FLIX

Why don't you just let me go ? Masterlist

[enhaflixer]

psh - BOUND & BEYOND - marriage law au! PART 1

A MARRIAGE LAW HARRY POTTER AU SUNSHINE X GRUMPY 2 LOVERS FIC!! PART 2

wizard diplomat grumpy!sunghoon x witch healer sunshine f!reader

warnings: sex lol, hes emotionally unavailable and it hurts, he also might be a bit mean but its okay.

-

Park Sunghoon had never lost a diplomatic negotiation until today.

As Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, he'd built his career on careful strategy and perfect control. Foreign dignitaries feared his unflappable composure. Fellow department heads envied his meticulous preparation. Even the Minister himself sought Sunghoon's counsel on matters requiring delicate handling.

But against the Marriage Unity Act, all his diplomatic skills had proven worthless.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Park, but your final appeal has been denied," said Matilda Fairweather, the pinch-faced witch from the newly established Marriage Compliance Division. Her tone suggested she wasn't sorry at all. "The magical compatibility readings are among the highest we've recorded. The match stands."

Sunghoon's jaw tightened, the only visible sign of his fury. "Magical compatibility has nothing to do with personal compatibility. You're binding strangers together based on theoretical readings."

Fairweather's thin smile didn't reach her eyes. "The law is quite clear, Mr. Park. Magical compatibility is the primary consideration. Personal preferences are secondary to the greater good of wizarding society."

"And forcing strangers to marry serves the greater good how, exactly?" His voice remained low and controlled, but the edge in it could have cut glass.

"By creating magically powerful unions capable of producing the next generation of witches and wizards," she replied, the rote answer suggesting she'd delivered it dozens of times already. "The population numbers don't lie, Mr. Park. Without intervention, we face magical extinction within three generations."

Sunghoon knew the statistics. He'd studied them extensively during his three appeals. But statistics didn't justify stripping away individual autonomy—especially not his.

"I understand tomorrow is the deadline for your compliance," Fairweather continued, consulting a file. "Your match has already submitted her paperwork accepting the union. The ceremony is scheduled for nine o'clock tomorrow morning, after which you'll have twenty-four hours to establish cohabitation."

"Twenty-four hours," Sunghoon repeated flatly. "The original directive specified thirty days."

"The timeline has been... adjusted," Fairweather said with bureaucratic indifference. "Experience has shown that prolonged separation after matching leads to decreased compliance rates. Twenty-four hours ensures the bonding process begins promptly."

Bonding process. As if they were magical creatures being bred in captivity rather than human beings with established lives and careers.

"And if my residence isn't suitable for immediate cohabitation?" he asked, though he knew his immaculate home with its three bedrooms and precise organization was more than adequate.

"Then the Ministry has prepared standard accommodations for newly matched couples," Fairweather replied, producing a pamphlet depicting a depressingly bland apartment building. "Though given your position, I imagine your residence will meet requirements."

The implied threat was clear: comply or be relegated to Ministry housing, where monitoring would be even more invasive.

"Fine," Sunghoon said, rising from his chair with fluid grace that belied his inner tension. "If there's nothing else, I have work to do."

"Just one more thing," Fairweather said, handing him another pamphlet. This one depicted a smiling couple surrounded by animated text about "Building Marital Compatibility" and "Fulfilling Union Requirements." "The complete timeline for compliance milestones. Shared sleeping quarters by three months, consummation by one year, conception efforts beginning by year two. All subject to regular Ministry verification."

Sunghoon took the pamphlet between two fingers as if it might contaminate him. "Ministry verification of consummation? You can't be serious."

"Detection charms," Fairweather clarified with clinical detachment. "Non-invasive but highly accurate. The Privacy in Marriage Act of 1753 prevents direct observation, but magic leaves traces, Mr. Park. The charms merely detect those traces."

The casual way she discussed monitoring intimate acts made Sunghoon's skin crawl. "How reassuring," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm that seemed to pass entirely over Fairweather's head.

"Indeed. Many couples find the structure helpful in developing genuine bonds." She returned his file to a towering stack on her desk. "Nine o'clock tomorrow, Conference Room B. Your match has been notified. Do try to arrive on time."

Dismissed like a first-year clerk, Sunghoon exited the Marriage Compliance Office with his dignity intact but his future irrevocably altered. He'd known from the moment the Marriage Unity Act passed that he would likely be affected—single, magically powerful, and within the specified age range, he was an obvious candidate. But he'd believed his position and influence would secure him an exemption.

He'd been wrong.

Tomorrow, he would be legally bound to a virtual stranger. And not just any stranger, but the one person in wizarding Britain whose very existence seemed designed to disrupt everything he valued.

Y/N L/N. Pediatric Healer at St. Mungo's.

He'd encountered you exactly twice, and both meetings had left him with the unsettling feeling of having been caught in a hurricane of warmth and chaos. The first time had been at a Ministry function honoring medical innovation, where you'd received an award for your work with children suffering from unstable magic. Instead of the proper, reserved acceptance speech expected at such events, you'd told a story about a seven-year-old patient that had the entire room first laughing, then wiping away tears, and finally erupting into the kind of genuine applause rarely heard at Ministry functions.

Sunghoon had watched from the back of the room, increasingly uncomfortable with the emotional display. You'd broken every rule of formal Ministry presentations and somehow emerged triumphant, leaving the podium surrounded by people drawn to your genuine warmth like moths to a flame.

The second encounter had been at St. Mungo's, when he'd reluctantly accompanied the child of a visiting dignitary who'd been injured during an international portkey journey. You'd swept into the examination room in lime-green healer robes personalized with embroidered stars and moons, your whole being radiating such cheerful competence that the sobbing child had immediately quieted.

You'd barely acknowledged Sunghoon's presence, focused entirely on your small patient, kneeling to eye level and speaking in the kind of warm, engaging tone he associated with people who genuinely enjoyed children—a foreign concept to him. Your office, glimpsed through an open door, had been a riot of color and movement: animated drawings covered the walls, magical plants bloomed in every corner, and enchanted toys danced on any available surface.

Everything about you—from your bright laugh to your obvious comfort with disorder—represented the antithesis of Sunghoon's carefully structured existence. And now, by Ministry decree, you would be his wife.

The thought was so absurd that he might have laughed if he were the type of man who laughed at anything.

Conference Room B had been superficially transformed for its role as a wedding venue. Someone—presumably not the Ministry—had conjured garlands of flowers that draped the usually austere walls, and the harsh magical lighting had been softened to a warm glow. The effect was like putting a party hat on a troll: fundamentally incongruous but somehow endearing in its attempt.

Sunghoon arrived fifteen minutes early, as was his habit for all appointments. He was surprised to find the room already occupied—not by Ministry officials, but by you.

You stood by the window, adjusting a vase of wildflowers that certainly hadn't been provided by the Marriage Compliance Office. At the sound of the door, you turned, and your face bloomed into a smile so genuine it seemed to brighten the enchanted lighting.

"Good morning!" you greeted, as if this were a pleasant social gathering rather than a forced legal proceeding. "I hope you don't mind the flowers. I couldn't bear the thought of getting married in a room that looked like a place where people receive tax audits."

Your robes were a soft blue that complemented your complexion, with tiny embroidered stars at the cuffs and collar—similar to the ones you'd worn at the hospital, but more elegant. Your hair was styled simply but beautifully, and despite the circumstances, your eyes held a warmth that seemed to be your natural state rather than a cultivated expression.

Sunghoon, dressed in immaculate formal robes of deepest charcoal, felt suddenly severe in comparison. "This isn't a wedding," he said flatly. "It's a legal formality. Decorations just waste time."

Your smile dimmed slightly, but you rallied with visible determination. "Well, yes, but that doesn't mean it has to feel like signing a business merger in a dungeon, does it? It's still our wedding day, even if the circumstances are... unusual."

Our wedding day. The phrase made something in Sunghoon's chest constrict uncomfortably. This wasn't a wedding in any meaningful sense—it was a legal proceeding mandated by an overreaching government.

"I brought something for you," you said, reaching into a small bag to produce a boutonnière—a single blue flower with a sprig of greenery. "I know this isn't a traditional wedding, but I thought... well, it might make it feel a bit more special."

Sunghoon stared at the offering, momentarily at a loss. In his numerous appeals and countless mental preparations for this day, he had never once considered that you might approach the situation with such... sentimentality.

