{forever is the sweetest con}

you’ve been inspired by tiktok trends once again, a challenge of a one-in-three chance of certain stakes. kenyu had insisted, cuddled on your chest as you came across the video, and declared an absolute promise that he could pick your cooking out of any line up, any time.

so yeah. maybe you could share him with the internet one more time.

because sometimes, you just like showing yukimiya kenyu off.

"so, behind your back, i made some cinnamon rolls-"

his head whips to you, offended. "you made cinnamon rolls behind my back?"

you shrug, "i needed them for this video and you're like a hawk when it comes to attacking my cinnamon rolls."

"maybe you shouldn't make good cinnamon rolls," he says, smiling fondly.

you push his chest softly, earning you a sweet chuckle and subtle sway. before your palm can fully return to you, he captures the tips of your fingers in his, bringing the back of your palm up to his lips for a cheesy kiss. your knees grow weak under the affection, but you roll your eyes at him all the same, "okay, you know what-" you laugh.

you can already see the adoration for the affection being absolutely worshipped in the comments, fixated on the simplicity and utter enamor of the gesture in a way only yukimiya kenyu can convey.

ignoring the way your heart soars, you blink back to reality and clear your throat, holding up a tie, “so, kenyu-“

“whose tie is that?” he asks, pointing at the fabric. “did you buy a tie for this? i have ties!”

“i don’t go through your luggage, i have no clue what you bring!”

“go through my luggage before you buy props you don’t need!”

“do you want the cinnamon rolls or not, champ?”

your cohost closes his ready-to-retaliate mouth, and you grin, “that’s what i thought.”

it’s sometimes hard to remember that there’s a camera on you when you film with kenyu. he’s enchanting, keeping your attention on him and him alone in an absolute yearn. the flow of banter and playful croon you send each other is second nature, genuine and sweet. your conversations could last forever if you’d let them.

but time is precious when yukimiya kenyu comes to visit you.

“put this on your head. cover your eyes. and you’ll get your reward.”

the smirk he sends you is cataclysmic. “you got it, boss.”

yukimiya kenyu has you so wrapped around his finger it’s disorienting. you would do anything for this man, and then some. he’s the worst thing to happen to you, because nothing makes you as excited as that smile being sent your way.

his fingers are swift to tie the checkered tie around his head, blocking his vision as you had ordered.

"okay, don’t you lie to me- can you see past the blindfold?"

immediately, obediently, he shakes his head no, a smile curved on his cheeks as he waits patiently for the treats to be brought in. your hand waves in front of his face, your head ducking to be up close, to no reaction. you smile as you slide the plate in front of you both. he sniffs the air, and is rewarded with a prod to the stomach, "don't do that, that's cheating."

"don't do what?"

"breathe.”

“breathe,” he repeats, voice flat in playful sarcasm. you giggle and swat his chest again as he lets out a sigh, “tiktok saw it first- baker beats up guest star and tells him to stop breathing.”

“you’re corny,” you groan, “and your manager is gonna kill you for this.”

“they’ll forgive me.”

you shake your head as you continue to explain the game, “okay- so i made a batch of cinnamon rolls, as well as two store bought ones, because i’m not convinced you’d be able to tell the difference.”

he scoffs at you, “you know i’m gonna crush this.”

“well, if you’re wrong, i’m canceling our contract.”

“no.”

“or our hypothetical wedding-“

“NO!”

you laugh as you rip off a bit of the first store bought cinnamon roll, bringing your fingers close to his mouth, “okay, lock in. this is the first cinnamon roll.”

his mouth opens, and you plop the treat on his tongue. he chews it, briefly, before scowling, “eugh,” he groans. his nose scrunches in adorable displeasure, “how dare you serve this to me, is this some kind of joke?”

“kenyu!”

“disgusting,” he snarls theatrically. “they dare call that a cinnamon roll when yours exist? pathetic.”

you try to fight back your laughter, failing miserably because of course he’s making you laugh, before wiping your fingers free of the frosting. “i’m glad he was subtle about that, guys.” you rip off a bit of the next store bought cinnamon roll as he dramatically swallows the cinnamon roll with a twisted expression. “‘kay, next one.”

“please, let this one be yours- i’m going to have to rinse my mouth out.”

“be nice,” you scold, but barely meaning it. you place the next bite into his mouth, and once again, his features contort into agony and frustration, “this is foul and cruel of you,” he hisses.

you laugh at him more, your cheeks becoming warm as he continues to ramble about how nasty the piece you gave him was. “i mean, i wouldn’t feed this to my worst enemy. negative fifty million out of ten. awful.”

“tell us how you really feel, kenyu.”

“i would but it might get emotional.”

“we agreed no crying in the contract.”

