Adorned ~˖ ࣪ . ࿐ p.sh
Pairing: husband!hoon + fem!reader
Content+Warnings: arranged marriage to lovers,smut,pwop,breeding kink,dom!hoon,virgin reader,hoon hittin it raw,oral(f!receiving).
Wc:5.7k
MNDI.
NOTE: Requested by anon,not proofread, pure self-indulgent filth, Sunghoon is a gentleman even when he’s losing his mind.like+reblogs r appreciated˖ ࣪ . 🦢.
The wedding was beautiful.
Everyone said so. Crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling of the Grand Hyatt ballroom, your mother’s vintage Dior gown altered to perfection, Sunghoon in a custom Tom Ford tux that made him look like he’d stepped out of a fashion editorial. Photographers, CEOs, politicians—everyone who mattered was there to witness the union of Park & Co. Luxury Group and your family’s cutting-edge tech empire.
A perfect match on paper.
A merger disguised as matrimony.
You smiled the entire night like the well-bred heiress you were. Sunghoon smiled too—polite, camera-ready, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. He barely touched you. A hand at the small of your back for photos, a chaste kiss on the cheek when the crowd cheered. That was it.
And now, three weeks later, you’re standing in the middle of his—your—penthouse at the top of Seoul’s most exclusive tower, wearing nothing but an oversized silk slip and fuzzy slippers, trying to figure out how to use the espresso machine that probably cost more than your first car.
Sunghoon is already gone. Again.
He leaves before sunrise most days, comes back after midnight. The only evidence he exists is the faint trace of his cologne in the marble hallway and the occasional sticky note on the fridge that says things like Dinner is in the warmer or Meeting ran late. Don’t wait up. in his neat, elegant handwriting.
You’re not stupid. You know what this is. An arrangement. Two families shaking hands over your heads while the lawyers drew up the contracts. You’re the pretty, fertile bridge between empires. He’s the cold, untouchable heir who never wanted a wife in the first place.
But God, you’re trying.
You’ve always been the good girl. The one who baked cookies for the staff on holidays, who graduated top of her class in business but never raised her voice. The one whose body developed early and never quite listened to the rules of “elegant restraint.” Wide hips that sway when you walk, a plush ass that fills out every pencil skirt, full breasts that strain against even the most modest necklines. You’ve spent your whole life trying to dress it down—high necklines, loose fits, dark colors. Still, people stared.
Sunghoon? He hasn’t stared once.
Not until tonight.
It’s past 11 p.m. when you hear the elevator ding.
You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of his white dress shirts as an apron because you spilled flour on your slip while attempting to make his favorite japchae from the recipe his mother sent you. The shirt hits mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up, top three buttons undone because it’s hot from the stove. Your hair is piled on top of your head with a claw clip, a few strands sticking to your neck from the steam.
You don’t hear him come in at first. You’re humming softly, hips moving to the quiet lo-fi playlist playing from the speaker, bending over to check the oven when—
“Smells good.”
His voice is low, rough from the long day. You straighten up so fast you almost hit your head on the range hood.
Sunghoon stands at the edge of the open kitchen, tie loosened, jacket slung over one arm, the top buttons of his black shirt undone. His sharp eyes—those glacier eyes everyone calls “intimidating”—flick over you once. Slow. Like he’s seeing you for the first time.
You tug at the hem of his shirt self-consciously. It barely covers anything. “I—I thought you’d be late again. Made dinner. Or… late-night dinner. Whatever.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets his jacket on the island stool and walks closer. You can smell the city on him—cold night air, expensive leather, the faint trace of whiskey from whatever business dinner he just left.
His gaze drops.
Not to your face. To the way the shirt rides up when you shift your weight, exposing the soft curve where your thighs meet your ass. The way the fabric stretches across your chest, the faint outline of your nipples because you’re not wearing a bra and the kitchen is warm.
You see the exact moment something in his brain short-circuits.
His jaw flexes. Once. Twice.
“Sunghoon?” you ask softly, voice the same sweet, slightly breathy tone you always use when you’re nervous. Innocent. Like you have no idea what you look like right now. Because you don’t. You never have.
He clears his throat. “You didn’t have to cook.”
“I wanted to.” You smile, small and hopeful, and turn to grab a plate. The motion makes the shirt ride higher. He sees the full, plush swell of your ass, the way the silk clings to the dip of your waist, the generous curve of your hips.
Breeding material.
The thought slams into him so hard he actually grips the edge of the counter.