"No," he said simply, not bothering to soften his rejection.

Your hand, still extended with the boutonnière, faltered visibly. For the first time, uncertainty crept into your expression, the sunshine dimming behind gathering clouds.

"Oh," you said softly, withdrawing your hand. "Of course. I just thought..."

You didn't finish the sentence, but Sunghoon could read the disappointment in the slight slump of your shoulders, the way your smile became something practiced rather than natural. It was remarkable, really, how transparent your emotions were—like watching weather patterns move across an open sky.

He moved to speak, “Uh, I just-“

The Ministry official arrived then, saving him from having to respond. You quickly tucked the boutonnière back into your bag, straightening your robes and visibly composing yourself.

"Good morning," said the official, a harried-looking witch with ink-stained fingers. "Y/N L/N and Park Sunghoon?" At your nods, she continued briskly, "I'm Cordelia Figg, Marriage Registration Office. I'll be conducting your binding ceremony today."

She set a stack of parchments on the table, glancing around at the flowers with mild surprise. "Oh. Someone's made an effort."

"That would be me," you said, your smile returning, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "I thought a few flowers might brighten things up."

"Very nice," Figg said, clearly indifferent. "Now, shall we begin? The Ministry has seventeen ceremonies scheduled today, and we're running behind already."

The ceremony was mercifully brief. Names confirmed, magical compatibility verified (with a begrudgingly impressed "Highest reading this week" from Figg), and binding vows recited—not traditional wedding vows of love and devotion, but Ministry-approved declarations of compliance with the Marriage Unity Act.

When it came time to sign the marriage certificate, you hesitated fractionally, your quill hovering above the parchment. Sunghoon, watching your profile, saw something like resignation pass across your face before you signed with a surprisingly elegant flourish.

He added his own signature beneath yours, the document glowing briefly as the magical binding took effect.

"Congratulations," Figg said with the enthusiasm of someone announcing a mandatory tax filing. "You are now legally bonded under the Marriage Unity Act." She handed each of you a copy of the certificate. "You have twenty-four hours to establish a shared residence and file your cohabitation notification. Failure to comply will result in immediate relocation to Ministry housing."

You tensed slightly at the timeline, though Sunghoon had expected it after yesterday's meeting.

"Additionally," Figg continued, consulting her notes, "your first compatibility assessment is scheduled in two weeks. A representative from the Marriage Compliance Office will visit your residence to verify appropriate cohabitation and evaluate initial bonding progress."

"Two weeks?" you asked, surprise evident in your voice. "I thought the first assessment wasn't until the one-month mark."

"The timeline has been adjusted," Figg replied, echoing Fairweather's words from yesterday. "Experience has shown that early intervention improves long-term compliance."

Sunghoon noted the tightening around your eyes—the first sign of genuine distress you'd shown. "What exactly are you looking for in this assessment?" he asked, his tone making it clear he expected a direct answer.

"Standard evaluation of living arrangements, observation of interaction patterns, basic questions about your developing relationship," Figg recited. "Nothing invasive at this stage. That comes later."

The casual acknowledgment of future invasions of privacy made your eyes widen slightly.

"Is that all?" Sunghoon asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.

"Just one more matter," Figg said, producing two small velvet boxes. "The Ministry provides standard binding rings. You're required to wear them at all times as visual indicators of your matched status."

She opened the boxes to reveal two plain gold bands. Nothing distinctive, nothing personal—just visible symbols of Ministry control.

"The rings are enchanted to monitor basic health status between matched pairs," Figg explained, "and contain locator charms that activate in emergencies. They also warm slightly when in proximity to each other, encouraging regular contact."

"So they're tracking devices," Sunghoon said, making no move to take the box.

Figg's expression hardened slightly. "Health and safety measures, Mr. Park. Standard for all matched pairs."

You reached for your box with visible reluctance, opening it fully to examine the ring inside. "It looks like a normal wedding band," you observed quietly.

"That's the intention," Figg replied. "To all external appearances, matched pairs should resemble traditional marriages. Public confidence in the program depends on perceived normalcy."

Sunghoon couldn't quite suppress a derisive sound at that, earning a sharp look from the official. He took the remaining box with precise movements that conveyed his displeasure without requiring words.

"The rings must be placed on each other," Figg instructed. "Part of the binding magic."

This, Sunghoon hadn't anticipated. The exchange of rings implied a level of personal involvement he'd expected to avoid. From your hesitation, he suspected you felt the same discomfort, though likely for different reasons.

"I can go first," you offered after a moment, removing the larger ring from its box. Your hand trembled slightly as you held it, and Sunghoon was struck by the realization that despite your attempts at cheerfulness, you were just as unsettled by this forced union as he was.

He extended his left hand, and you carefully slid the ring onto his fourth finger. The metal was cool for a moment, then warmed against his skin as the magic activated. He felt a curious sensation—like a door opening somewhere in his mind, creating an awareness of your presence that hadn't existed before.

"Your turn," you said softly, offering your own hand.

Sunghoon took the smaller ring from its box, noting the delicacy of the band compared to his own. Your fingers were slim but strong—healer's hands, steady in crisis but gentle with the vulnerable. He slid the ring into place with efficient movement, careful to maintain a professional distance despite the intimate gesture.

You inhaled sharply as the ring settled, your eyes widening slightly. He wondered if you felt the same strange awareness that he did—like a compass suddenly oriented toward magnetic north.

"The binding is complete," Figg announced, gathering her papers. "You'll receive an owl with the exact time of your first assessment. Remember, cohabitation must be established within twenty-four hours."

And with that anticlimactic conclusion, you were married.

Figg departed with brisk efficiency, leaving you and Sunghoon alone in the flower-decorated conference room, newly minted spouses with nothing to say to each other.

You were the first to break the silence. "So... twenty-four hours," you said, your voice determinedly bright despite the strain evident around your eyes. "That's not much time to arrange a move."

"No," Sunghoon agreed shortly, already thinking through logistics. "Where do you live?"

"Diagon Alley," you replied. "Above the apothecary. It's small but convenient for hospital shifts."

He nodded once, decision made. "We'll use my place. It's bigger, has three bedrooms, good security. Bring what you need today, the rest can come later."

The practicality of his response seemed to steady you somewhat. "That makes sense. Though I should warn you, I have a cat, Nyx. She's part of the non-negotiable package."

A cat. Of course there would be a pet. Sunghoon's jaw tightened again. "Just keep it off the furniture."

"She's very well-behaved," you assured him, though your expression suggested the cat might have opinions on the matter. "Thank you for offering your home. I know this isn't... well, what either of us would have chosen."

The simple acknowledgment of their shared predicament was unexpected. Sunghoon had prepared for tears, for anger, for manipulative emotional displays—not for this straightforward acceptance coupled with determined grace.

"Neither of us has much choice," he said, his tone less harsh than before. "We might as well make it workable."

You studied him for a moment, head tilted slightly as if trying to read something in his guarded expression. "You're taking this remarkably well," you observed. "I've been fluctuating between panic and hysterical laughter since I got the letter."

The candid admission surprised a nearly imperceptible quirk of the lips from Sunghoon—not quite a smile, but the closest approximation he'd shown all day. "Years of dealing with difficult diplomats," he said by way of explanation. "I've handled worse than this."

"I'm not sure whether to be relieved or offended by that comparison," you said, attempting a tentative smile. "Though I doubt your diplomatic training covered forced marriage."

"It did not," he confirmed, and if his tone held the faintest trace of dry humor, it was gone too quickly to be certain.

You glanced at the flowers you'd brought, now looking somewhat forlorn in the empty conference room. "I should clean these up before we go."

"Leave them," Sunghoon said, surprising himself slightly. "The next couple might need them more than we did."

Something in your expression brightened at this small consideration—disproportionately, in his view, to the minor gesture. "That's... surprisingly thoughtful."

Sunghoon shifted uncomfortably. He didn't do thoughtful. Practical, efficient, fair, but not thoughtful. "It's just efficient. Cleaning up would waste time we don't have."

"Right," you said, though your smile suggested you didn't entirely believe his explanation. "Efficient. Of course."

As you gathered your few belongings, Sunghoon found himself studying the ring now encircling his finger. The magic hummed just below his awareness, a constant reminder of the connection that had been forced upon him. When you moved toward the door, he felt a slight warmth from the metal—the proximity alert Figg had mentioned.

"Shall we?" you asked, pausing at the threshold.