“i can’t help that im pretty when i cry.”

he wins, as you snort softly behind your palm, eyes closing in an attempt to stifle a laugh.

your fingers are wiped clean before you tear off the middle part of the cinnamon roll that you baked, smiling at its warmth in your fingers. “number three.”

“my palate is numb,” he pouts. but he opens his mouth anyway, and you gently push the sweet in his mouth.

he grins.

he hums in delight.

“that’s what i’m talking about,” he nods, cheeks curved in the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. “absolute perfection. that’s, how you make a cinnamon roll, my friends.” you watch in amusement as his hands slowly crawl along the countertop for more.

“i’ll get you more, i’ll get you more,” you assure, fondly batting his hand away from the plates. he teases you with a playful “ow.”

there’s a blip of a thought. you’re wary of its outcomes, what acting on the thought might bring to you both.

but damn. you’re in love with yukimiya kenyu.

sometimes, you just need the courage to do it.

leaning over, you press a soft kiss to his lips, fingers gently coming up to caress his jawline and angle him towards you. he follows your silent direction, hands immediately finding their way to your waist to coax you into coming closer.

you obey, but you pull back from the kiss to watch his face melt in adoration. “number four might be my favorite there, miss baker.”

“yeah?”

“can i get some more?”

you press another kiss to his lips, grabbing the tie off of his head and tossing it randomly behind you.

time doesn’t exist when you kiss kenyu; it melts like chocolate in sun, dripping and soft and sweet as the heat flares. he’s enchanting, exhilarating, a rollercoaster ride that you’d never get off. you’re latched to him, your soulmate, your better half-

it’s easy for you to forget you have to share him so much.

because moments like this almost make it seem worth it.

to your dismay, he pulls back. "do we have to cut that out?" he whispers, nudging his nose with yours.

you grin and gently card his hair, "depends on how viral you want this to go."

he sinks his teeth into his lip, and you watch as hearts form in his pupils.

he's absolutely smitten over you.

"leave it in," he hums, pressing another kiss to your lips.

on the red carpet, he turns slightly to the side to let the cameras catch the faint glossy imprint you left on his cheek. even during the world cup, the world cup, he lifts up his jersey post-match and there it is. your kiss, stamped right on his abs, impossible to miss.

he wears your kisses everywhere. on his neck, along his jawline, just above his waistband. half-tucked away beneath the fabric. intimate and hidden from the rest of the world. he loves those the most, they’re quieter, softer, private, proof of your connection. of something real. and he loves the weight of it.

it’s more than lipstick to him. it’s love etched on his skin. it’s his signature at this point and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

it starts off as a joke. you’re sitting cross legged on the couch in one of his jerseys, when he strolls in after practice with yet another kiss of yours pressed above his collarbone.

you weren’t trying to start anything, not really, just pointing out the fact your lipstick was always on kaiser’s body and he did absolutely nothing about it. he wouldn’t even let you wipe them off yourself.

you’d be annoyed if he didn’t look so pretty with them. you’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so proud of himself.

“you might as well get them tattooed at this point mihya,” you say, shaking your head. half laughing, half-exasperated. you expect him to join in your laughter. to brush it off and call you silly. instead, he tilts his head and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips

“ja? you want me to?” his light blue eyes sparkle as he wraps his arms around you, “where should i get them, schatz?”

and when you roll your eyes, pretending to be unimpressed, pretending not to melt under his piercing gaze, he just grins wider. that cocky, irresistible smile that always gets under your skin. the kind that says he already knows you secretly want him to.

for a second, you think he’s bluffing. just messing with you like he always does.

“i’m serious,” he murmurs, voice low as his lips graze the shell of your ear, “your lips look good on me, might as well make them permanent”

something about the way he says it makes your heart stutter. you hate how much it gets to you so you brush him off with a scoff, refusing to meet his sapphire gaze as you push lightly at his chest

he doesn’t budge, lips brushing along your jaw as he murmurs again, “pick a spot liebling, anywhere and i’ll do it”

you almost forget about it. almost. he doesn’t bring it up and neither do you. until exactly a week later, he walks into your shared kitchen fresh from the shower, shirtless with loose-fitting sweats hanging low on his waist, and drops a blank sheet of paper down on the counter. alongside it is your favourite lipstick.

you glance up briefly before returning to your bowl of fruits, “. . .what’s that?”

he slides your lipstick across the marble towards you, “need three of ‘em schatz”, you blink at him curiously, “three kisses” he clarifies, “for the tattoo”

you begin to laugh, but he isn’t laughing with you. and your laughter dies in your throat, “oh, you’re serious?”

“dead” he leans against the counter, arms folded. his blonde and blue hair is a mess of wet curls, clinging to his forehead. and his impossibly blue eyes don’t waver. he isn’t playing around this time. “my appointment’s in twenty minutes”

you stare at him for a moment, then glance down at the paper, then back at him, “you’re actually getting my lips tattooed on you?”