You’re his wife. On paper. Untouched. Sheltered. The kind of girl who blushes when someone says “fuck” in a movie. And yet your body was built for exactly what his family wanted from this marriage: soft, fertile, made to carry heirs and look devastating while doing it.
He hates how much that turns him on.
You set the plate in front of him, unaware. “Eat before it gets cold, okay? I’ll clean up—”
“Sit.”
It’s not a request. His voice is low, almost hoarse.
You blink those big, doe eyes at him. “Huh?”
“Sit down, Y/N.”
You obey instantly, sliding onto the stool across from him like the good little wife you’re trying so hard to be. The shirt rides up your thighs. He stares. Doesn’t even pretend not to.
The silence stretches.
You fidget. “Is… is something wrong? Did I do it wrong?”
Sunghoon exhales through his nose. He looks like he’s fighting a war in his head. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
“Oh.” Your cheeks go pink. “I’m sorry, I spilled flour on mine and I didn’t want to wake the maid and—”
“Stop.” He cuts you off. His eyes are darker now. “Stop apologizing for existing in my house.”
Your lips part. Innocent confusion written all over your pretty face. “But it’s your shirt…”
He stands up slowly, walks around the island until he’s right in front of you. Towering. You have to tilt your head back to look at him. He smells like sin and restraint.
“You have any idea what you look like right now?” he murmurs.
You shake your head, genuinely lost.
Sunghoon’s hand lifts. His knuckles brush the side of your thigh where the shirt ends, barely there. You shiver.
“Plush little ass in my shirt,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “Tits spilling out the top. Hips like they were made to be grabbed. And you’re just… humming and cooking like a fucking 1950s housewife.”
Your breath hitches. No one has ever spoken to you like this.
“I—I can change—”
“Don’t.” His fingers tighten on your thigh. “Don’t you dare.”
He’s hard. You can see the bulge straining against his slacks, and the realization makes your stomach flip. You’re a virgin. You’ve never even kissed anyone properly before the wedding kiss that lasted half a second. But your body knows what it wants. It’s been aching for weeks every time he walked past you in the hallway smelling like heaven and distance.
He hauls you up onto the counter in one smooth motion, your ass landing on the cool marble with a soft gasp. The shirt bunches around your waist. He steps between your spread thighs like he belongs there.
His mouth crashes into yours—nothing chaste about it this time.Hungry. Possessive. His tongue slides against yours and you whimper into the kiss, hands fisting his shirt. He tastes like whiskey and want. One big hand slides up your thigh, cups the full cheek of your ass and squeezes hard enough to make you moan.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “This ass. Been driving me insane for weeks. Every time you bend over in those little shorts you wear to bed…”
He kisses down your neck, sucking marks into the skin like he’s claiming territory. His other hand palms your breast through the shirt, thumb circling your nipple until it’s stiff and aching.
“You’re built like a wet dream,” he mutters, almost angry. “Wide hips perfect for carrying my kids. Tits so full they’d leak when you’re pregnant. And you’re sweet. So fucking sweet it makes me want to ruin you.”
You’re panting, head spinning. “Sunghoon… I’ve never—”
“I know.” He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are black with lust but there’s something soft underneath. “I know you’re a virgin, baby. That’s why I stayed away. But I can’t anymore. Not when you walk around looking like my personal breeding material in my own goddamn kitchen.”
He drops to his knees.
You squeak when he spreads your thighs wider, pushes the shirt up to your waist. No panties. You never wear them to bed. His breath ghosts over your bare pussy and you tremble.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “Look at this little cunt. Never been touched and it’s already wet for me.”
He leans in and licks a slow, broad stripe up your folds. Your back arches off the counter with a broken moan. He does it again, firmer, tongue flicking your clit on every pass until you’re shaking.
“Sunghoon—oh god—”
He eats you like a man starved. No hesitation, no teasing. Just hungry, filthy licks and sucks that have you grinding against his face without shame. His hands grip your hips, holding you down as he devours you—lapping at your entrance, sucking your clit, groaning like you taste better than anything he’s ever had.
You come embarrassingly fast, thighs clamping around his head, crying out his name like a prayer. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going until you’re sobbing, oversensitive and twitching.
Only then does he stand up, lips shiny with you, and kisses you so you can taste yourself.
“First time I make my wife come and it’s on the kitchen counter,” he says with a dark little laugh. “We’re just getting started.”