Sunghoon nodded once, following you from the room. As the door closed behind them, he caught a final glimpse of the flowers brightening the sterile Ministry space—a small rebellion against institutional coldness that seemed to embody your approach to this entire situation.

It occurred to him, with unwelcome clarity, that navigating life with someone who met adversity with flowers and determined optimism would require reserves of patience he wasn't entirely sure he possessed.

This, he suspected, was going to be significantly more complicated than any international negotiation he'd ever handled.

Journal Entry: 14 March 2023

Day one of cohabitation with Y/N. Initial observations:

The woman is incapable of following basic organizational systems. I left a detailed orientation packet on her nightstand. Found it this morning with doodles in the margins. DOODLES. On a carefully prepared document.

Her belongings have already invaded common spaces. Colorful throw pillows appeared on my sofa. Books stacked at odd angles on the side table. Even the bathroom isn't safe. Potions bottles everywhere, none arranged by size or purpose.

The constant humming and talking to herself is worse than I anticipated. Also talks to the cat as if it understands English.

Speaking of the cat - it's staring at me. Constantly. Follows me from room to room. I've done nothing to encourage this behavior. Today it had the audacity to sit on my chair and stare until I gave it a treat. Not sure why I complied. Temporary lapse in judgment.

Sleep was difficult. The awareness of another person in the house is... distracting.

Y/N herself is less irritating than expected. She's handling the situation with surprising practicality, despite the excessive cheerfulness. 

The Ministry assessment is in 13 days. Need to create the appearance of "bonding" without actually changing anything. Should be straightforward enough. Just need to ensure she doesn't rearrange anything else in the meantime.

Initial verdict: Not quite as bad as projected. Still completely unacceptable.

— S.

-

Three days into your cohabitation, and you'd already established that Park Sunghoon's morning routine was inflexible. He woke at exactly 5:30 AM, spent forty-five minutes in the bathroom, and left for the Ministry at 7:15 AM sharp. The presence of a new wife apparently didn't warrant any adjustments to his schedule.

Your own hours at St. Mungo's were far less predictable. As a pediatric healer, you worked rotating shifts across days, evenings, and occasional nights. This morning, you were due at the hospital by 8:00 AM, putting you on a collision course with Sunghoon's immovable morning ritual.

At 6:10 AM, you stood outside the bathroom door, shifting from foot to foot, your patience wearing thin.

"Sunghoon?" you called, knocking lightly. "I really need to get ready for work."

Silence. Either he couldn't hear you over the shower, or he was deliberately ignoring you.

You knocked again, louder this time. "Sunghoon, I have rounds at eight!"

The water shut off abruptly. A moment later, the door opened just enough to reveal Sunghoon's face, his hair still wet, eyes narrowed with obvious irritation.

"I'm not finished in here," he said flatly.

"I know that," you replied, trying to keep your voice even. "But unlike you, my schedule changes day to day, and I need to be at St. Mungo's by eight. Could you please finish up so I can get ready?"

Sunghoon stared at you for a long moment. "This disrupts my schedule."

"Yes, I'm aware," you said, your famous patience beginning to fray. "But unless you want me to show up for work in yesterday's robes with unbrushed teeth, we need to adjust."

Sunghoon's jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. "Five minutes." The door closed before you could respond.

True to his word, exactly five minutes later he emerged fully dressed in impeccable Ministry robes, not a hair out of place. How he managed to transform from shower-damp to completely presentable so quickly remained a mystery.

"Thank you," you said, genuinely grateful despite his obvious annoyance. "I promise we can work out a better schedule."

Sunghoon stepped aside with a grunt that might have been acknowledgment. "Figure out a system for the bathroom. This isn't working."

"Tonight?" you asked, already closing the bathroom door.

He nodded once, already walking away.

The bathroom, like the rest of Sunghoon's home, was impeccably organized. Everything was precisely arranged, from the towels to the toiletries. Despite his hasty exit, there was no evidence he'd been there—no steam on the mirror, no water drops, not even a damp towel.

You couldn't help comparing it to your old bathroom, with its cheerful clutter of hair potions and colorful healing salves. You'd tried to contain your "mess" (as Sunghoon had bluntly called it) to your designated spaces, but the bathroom was necessarily shared.

As you showered, you wondered how long before Sunghoon lost his mind completely at having to share his perfectly ordered world with someone who considered "sort of organized" a major achievement.

-

Sunghoon returned from work that evening to find his kitchen transformed. Cabinet doors stood open, cookware rearranged, and something simmered on the stove, filling the air with rich aromas.

You stood at the counter, chopping vegetables with practiced precision. Music played softly from a wireless on the windowsill, and Nyx sat on a kitchen chair—flagrantly violating his "no pets on furniture" rule—watching with obvious interest.

"Hi," you said, looking up with a warm smile. "I thought I'd make dinner for both of us. Seemed silly to cook separately."

Sunghoon's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene, gaze lingering on the kitchen timer that had been moved from its designated spot. "I eat at seven. Sharp."

"Perfect timing then," you replied, undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm. "That's exactly when this will be ready. Nothing fancy, just stew."

Before he could respond, Nyx jumped down and wound herself around his ankles, nearly tripping him.

"Your cat is trying to kill me," he muttered, regaining his balance with a scowl.

You laughed, the sound bright in his usually silent home. "She's saying hello. Though with cats, the line between greeting and attempted murder is admittedly thin."

Nyx continued circling his legs, purring loudly despite the minimal acknowledgment from Sunghoon.

"I have work to finish," he said, carefully stepping around the cat. "Let me know when dinner's ready."

"Of course," you agreed, turning back to your cooking. "Oh, Sunghoon?"

He paused in the doorway, looking back with obvious impatience.

"About this morning," you continued. "I made a schedule of my shifts for the next two weeks. Maybe we could coordinate so we're not fighting over the bathroom?"

You pointed to a colorful chart on the refrigerator, held up by a magnet shaped like a frog. You'd detailed all your shifts and bathroom times with different colors.

Sunghoon stared at it longer than necessary, clearly caught off-guard. He'd expected complaints or demands, not a practical solution that actually respected his need for routine.

"Fine," he said finally, though his tone was notably less harsh. "I'll look it over."

Your smile brightened, as if he'd offered high praise instead of grudging acceptance. "Great! I know neither of us wanted this arrangement, but we might as well make it work, right?"

Sunghoon just grunted in response and retreated to his study, unable to formulate a proper reply to your persistent optimism.

Once safely behind his desk, he found himself staring blankly at his work, distracted by the unfamiliar sounds and smells filtering through the house. Even here in his private sanctuary, your presence seemed to permeate everything. The house felt different—warmer, more alive somehow.

The Ministry ring warmed slightly on his finger, a constant reminder of your presence elsewhere in the home. The sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant, which was perhaps the most disturbing part of all.

-

Dinner proved surprisingly tolerable. The stew was excellent—rich and flavorful. Despite himself, Sunghoon finished his entire bowl, a fact that seemed to please you immensely.

"There's plenty more if you want seconds," you offered, your own bowl already empty.

"This is enough," Sunghoon replied, though he wouldn't have minded more. Taking seconds felt strangely like admitting defeat.

"So," you said after a moment, "how was your day?"

The question caught him off-guard. No one ever asked about his day. His evenings typically passed in complete silence, with no expectations of small talk or social niceties.

"Fine," he said finally. Then, after a brief internal debate: "The Bulgarians are being difficult about potion imports."

To his surprise, you didn't just nod politely and change the subject. "Is that the nightshade derivatives issue? I read about it last week."

Sunghoon looked up, reassessing you. "Yes. They've implemented restrictions that violate Section Seven of the International Trade Agreement."

"Because of the poisoning cases?" you asked, seeming genuinely interested. "We had a child on the ward who got sick from a poorly regulated Sleeping Draught from Eastern Europe. Really bad situation."

"Exactly why proper regulation matters," Sunghoon said, finding himself drawn into the conversation despite his intention to keep dinner brief. "Bulgaria's unilateral action undermines the existing framework without actually fixing the problem."

You nodded thoughtfully. "I can see both sides. As a healer, I want the strictest safety standards for potions. But I also understand why uniform international rules matter."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive," Sunghoon found himself explaining. "A coordinated approach gives both safety and consistency."

