious ohemgee the way he loves mc n takes care of her n banters w her at the start so lovingly is so so precious to me i want him so bad :( the smut was also very delicious w chan switching to hard dom mode n making mc suck him off before ravishing her like oh my god PLZZZZ FUCK ME PLZPLZPLZ u did so well on this plz continue writing more for me at the least <3

34. brat-taming w/ chan — @blurboki (s)

this damn drabble was so.. hngngjfjghjhdgjh. i want 2 be a brat to chan so bad n act out just so he'll snap n put me into my place which is exactly what u wrote n i LOVED IT!!! it's so short n simple (not a bad thing at all btw) yet it's so powerful too? i love the characterisation of chan cus i firmly believe this is how he'd act in bed w a fussy bratty s/o like wow. Just wow. i love u and ur delicious mind i hope u r having a great day just for this :3

35. tell me all about it.. — @chnsbm (s, f)

hngnfjhdfsjghgjh the idea of chan making u forget all about ur stress n playing with u to help u sleep is so gfjfjjjffjhgjhjh HOT!!! the way he lovingly reassures mc like u don't need to worry abt it now just let me take care of u n how he's such a fuckin TEASE!! w the way he's touching her is so so hot u ate w this idea n i will forever die on the hill that this is really smth chan would do— tease u n make u talk while he's doing ungodly things to u just to see u stutter over ur words

36. be that guy — @daizymax (!!!, s, a)

i have said it once i have said it twice n i will say it one more time bcs i don't care how many times i need to reiterate it needs to be said: EXES TO LOVERS W CHAN IS TOP TIER!!! the smut in this was so delicious but the LONGING chan had for mc.. the way he felt the twinge in his chest for letting her go oh man.. i'd take him back if he so even looked at me but maybe im just crazy. BUT ANYWAYS!! this is possibly one of the hottest chan smuts there ever is so thank U for this delicious gift fr

37. more than just friends — @kwanisms (!!!, s, f)

werewolf chan my luvr... my big strong baby who will knock me up w his knot n fuck me until the sun rises RAHHHHHHHH!!! this was so so SOOOOO good n yummy like from the way he pinned mc to the wall to the way he ordered her around n how his self restraint snapped the moment she called him daddy like why's that so Me behaviour HELPPPP anyways user kwanisms u fucking ATE w this i hope ur pillow is cold every night u go to sleep <3

38. connected — @j-0ne25 (s, f, a)

let me just start this by saying I FUCKING LOVE U USER J-0NE25!!! ur interactive stories esp megaverse r so fucking good how r u so bigbrained my dumbass could never like actually JSDHJFJHGJH. anyways i rmb reading this very vividly n oh boy.. "baby patience, or do you need me to teach you a lesson?" Brother my panties r drenched n off dont even start w me rn. anyways this was so so delicious plz never stop writing i beg u

39. chan ask drabble #3 — @hyungszn (!!!, s, f)

saved the best for last but CLOVER.. (u dk me but i am ur biggest fan hai :3) "your mouth is saying no but your body is telling me a different story, mrs. bang." GRRRHJDJSDFJHKJSFKJSFKJGJ... I NEED HIM SOO FUCKING BAD!!! the way they banter even while having nasty sex n just love each other so bad n hello my breeding kink went feral w this. when mc asked him to not eat his cum out of her pussy n he was like "and why is that?" cus he wanted to hear her say it GRAHHHHH I WILL EAT HIM!!! on a side note, u r so so soooo amazing i have been reading ur work for so long i think since american pie n i can safely say u r one of the best skzblr writers i have ever seen along w so many other ppl like plz keep up the good work bcs i will ALWAYS support u for it !!!

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