He lifts you like you weigh nothing—your legs wrap around his waist instinctively—and carries you to the bedroom. The master suite you’ve been sleeping in alone for three weeks.
He lays you on the bed like you’re precious, then strips. Shirt. Belt. Pants. You watch, wide-eyed, as his cock springs free—thick, long, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking. You’ve never seen one in real life. It looks obscene. Perfect.
Sunghoon crawls over you, caging you in. “Still okay?” he asks, voice softer now. “We can stop. I’ll jerk off in the shower like I have been every night since the wedding.”
You shake your head, reaching up to cup his face. “I want this. I want you. Please… make me yours for real.”
He kisses you slow and deep, then reaches into the nightstand for lube and a condom. You stop his hand.
“I’m on the pill,” you whisper, cheeks burning. “For… for the marriage. They said it was better if i… .”you stutter trying to find a suitable word.
His eyes flash. The breeding kink he’s been trying to ignore roars back to life.
“No condom,” he growls. “Not tonight. Not ever if you let me. Want to feel you raw. Want to fill this pretty pussy until it leaks.”
You nod frantically.
He slicks himself up anyway, just enough, then notches the head of his cock at your entrance. He pushes in slow—inch by inch—watching your face the entire time. You’re so tight it makes his jaw clench.
“Relax, baby. Breathe. That’s it… good girl.”
It burns, but the stretch feels right. When he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, you both moan. He stays there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he whispers. “So warm. So fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”
He starts moving—shallow thrusts at first, then deeper, harder. Every drag of his cock against your walls makes stars burst behind your eyes. He angles his hips and hits a spot that makes you cry out.
“Right there? Yeah? Gonna make you come on my cock like a good little wife.”
He fucks you harder. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room. His hands are everywhere—squeezing your tits, pinching your nipples, gripping your ass to pull you onto him deeper. He leans down and sucks a nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing, while his cock pistons in and out.
You come again, clenching around him so hard he groans your name like a curse.
He doesn’t stop. He flips you over onto your stomach, pulls your hips up so your ass is in the air, and slides back in with one smooth thrust. The new angle makes you scream into the pillow.
“Look at this ass,” he pants, spanking one cheek lightly, then harder when you moan. “Bouncing so pretty for me. Gonna fuck you full every night. Keep you dripping with my cum so everyone knows who you belong to.”
You’re babbling now—yes, please, Sunghoon, more—lost in the pleasure. He reaches around and rubs your clit in tight circles.
“Come again. Want to feel you milk me.”
You do. Shaking, sobbing, pussy fluttering around his cock. He follows right after, burying himself to the hilt and coming with a guttural groan. You feel the hot rush of him inside you—thick, endless pulses that make your belly feel warm and full.
He collapses over you, careful not to crush you, and presses soft kisses to your shoulder blades.
After that night, everything changes.
Sunghoon still works long hours, but now he comes home early enough to eat the dinners you make. He eats you for dessert on the kitchen island at least twice a week. He fucks you in the shower, bent over the marble vanity while you watch yourselves in the mirror. He takes you on the balcony under the Seoul skyline, your silk robe hiked up around your waist while he growls filthy promises about knocking you up against the glass.
He’s still the same cold, elegant CEO in public. But at home he’s insatiable—hands always on your ass, mouth always on your neck, cock always ready to remind you who you belong to.
One night, after he’s fucked you slow and deep in the big bed, he lies behind you, spooned up close, hand splayed possessively over your lower belly.
“You know why I stayed away at first?” he murmurs into your hair.
You hum, sleepy and satisfied.
“Because the second I saw you at the altar. those hips, that ass, those tits—I knew I’d never be able to keep my hands off you. Knew I’d want to breed you the first chance I got. And you were looking at me with those big innocent eyes like you’d never had a dirty thought in your life.” He kisses the back of your neck. “Made me feel like a pervert for wanting my own wife so badly.”
You turn in his arms, smiling softly. “I’m not innocent anymore.”
His eyes darken with fresh heat. “No. You’re not.” He rolls you under him again, already hard. “But you’re still my sweet little wife. And I’m never letting you go.”
You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in.
“Good,” you whisper against his lips. “Because I was made to be yours.”
And you were.
The merger thrived. The papers called it a love match. Only the two of you knew the truth: it started as an arrangement, but the moment Sunghoon saw you in his kitchen wearing nothing but his shirt and that body built for sin and softness, it became something else entirely.
It became real.
And he was never going to get enough.
©hoonalt



