The conversation flowed with unexpected ease as you discussed the intersection of international policy and healing practices. Sunghoon was reluctantly impressed by your insights. This wasn't the mindless chatter he'd expected but an actual exchange he found... almost engaging.

He was so focused on explaining a particularly complex regulation that he didn't notice Nyx jump onto the table until she was approaching his plate with determined interest.

"Nyx!" you exclaimed, reaching for the cat. "No, we don't do that!"

Sunghoon had already moved his plate away from her investigative nose. "Your cat thinks rules don't apply to her."

"She's testing boundaries," you said, scooping her up and removing her from the table. "She does this with every new place. Sorry—I should have warned you she'd try to take over the dining area."

"Take over?" Sunghoon repeated, eyeing the cat with new understanding.

"She's checking if you'll enforce rules or if she can gradually claim the house as her domain," you explained with a smile. "Classic cat power move."

"So she's deliberately challenging my authority," Sunghoon said, a hint of grudging respect in his voice as he studied the cat's unrepentant face.

"Exactly," you laughed. "It's basically a hostile takeover attempt, just with more fur and purring."

To your surprise, the corner of Sunghoon's mouth twitched slightly. "Tell your cat that I don't negotiate with terrorists, regardless of how fluffy they are."

"I'll relay the message," you replied with mock seriousness, "but fair warning—she's been known to leave hairball 'presents' for those who resist her rule."

This time, Sunghoon's almost-smile was more visible. Something about your willingness to joke about the situation without mocking his need for order was strangely disarming.

The rest of dinner passed in conversation focused mainly on the upcoming Ministry assessment. You both agreed on minimal compliance—showing just enough "bonding" to satisfy the bureaucrats without crossing Sunghoon's carefully drawn boundaries.

"I should probably put a few more of my things in the living room," you suggested as you gathered the dishes. "Nothing overwhelming, just enough to show we're sharing space."

"Makes sense, although you already have," Sunghoon agreed, rising to help with cleanup—a small but notable departure from his usual habits. "They'll look for signs we're actually living together, not just occupying the same house."

"Maybe a couple of photos? One of my healing journals on the coffee table?"

"Fine," he said, the word less clipped than usual. The excellent meal had perhaps mellowed his typical resistance, or maybe he simply recognized that some concessions were necessary to keep the Ministry off their backs.

After dinner, you retreated to your room, leaving Sunghoon to his evening reading. The house settled into quiet, punctuated only by your occasional movements upstairs and Nyx's determined patrols of the hallways.

-

The morning that changed everything came on your fifth day together.

Despite your carefully coordinated bathroom schedule, an emergency at the hospital had disrupted everything. Called in at three AM, you hadn't returned until nearly dawn, forgetting that 5:15 was exactly when Sunghoon would be waking up.

You were halfway through your shower when the bathroom door opened.

Sunghoon, still half-asleep, was two steps into the room before registering the running water and steam.

"Shit—sorry," he said, suddenly alert. "Didn't know you were back."

"Emergency case," you called over the water. "Completely lost track of time!"

"I'll come back—" Sunghoon began, when his retreat was interrupted by Nyx darting between his legs, nearly knocking him off balance.

What happened next unfolded too quickly to prevent. Sunghoon stumbled against the sink, knocking your bottle of Madame Mimosa's Magnificent Moisture Potion to the floor. It shattered, immediately releasing both its contents and its powerful enchantment.

The bathroom instantly filled with fragrant mist smelling of honeysuckle and vanilla. The moisture-enhancing charm transformed the already steamy bathroom into a tropical greenhouse.

"What the—" you gasped, shutting off the water and grabbing a towel.

"Goddamn magical beauty products," Sunghoon muttered, already looking for something to clean up the mess.

You stepped forward to help when your foot hit a slick patch. With a startled yelp, you lost your balance as the towel began to slip.

Sunghoon moved with surprising speed and grace, catching you firmly by the arms before you could fall. The towel stayed in place, though precariously low.

For a breathless moment, you found yourself held securely in his grip, your face inches from his. Through the enchanted mist, you saw his eyes darken as he registered your proximity. Water droplets clung to your skin, and you became acutely aware of how little separated you—just a damp towel and his rapidly dampening clothes.

"Thanks," you said softly, suddenly very aware of how strong his hands felt.

Sunghoon seemed to realize he was still holding you. Rather than jerking away awkwardly, he released you with controlled deliberation, his hands sliding down your arms before dropping to his sides.

"I should let you finish," he said, his voice lower than usual. "We can deal with this mess later."

He left with surprising composure despite his now damp clothes and the way his normally perfect hair had started to curl against his forehead.

When you emerged thirty minutes later, the house was quiet. On the kitchen counter, you found a note in Sunghoon's precise handwriting:

Early meeting at the Ministry today. Back this evening. —S

Beneath it lay a small velvet pouch containing a vial of Madame Mimosa's Magnificent Moisture Potion—the exact product that had shattered.

He'd replaced your broken cosmetic. Such a small gesture, yet as you held the vial, you felt a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with moisture potions.

Somewhere beneath that grumpy exterior, Sunghoon had not only noticed what you used but gone out of his way to replace it without being asked.

Maybe there was hope for this arrangement after all.

-

That evening, Sunghoon returned to find dinner waiting—a peace offering of sorts for the morning's disruption. He entered the kitchen cautiously, as if expecting another magical mishap.

"I promise there are no moisture potions involved in tonight's dinner," you said with a smile that acknowledged the morning's awkwardness without dwelling on it.

"Good to know," Sunghoon replied, and if his voice sounded less irritated than usual, you chose not to comment.

"Thank you for replacing my potion," you said as you served the food. "You really didn't have to do that."

Sunghoon focused intently on arranging his napkin, clearly uncomfortable with gratitude. "It was my fault it broke."

"Still, it was thoughtful," you persisted, unwilling to let the kindness go unacknowledged.

Sunghoon just shrugged, visibly uncomfortable. "I updated the bathroom schedule to include emergency shifts," he said, obviously changing the subject. "There's a buffer period built in now."

"Perfect," you replied, allowing him the redirect. "I've also moved my potions to a safer spot. Though I can't promise Nyx won't continue her reign of terror."

As if summoned, the cat appeared in the doorway, yellow eyes fixed on Sunghoon with unusual interest.

"Your cat is staring at me again," he said, eyeing Nyx warily. "It's unnerving."

"She's decided you're interesting," you said with a smile. "I've never seen her take to anyone so quickly."

"I haven't done anything to encourage her," Sunghoon muttered, though he didn't object when Nyx jumped onto the empty chair beside him and settled in to watch the meal.

"Some people just have that effect on animals," you suggested, hiding a smile as you noticed how Sunghoon had shifted to accommodate the cat's presence.

"No, she's definitely plotting something," he replied, though without real heat. "She knows I don't like her on the furniture, so she does it more often. She's probably enjoying my irritation."

"That's... actually spot-on cat psychology," you admitted, impressed despite yourself.

Neither of you mentioned the morning's encounter directly, but something had shifted between you. As you cleared the dishes together—a small routine that had developed without discussion—you found yourself wondering if Sunghoon was as aware of you now as you suddenly were of him.

Because in that moment in the steamy bathroom, you'd noticed things about your Ministry-assigned husband you'd been ignoring: the strength in his hands, the heat of his skin through damp fabric, the way his eyes had darkened when they met yours.

Physical attraction. Exactly the complication neither of you needed.

But as you watched him methodically drying dishes, his movements controlled yet oddly graceful, you wondered if he'd noticed something too—something that had sent him to the Ministry for the day, something that had prompted him to replace your broken potion with such uncharacteristic thoughtfulness.

The Ministry ring warmed slightly on your finger, as it always did when you were near him. But for the first time, you wondered if the enchantment was merely enhancing something that might have developed naturally, given time and proximity.

A dangerous thought, and one you quickly dismissed. This wasn't a love match but a Ministry arrangement. Developing feelings for a man who clearly valued order and emotional distance above all else would only make an already challenging situation unbearable.

Still, as you bid Sunghoon goodnight and headed upstairs, you couldn't quite forget the look in his eyes through the enchanted mist, or the careful strength of his hands as they steadied you.

Some boundaries, it seemed, were proving more difficult to maintain than others.

-

Journal Entry: 18 March 2023

This morning's bathroom incident requires documentation before I forget the details.

Thanks to Y/N's emergency shift and that damn cat, we had a collision in the bathroom. A bottle broke, releasing some kind of moisture enchantment that turned the bathroom into a steam room. She slipped, I caught her, and for a moment things got...complicated.