“ja” he replies, like he can’t comprehend why on earth he wouldn’t, “you said i might as well schatz, so now i am”

your lips part but no words are formed. he looks positively pleased with himself, “three kisses” he repeats, tapping the paper impatiently, “one for each year we’ve been together.”

“you’re insane” you mutter, grabbing the lipstick and twisting the cap off with a click. for once, he doesn’t argue. he just watches you with quiet satisfaction as you press kisses to the paper. slow and deliberate. “there. three”

he doesn’t say anything right away, just stares down at the paper wordlessly like it’s something precious. like it’s more than three red lipstick stains on paper. he holds it a second longer than necessary, like he doesn’t want to crease it, but eventually he does, slowly, carefully, before slipping it into his pocket.

you think that’s it. that he’ll walk off smugly and stop bothering you. instead, he pads lazily around the counter, veiny hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing the curve of your cheek, and he looks at you like you hung the stars just for him.

he leans in, nose brushing against yours as he kisses you. his lips taste faintly of mint. his fingers tighten around your waist, pulling you close enough for your chest to brush against his. when he finally pulls away, his lips hover just above yours, eyes half-lidded and soft

“i’ll be back soon liebling,” he whispers affectionately, lips ghosting over yours, light blue eyes shining with something softer than their usual cocky glint “try not to miss me too much”

with one last kiss to your temple, he turns away. you watch as he trudges to your bedroom to throw on a hoodie. a minute later, he grabs his keys from the counter, winking at you on his way out.

he’s gone long enough for you to stop doubting him, long enough for the utter ridiculousness of it all to wear off. long enough for it to start feeling real. you spent the first hour pacing, shaking your head, and laughing. because you couldn’t fathom how a meaningless joke had spiraled into this.

in the hours after the first had passed, your mind ran wild with possibilities of what the tattoos would look like. where would he get them? how big would they be? would he ask his tattoo artist to ink your name beneath them? you tried to convince yourself that no one could possibly be this obsessed with you. not even him. he had to be bluffing

spoiler alert: he wasn’t. he was dead serious

the front door opens a little after sunset, flooding the living room with mellow light. kaiser kicks off his shoes, drops his keys on the counter and doesn’t say much of anything.he just stands there, lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.

you sit up straighter on the couch, folding your arms over your chest “so?”

“so what schatz?” he cocks his head, feigning ignorance

“did you. . ?” you narrow your eyes at him from across the room “don’t mess with me mihya”

“come here.” he smirks, eyes sparkling with that infuriating confidence that makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. you hesitate. he crooks a finger, beckoning you closer and he knows you’ll come.

you cross the room reluctantly. kaiser hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats, eyes locked on yours the whole time, and slowly pulls them down just enough to show you.

your brain short circuits. there they are. three perfect, inked kiss marks. curved right along his v-line. identical to the ones you left on that paper.

“oh my—” you whisper, your hand lifts before you can stop it, fingertips grazing the saniderm draped over the kiss etched on his pelvis. the tattoos were still slightly red and sore around the edges. he sucks in a sharp breath as your hand falls to your side, “you actually—”

“told you i would” he shrugs, “and next year, i’ll get a fourth.” he murmurs, “one for each year we’re together”

he says it like the future is already set in stone. like loving you is the only thing he’s ever been sure of. like there’s no alternate universe or timeline where he could ever love anyone else.

“you’re gonna run out of space eventually”

“i’ll make more” he steps closer, drifting into your personal space like he owns it, like he owns you. his arms slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“you’re ridiculous” you say, shaking your head fondly as he grabs your wrist and brings it down to press against the tattoos, right over the fresh ink, still warm beneath his skin. he holds it there. holds you there.

“you love it,” he whispers, tilting his head just slightly, just enough to drag his lips over your jaw. “you love me.”

your voice is quieter when you reply, “i do love you”

“you know what i love?” he grins, placing a feather-light kiss to your sternum.

“mm?” you manage, breath catching in your throat as he presses yet another kiss to your collarbone. then your neck. soft and slow, like he’s savoring it.

“that now” he says, pressing another kiss to your jaw, “even when we’re miles apart. even when you’re not kissing me. . .” his lips find yours. hover there, barely touching. “you still will be, forever liebling ”

and when he kisses you for real, it feels like he’s right. like you’ll never truly stop kissing him. you curl your fingers into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him impossibly closer, but it doesn’t feel close enough. it never will

kaiser kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of you. like he needs to feel you to breathe. like the ink on his body isn’t enough, and he needs this too. he needs this more

when he finally pulls away, just barely, lips brushing against yours with each breath, his eyes are softer than they’ve ever been betore. and he knows, for certain, he would endure the pain of getting tattooed a million times over if it meant he got to keep you like this. in his arms. in his life, forever.