She was wearing only a towel. Her skin was wet. I could smell honeysuckle everywhere. And for a few seconds, I couldn't think straight.

Basic attraction. Nothing more. Just biology responding to an objectively attractive woman in close proximity. Doesn't mean anything.

Replaced her broken potion on the way to work. Simple courtesy since I knocked it over. She's reading too much into it, calling it "thoughtful." It was just fixing a mistake.

I need to be more careful about maintaining distance. Too easy to slip into casual intimacy in a shared living space. The proximity is...distracting.

— S.

-

The notes began on your seventh day of cohabitation.

The first appeared on the kitchen counter:

Second cabinet from the left has tea. Purple tin is good for early shifts. —S

More notes followed, appearing with increasing frequency throughout the house:

Book on Eastern European healing techniques is on the third shelf. Might help with your case. —S

Chair by the east window has the best light for reading. —S

Each note was brief and practical, yet together they revealed something unexpected: Sunghoon was paying attention to the minute details of your habits, preferences, and needs.

"Your husband keeps leaving me instructions," you told Nyx as you discovered yet another note, this one attached to a vial of headache potion after a difficult shift. "As if I can't possibly function without his guidance."

Nyx, curled on your pillow, regarded you with knowing yellow eyes.

"Okay, fine," you conceded. "The headache potion is actually thoughtful."

The strangest part was that Sunghoon never mentioned the notes. Not when you used the recommended tea, not when you sat in the supposedly optimal reading chair. He merely inclined his head slightly when he noticed, acknowledging without actually having to talk about it.

It was as if the notes allowed him to be attentive without the discomfort of direct personal interaction—a buffer that let him care from a safe distance.

"The Ministry assessment is in three days," Sunghoon announced over dinner. "We need to discuss strategy."

"I've been leaving some of my things in the common areas," you offered. "Signs of shared space, like we talked about."

"Good," Sunghoon said. "That covers the basics. But they'll be looking for signs we're comfortable with each other."

"So we need to act like we don't hate each other," you summarized. "That shouldn't be too difficult. I don't actually hate you, despite your militant organization of spice jars."

Something that might have been amusement flickered in Sunghoon's eyes. "The spice system makes perfect sense. And I don't..." He paused, as if the words were difficult to form. "I don't mind having you here. As much as I thought I would."

Coming from Sunghoon, this was practically a declaration of fond attachment.

"For the assessment, we'll need to look comfortable with physical proximity," he continued. "They watch for casual contact."

"Casual contact?" you repeated, feeling inexplicably nervous. Since the bathroom incident, you'd both been careful to maintain personal space. The thought of deliberately breaching that boundary sent an unexpected flutter through your stomach.

"Hand touches. Sitting close. Basic couple things." His tone was matter-of-fact, but you noticed how his fingers tightened slightly around his water glass.

"Right," you agreed, trying to match his casual tone despite the warmth creeping up your neck. "Just normal married-people stuff."

An awkward silence fell, broken only when Nyx jumped onto the table and began examining Sunghoon's water glass.

"Your cat is still testing me," Sunghoon observed, making no move to remove her.

"She likes you," you said.

"Cats like people who ignore them," Sunghoon replied, though he unconsciously extended a finger to scratch behind Nyx's ear. "Perverse creatures."

"Is that why you leave notes instead of talking to me directly?" The question escaped before you could reconsider it.

Sunghoon looked up sharply. "The notes are practical. They avoid unnecessary conversation."

"They're about which chair gets the best light and which tea I might like," you pointed out gently. "Not exactly essential information."

"Writing is more direct."

"And less personal," you added. "You don't have to look at me or deal with my response if you just leave a note."

"The notes keep things simple," he said, his expression closing off. "The Ministry wants us to live together. They don't require us to be best friends."

The coldness in his voice stung more than it should have. After all, this was a Ministry arrangement, not a love match.

Still, when you climbed into bed that night, you were surprised to find a new note on your pillow:

Found an error in that healing text you're reading. Page 394 has wrong moonflower dosages for children under seven. I made a correction in the margin. —S

Below his usual initial was an additional line:

Your input on the Bulgarian negotiations was helpful. They accepted our proposal.

You stared at the note, reading and re-reading the second part. It wasn't exactly effusive praise, but coming from Sunghoon, it was practically a standing ovation.

In a note, of course—heaven forbid he mention it in person—but still.

As you placed the note on your bedside table, you noticed something else: your wand, which you'd left on the dresser as usual, had been moved to the bedside table exactly as Sunghoon had suggested in his earlier note.

You'd moved it without even thinking about it, automatically following his "more efficient" arrangement.

The realization made you smile despite your lingering hurt from dinner. Perhaps, in your own way, you were both adjusting to each other—his brief notes, your gradual adoption of his systems. Not a traditional foundation for a relationship, certainly, but a form of communication nonetheless.

With the Ministry assessment rapidly approaching, you supposed any form of connection, however peculiar, was better than none at all.

-

"We should adjust how we sit," Sunghoon announced the following evening as you both stood awkwardly in the living room, attempting to "practice" looking like a comfortable couple.

"What's wrong with how we sit?" you asked, looking at the sofa and chairs that had been in their precise positions since you moved in.

"We sit too far apart," he said bluntly. "You're always in the armchair, I'm at the opposite end of the sofa. Real couples sit closer."

You glanced between your preferred chair and Sunghoon's usual spot at the far end of the sofa. He wasn't wrong—you'd naturally established territories as far from each other as the room allowed.

"So we should sit closer together when they visit?" you suggested.

"We should practice now, so it looks natural," Sunghoon said, moving toward the sofa with visible reluctance. "Forced closeness will look just as suspicious as sitting across the room."

You fought back a smile at his serious approach to what was essentially "pretending to like each other." It was so very Sunghoon to treat casual affection as something that needed rehearsal.

"Alright then," you said, settling onto the sofa at what you judged to be a friendly but not intimate distance. "Like this?"

Sunghoon studied the space between you with a frown. "Still too formal." Before you could respond, he shifted closer, not quite touching but near enough that you could feel the warmth emanating from his body.

"Couples who are getting comfortable with each other sit about this far apart," he said. His tone was practical, but you noticed how carefully he was holding himself, as if afraid to relax into the sofa cushions.

"You've really researched this, haven't you?" you asked, unable to keep the amusement from your voice.

"I looked into what Ministry inspectors look for," Sunghoon said defensively. "I don't want to fail over something as simple as sitting arrangements."

"Of course," you murmured, suddenly very aware of how close he was. The scent of his cologne—something clean and subtle that you'd begun to associate with his presence—seemed more noticeable at this distance.

"We should practice casual touch too," Sunghoon continued, though you noticed the slight tension in his jaw. "Hand touches. Arms brushing. Normal couple things."

You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. "That makes sense. Should we, um, go for it?"

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, with what appeared to be forced casualness, Sunghoon extended his hand, palm up, between you.

"Hand holding is pretty basic," he said, his voice lower than usual. "Nothing complicated."

You placed your hand in his, expecting a brief, perfunctory touch. Instead, his fingers closed around yours with a gentle pressure, his palm warm and surprisingly soft against your skin.

"This is the kind of thing they'll expect to see," he explained, his eyes fixed on your joined hands. "Just casual touch."

"Right," you agreed, trying to ignore the way your pulse had quickened. "Casual."

You couldn't help but notice how neatly your hand fit in his, how the simple contact somehow felt both ordinary and intimate at once. Sunghoon's thumb moved slightly, a small brush against the side of your hand that might have been unconscious but sent a surprising tingle up your arm.

"How long do we need to practice this particular touch?" you asked, attempting humor to mask your unexpected reaction.

Sunghoon looked up, and for the first time you noticed the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. "A few seconds is enough for a casual touch," he said. "Any longer means something else."

"And what might that be?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, softer and more genuine than you'd intended.

Something shifted in Sunghoon's expression—a momentary crack in his carefully maintained armor. His eyes dropped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes, the movement so quick you almost missed it.

Before he could answer, the front door wards chimed with an unfamiliar pattern.

Sunghoon dropped your hand and stood in one fluid motion, suddenly all business. "Ministry officials."

"But the assessment isn't until tomorrow," you said, rising as well.

"They do surprise visits," Sunghoon replied, straightening his already immaculate robes. "To catch couples off guard."

The wards chimed again, more insistently.

"Do we look okay?" you asked, smoothing your own robes nervously.

Sunghoon's eyes swept over you briefly. "You look fine. Just try to seem comfortable with me."

"That makes two of us," you murmured, earning a brief, startled glance from him before he moved to answer the door.

You settled back onto the sofa, trying to appear relaxed rather than like someone who had just been practicing hand-holding with her reluctant husband.

You heard the door open, Sunghoon's polite greeting, then he returned to the living room with a short witch with iron-gray hair. A clipboard hovered beside her with a self-writing quill poised above it.

"Mrs. Park," the witch said, her eyes sharp behind square spectacles. "I'm Inspector Howell from the Marriage Compliance Office. This is a standard preliminary assessment visit."

You rose, offering your hand with what you hoped looked like genuine welcome. "It's nice to meet you, Inspector. We were expecting you tomorrow."

"That's the official assessment," Howell replied, shaking your hand briefly. "This is a preliminary observation to establish baseline interaction patterns."

"I see," you said, though you didn't really. The Ministry's procedures seemed designed to maximize discomfort. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you. This will be brief." Howell's gaze swept the living room, taking in the signs of cohabitation—your books on the side table, the colorful throw on the armchair, Sunghoon's journals now mingled with yours.

"You've established shared living space," she noted approvingly. "And you use the common areas together rather than separately."

"We were discussing some international trade regulations," Sunghoon said, moving to stand beside you—not touching, but close enough to signal connection. "Y/N's experience with imported potions has been valuable."

You glanced at him in surprise. It wasn't exactly what you'd been discussing, but it wasn't entirely false—you had spent several dinner conversations on that topic.

"Professional collaboration is a positive sign," Howell said, making a note. "The Ministry encourages pairs to find connections beyond mere cohabitation."

"We're finding we have more in common than we expected," you offered, unconsciously leaning slightly toward Sunghoon.

Howell observed you both with clinical assessment. "Your physical comfort indicators are minimal," she observed, making another note. "Body language suggests formality rather than developing intimacy."

Without thinking, you reached out and touched Sunghoon's arm—a light, casual contact that might look natural between a developing couple.

"We're still getting used to each other," you explained, your fingers resting on his sleeve. "But it's getting easier."

To your shock, Sunghoon's hand came up to cover yours, his touch warm and sure. The gesture was so unexpected you almost pulled away, but the gentle pressure of his fingers kept yours in place.

"We're making progress," he agreed, his voice perfectly steady despite the unexpected touch he'd initiated.

Something flickered in his eyes as he looked down at you—a brief, unguarded moment when the mask slipped and you glimpsed something that looked remarkably like genuine attraction before his diplomatic expression returned.

Howell watched this exchange with sharp eyes, her quill making rapid notes. After a moment, she gave a curt nod. "Acceptable for preliminary stages. You'll need to demonstrate further development at your official assessment."

"We understand," Sunghoon said smoothly, though his hand lingered on yours a moment longer than necessary before withdrawing.

"Good. Your official assessment remains scheduled for tomorrow at two o'clock." Howell consulted her clipboard one final time. "Be prepared for a more comprehensive evaluation."

With that, she departed as abruptly as she'd arrived, leaving you and Sunghoon in a suddenly charged silence.

"Well," you said, your skin still tingling where his fingers had pressed against yours. "That was unexpected."

"The Ministry likes surprise inspections," Sunghoon replied, moving away to put more distance between you. "It prevents couples from rehearsing."

You nodded, trying not to feel hurt by how quickly he'd reestablished space after the inspector left. "Quick thinking with the hand thing. Very convincing."

Sunghoon glanced at you, something flashing in his eyes that was gone too quickly to identify. "It was the logical response to her comment about formality."

"Right," you agreed, forcing a smile. "Logical."

An awkward silence fell, broken when Nyx sauntered into the room. With impeccable timing, she assessed the tension and promptly jumped onto Sunghoon's favorite chair.

"Your cat has the worst sense of boundaries I've ever seen," Sunghoon observed, though there was no real bite to his words.

"She's just letting you know who's really in charge here," you said, grateful for the tension breaker.

The corner of Sunghoon's mouth twitched upward. "Then she should be conducting our Ministry assessment. She'd have everyone properly trained in no time."

Your laugh filled the room, genuine and relieved. "She'd have the inspector bringing her treats within minutes."

Sunghoon's almost-smile lingered for a moment before he turned toward his study. "I need to finish some work. We should practice again tomorrow before the official assessment."

"Looking forward to it," you replied, surprised to realize you meant it. Despite the awkwardness, there had been something undeniably... intriguing about those moments of closeness.

Sunghoon paused at the doorway, his expression unreadable. "You did well today. Quick thinking."

Coming from him, it was high praise. You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest at the rare compliment. "We make a decent team when we try."

He nodded once—not quite agreement, but not denial either—before disappearing into his study.

Later that evening, you found a new note on your pillow:

Would like your thoughts on the childhood magical stabilization research for our Eastern European initiative. Your perspective would be valuable. —S

Below, in a less formal postscript:

You have good instincts for dealing with Ministry officials. The arm touch was effective.

You smiled, running your fingers over his neat handwriting. A professional consultation request and what might actually be a genuine compliment, all in one note. For Sunghoon, this was unprecedented.

As you settled into bed, Nyx claiming her usual spot by your pillow, you found yourself thinking about the moment Sunghoon's hand had covered yours—not the practiced touch during your rehearsal, but the instinctive way he'd reached for you during the inspection. There had been something natural in that gesture, something that felt less like performance and more like genuine connection.

And that brief, unguarded look in his eyes...

You pushed the thought away. This was a Ministry arrangement, not a romance. Developing feelings for a man who kept himself behind such carefully constructed walls would only lead to disappointment.

Still, as you drifted toward sleep, you couldn't help remembering the warmth of his palm against yours, the surprising gentleness of his touch, and the fleeting moment when his eyes had revealed something his words never would.

-

Journal Entry: 21 March 2023

We had a surprise Ministry inspection today. Howell called us out for looking "formal" with each other. Like we're supposed to be madly in love after two weeks of forced cohabitation.

Need to fix this before tomorrow's real assessment. Y/N has good instincts for this stuff - grabbed my arm at the perfect moment when Howell was watching. I covered her hand without thinking about it. Worked well - the inspector bought it.

The hand-holding practice earlier was... distracting. Shouldn't have been. It's just holding hands, for Merlin's sake. I've touched plenty of women before without losing focus. Something about Y/N's hand in mine made it hard to think straight. Probably just the stress of the situation.

Y/N keeps using the chair by the east window I mentioned in my note. She moved her wand to the bedside table too. At least one of us is listening to reasonable suggestions.

The cat has claimed my reading chair. Again. I don't have the energy to fight a territorial war with a cat while dealing with Ministry inspections. Pick your battles, as they say.

11 days until the three-month assessment with the sleeping arrangements check. We'll deal with that when we have to. One crisis at a time.

— S.

P.S. Her laugh makes the room feel different. Less empty somehow. Just an observation.

-

"Don't you think we're approaching this all wrong?" you asked, setting down your teacup.

It was the morning before your official Ministry assessment, and tension filled the living room. You'd spent three days awkwardly "practicing proximity" with mixed results.

"Wrong how?" Sunghoon looked up from the notes he was reviewing.

"This—" you gestured between you "—all this practicing and measuring. It feels forced. The inspector already noticed we seem too formal."

"We need more practice," Sunghoon said, though he sounded less convinced than usual.

"I don't think we can rehearse our way into looking comfortable with each other," you said. "That's not how this works."

"What do you suggest, then?" His tone held a challenge, but his eyes showed genuine curiosity.

"I think we need to actually get comfortable with each other," you said. "Not just pretend. Real couples don't measure the space between them or time how long they hold hands. They have inside jokes, nicknames, shared habits."

Sunghoon's expression suggested you'd proposed something outlandish. "Nicknames."

"Yes, nicknames! Or at least using first names consistently. You still introduce me as 'Y/N L/N' to colleagues, like I'm a stranger rather than your wife."

"It's your name," he pointed out, frowning.

"Think of it diplomatically," you countered. "What creates stronger alliances - formal state dinners or casual meetings where leaders use first names and make personal connections?"

Sunghoon's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered this. "The informal connections last longer," he admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly! We need to stop treating this like a performance and build some real connection."

Sunghoon studied you for a long moment. "Fine," he said finally. "What do you suggest beyond... nicknames?"

"For starters, you could actually look at me when we talk, instead of staring at the wall like you're afraid eye contact might kill you."

To your surprise, Sunghoon immediately shifted in his seat, turning to face you directly. His dark eyes met yours with unexpected intensity.

"Like this?" he asked, and there was something almost vulnerable in the question.

"Yes," you said softly, momentarily caught off-guard by the full force of his attention. "That's much better."

Nyx chose that moment to jump between you, settling possessively in Sunghoon's lap. For once, he didn't stiffen or push her away, his hands automatically adjusting to accommodate her.

"Your cat has no concept of personal space," he observed, though his fingers found the spot behind her ears that made her purr.

"She's shameless,your complaining holds no value to her," you agreed, watching with hidden delight as the cat nestled comfortably against him. "But she gets what she wants."

"Something you have in common," Sunghoon said, and you could have sworn the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Tell me something about yourself that's not in your Ministry file," you said, seizing the moment. "Something personal."

Sunghoon was quiet so long you thought he might refuse. "I like autumn best," he said finally. "The colors, the crispness. It's... predictable but beautiful."

"And you?" he asked, the question awkward but clearly deliberate.

"Spring," you answered with a smile. "New beginnings, surprises, flowers appearing in unexpected places."

"Our preferences match our personalities," Sunghoon observed, surprising you with the insight.

He hesitated, then added: "My family moved constantly when I was young. My father's diplomatic postings."

"That must have been hard," you said gently. "Always being the new kid."

"I learned to adapt," he said with a shrug that didn't quite hide the old hurt. "New places, new rules."

"But lonely?" you suggested.

Something flashed in his eyes—vulnerability quickly hidden. "I got used to being on my own," he said simply, which wasn't a denial.

Then later, you came downstairs to find a note on the counter:

Early meeting about Bulgaria. Back by 1:00 for assessment prep. —S

Below, in less formal handwriting:

This morning's conversation was good. We should do that more.

As you made your tea, you noticed a small vase containing three perfect autumn leaves, their colors brilliantly red and gold, sitting on the table.

No note, no explanation. You touched one leaf gently, knowing Sunghoon had placed them there as a reference to your conversation.

From a man who communicated primarily through efficiency and structure, the gesture felt like something significant—a wordless acknowledgment that perhaps he was beginning to see you as more than just an inconvenient Ministry assignment.

The warmth that spread through your chest at the thought was dangerous, but increasingly difficult to ignore.

-

The official Ministry assessment arrived with all the subtlety of a rampaging hippogriff.

At precisely two o'clock, your fireplace flared green, and not one but three Ministry officials stepped through. Inspector Howell led the group, accompanied by a thin wizard with a monocle and a young witch whose Quick-Quotes Quill was already scratching away before she'd fully emerged from the flames.

"Mr. and Mrs. Park," Howell announced, brushing soot from her severe gray robes. "As scheduled, we're here for your first formal compatibility assessment."

Sunghoon, who'd been pacing the living room for the past half hour, immediately straightened his already immaculate robes. "Inspector. We've been expecting you."

"Indeed." Howell's sharp eyes took in the room, cataloging the small changes you'd made since her preliminary visit. More of your books mingled with Sunghoon's on the shelves. One of your cardigans was draped over the back of a chair. A half-finished game of wizard's chess sat on the side table.

"This is Examiner Finch," she indicated the monocled wizard, "and Record-Keeper Wilby." The young witch nodded, her quill still moving frantically.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," you offered, gesturing to the seating area where you and Sunghoon had spent the previous evening rehearsing.

"This won't be a comfortable assessment, Mrs. Park," Examiner Finch said, his monocle glinting. "The preliminary evaluation indicated minimal physical compatibility indicators. Today's assessment must provide evidence of progress."

Your stomach tightened. "Progress? It's only been two weeks—"

"Precisely the period when compatible matches typically demonstrate initial bonding behaviors," Finch interrupted. "The Marriage Unity Act is quite clear on expected timelines."

Sunghoon moved closer to you, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back. The touch was so unexpected that you nearly jumped, but his steady pressure kept you in place.

"We understand the Ministry's expectations," he said, his voice even but with an edge of steel. "However, we believe in a measured approach to relationship development."

"Measured approaches rarely produce the magical bonding necessary for the program's success," Howell said, making a note on her clipboard. "We'll need to evaluate your physical compatibility more thoroughly today."

The assessment began with standard questions about living arrangements, daily routines, and shared activities. You described your coordinated bathroom schedule, joint dinners, and professional collaborations, carefully emphasizing the aspects of your lives that had genuinely begun to intertwine.

Throughout, Sunghoon kept his hand on your back or lightly touching your arm. Each contact sent a small shiver through you that had nothing to do with the Ministry's intimidating presence.

"Your living space shows adequate integration," Howell finally concluded. "However, we must now evaluate personal knowledge and physical comfort."

She nodded to Finch, who withdrew a small silver sphere from his pocket. "This is a Veridian Orb," he explained. "It measures truth and concordance between matched pairs."

He placed the orb on the coffee table, where it hovered slightly above the surface, pulsing with a soft blue light.

"You will be asked a series of questions about your partner," Finch continued. "The orb will measure your knowledge of each other and the authenticity of your responses."

Sunghoon's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he gave a curt nod. "Proceed."

The questions started innocuously enough. Favorite colors, preferred foods, daily routines. Thanks to your conversation the previous evening and Sunghoon's surprisingly attentive note-taking habits, you both answered with reasonable accuracy. The orb maintained its calm blue pulse.

Then the questions grew more personal.

"Mr. Park," Howell said, "describe Mrs. Park's reaction when she's particularly pleased about something."

Sunghoon hesitated only briefly. "She smiles first with her eyes before her lips follow. When she's genuinely happy, she makes a small sound—not quite a laugh—just before she speaks."

The orb pulsed slightly brighter. You stared at Sunghoon, startled that he'd noticed such a detail.

"Mrs. Park," Finch continued, "where does Mr. Park touch when he's feeling tense?"

Heat crawled up your neck. "He... adjusts his left cuff. Three times, always three precise movements."

Sunghoon's eyes flickered to you, a flash of surprise crossing his usually composed features. The orb glowed slightly warmer.

The questions continued, each more intrusive than the last. How does your partner sleep? What physical gestures do they find comforting? Have you noticed changes in their behavior when you're in close proximity?

With each answer, the tension in the room grew thicker. You found yourself hyperaware of Sunghoon beside you, the warmth of his thigh an inch from yours, the subtle scent of his cologne, the way his fingers occasionally brushed yours when you both reached to adjust positions.

"The knowledge indicators are adequate," Howell finally announced. "However, physical comfort remains underdeveloped."

"What exactly are you expecting?" Sunghoon asked, a dangerous edge to his voice. "We've been married for two weeks."

"The most successful matches demonstrate natural physical affinity by this stage," Finch replied, adjusting his monocle. "Simple gestures of affection without hesitation or overthinking."

"I believe a practical demonstration is in order," Howell said, making another note. "Please show us how you typically interact when alone."

You froze. Beside you, Sunghoon went so still he might have been petrified.

"That's hardly appropriate," he said after a moment, his voice low.

"Mr. Park," Howell replied coldly, "nothing you do in your own home with your spouse is inappropriate. Unless, of course, there is no genuine interaction occurring, which would indicate non-compliance with the Marriage Unity Act's core requirements."

The threat hung in the air. Behind her, Record-Keeper Wilby's quill scratched ominously.

Sunghoon turned toward you, his expression unreadable. "May I?" he asked quietly, his voice pitched for your ears alone.

You nodded, heart hammering against your ribs. You'd expected perhaps a brief touch, maybe an arm around your shoulders.

Instead, Sunghoon's hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. The touch was so unexpectedly gentle that your breath caught.

"They're watching for authenticity," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Follow my lead."

Before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn't a passionate kiss, but neither was it the clinical peck you might have expected. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft against yours, the pressure light but lingering. His hand slid from your cheek to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with a sureness that suggested this wasn't the first time he'd done this.

You found yourself responding without conscious thought, your hand coming up to rest against his chest. Beneath your palm, his heart beat a rapid rhythm that belied his composed exterior.

When he pulled back, his eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them, pupils expanded to nearly swallow the brown. For a moment—just a moment—his careful mask slipped, revealing something raw and wanting beneath before he reconstructed his composed expression.

The orb on the table had changed from blue to a warm, pulsing gold.

"Well," Howell said, a note of surprise in her voice. "That's significantly more progress than your preliminary assessment indicated."

Finch cleared his throat, a faint color in his typically pallid cheeks. "Yes, quite. Physical compatibility appears to be developing appropriately."

Sunghoon's hand had returned to the small of your back, but there was a new tension in his touch. "Is there anything else, Inspector?" he asked, his voice remarkably steady.

"Just one more matter," Howell replied, consulting her clipboard. "Three-month milestone requirements. As you know, shared sleeping quarters will be required by that date. Our assessment then will include verification of appropriate accommodation arrangements."

"We're aware," Sunghoon said tersely.

"And the mandatory bonding retreat," Finch added. "All couples we see fit, in the program must attend the Ministry's three-day compatibility enhancement retreat at the three-month mark."

This was new information. You glanced at Sunghoon, whose jaw had tightened again.

"Compatibility enhancement retreat?" you repeated.

"A specialized program designed to accelerate the bonding process," Howell explained. "Under the supervision of marriage integration specialists, couples participate in therapeutic exercises to build natural physical and emotional connections."

Sunghoon's fingers pressed more firmly against your back. "And is this 'retreat' optional?"

"It's a mandatory component of the three-month compliance verification," Howell replied. "All couples we pick participate, no exceptions. You'll receive detailed information by owl next week."

The assessment concluded shortly after. As the green flames of the Floo died down behind the departing Ministry officials, an awkward silence fell over the living room.

Sunghoon had already moved away from you, putting his usual careful distance between you. His expression was closed, unreadable.

"So," you said finally, your voice not quite steady. "That was..."

"Intrusive," Sunghoon finished, his tone clipped. "But we passed. That's what matters."

You touched your lips, still feeling the phantom pressure of his. "About the... demonstration. I know that was just for show, but—"

"It was necessary," he interrupted, not meeting your eyes. "The orb measures genuine reactions. A clinical touch wouldn't have registered correctly."

"Right," you agreed, trying to ignore the twist of disappointment in your chest. "Smart thinking."

Sunghoon glanced at you briefly, something flickering in his eyes before he looked away. "I apologize if I overstepped."

"You didn't," you assured him quickly. "It was... convincing."

A heavy silence fell. The Veridian Orb still sat on the coffee table, its glow now faded to a dull bronze.

"This three-month retreat," you said finally. "That sounds..."

"Problematic," Sunghoon supplied, running a hand through his usually immaculate hair, mussing it slightly. "We'll deal with it when we have to."

He moved toward his study, clearly eager to escape the lingering tension between you. At the doorway, he paused, his back to you.

"You did well today," he said, his voice lower than usual. "The observation about my cuff adjustments... I didn't realize anyone had noticed that."

Before you could respond, he disappeared into his sanctuary, leaving you alone with the rapidly cooling orb and the persistent memory of his lips against yours.

You sank onto the sofa, trying to process what had just happened. The kiss had been for show, of course—a calculated move to pass the assessment. But there had been something in his eyes after, something unguarded and real that contradicted his dismissive words.

And now there was this "retreat" looming in the future. Three days of "therapeutic exercises" to build "natural physical connections." The very thought sent a flutter of both anxiety and something else—something you weren't quite ready to name—through your stomach.

Nyx jumped onto your lap, kneading your thighs with her paws as if sensing your turmoil.

"What am I getting myself into, Nyx?" you murmured, stroking her soft fur. "This was supposed to be simple. A paper marriage, minimum compliance, keeping our distance."

But nothing felt simple anymore. Not with the memory of Sunghoon's gentle hands and warm lips still so vivid. Not with the knowledge that he'd noticed tiny details about you that even you hadn't been aware of. Not with the Ministry pushing for even more intimacy in the coming months.

And certainly not with the realization that despite all your best intentions, you were beginning to want more than the careful distance Sunghoon insisted on maintaining.

As the afternoon light faded, you remained on the sofa, absentmindedly stroking Nyx while your thoughts circled around one unsettling truth: the Ministry might have forced you into this marriage, but they couldn't force the flutter in your chest when Sunghoon touched you. That had happened entirely on its own.

And judging by the way his heart had raced beneath your palm, you might not be the only one fighting an unwanted attraction.

-

The official Ministry assessment had gone better than expected. You'd passed, but something more significant had happened—something that changed everything between you and Sunghoon.

The following morning found Sunghoon in the back corner of the Leaky Cauldron, nursing a cup of tea while three of his oldest friends bickered over the last piece of treacle tart.

"It's mine by right of discovery," Jay insisted, his Ministry Legal Department badge slightly askew on robes that perpetually looked one charm away from respectability. "I saw it first."

"You've had two already," Jake countered, his Auror reflexes allowing him to snatch the plate before Jay could reach it. "Besides, Heeseung needs the sugar more than you do. Look at those eye bags—those magical bridge supports must be brutal."

Heeseung, who indeed looked exhausted from his latest Magical Construction project, just grinned and took advantage of their distraction to steal the tart for himself. "While you two were arguing, I was acting. Very Slytherin of me, wouldn't you say?"

Sunghoon watched this familiar chaos with the resigned expression of someone who'd endured it since their first year at Hogwarts. Fifteen years of friendship hadn't changed their dynamic—Jay still talked annoyingly, Jake still played peacekeeper while causing half the trouble, and Heeseung still quietly got his way while the others weren't looking.

"If you're done with the dessert theatrics," Sunghoon said, checking his watch, "I have fifteen minutes before I need to get back."

Jay rolled his eyes dramatically. "Still counting minutes, I see. Some things never change." He leaned forward, suddenly serious. "So, you finally cracked and asked for our help. Must be desperate."

"I didn't crack," Sunghoon replied, his tone defensive. "I just thought you might have some useful input."

"The great Park Sunghoon needs our advice on women that hate him," Jake grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"She doesn't hate him," Heeseung corrected, always the more tactful one. "She suggested nicknames, which means she's trying to make things work. That's encouraging."

Sunghoon's eyebrows rose slightly. "How did you know about the nicknames?"

"You literally started this conversation with 'Y/N suggested nicknames might help with the Ministry assessment,'" Jay reminded him. "We're not mind readers, you prat."

"So you want to know what to call her?" Jake asked, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Don't tell me the great Park Sunghoon is going to start saying 'sweetie' and 'darling' like a normal husband."

Sunghoon's expression suggested he'd rather drink bubotuber pus. "I just need to know what's standard. For the assessments."

The three friends exchanged a look Sunghoon had seen countless times—a silent "he's hopeless" communication that dated back to their Hogwarts days.

"What do you call your wife?" Heeseung asked Jay, steering the conversation toward actual help.

"Baby, mostly," Jay replied, grinning. "Or jagiya when I'm showing off my Korean."

"I use sweetheart with mine," Jake offered. "Sometimes baby when we're fucking and i’m really—"

"Just the name is fine," Sunghoon cut in before Jake could elaborate. Seven years of sharing a dormitory had taught him exactly where Jake's stories tended to go.

"I use 'angel' most of the time," Heeseung said, smiling fondly. "Sometimes 'doll' because of her collection. She can tell my mood by which one I use."

Sunghoon absorbed this information with a slight frown. The idea of using such terms still felt foreign.

"You don't have to force it," Heeseung added kindly, noticing his discomfort. "Maybe start with something simple. Her name, but said differently than you'd say a colleague's name."

"What's wrong with just using her name?" Sunghoon asked.

Jay snorted into his butterbeer. "Merlin's beard, Sunghoon. She's not a Ministry report you're filing."

"The assessment's over," Sunghoon said, redirecting the conversation. "What else am I missing?"

"Touch her," Jake said bluntly.

Sunghoon nearly choked on his tea. "What?"

"Not like that," Jake laughed. "Small things. Hand on her back when you walk together. Fingers brushing when you pass things. The little touches couples do without thinking."

"We've practiced appropriate proximity—"

"Practiced?" Jay interrupted, eyebrows shooting up. "Tell me you didn't schedule 'touching practice' like some kind of—"

Sunghoon's silence was damning.

"Bloody hell," Jay threw his hands up. "You can't schedule normal behavior. No wonder she suggested you try actually getting comfortable instead of pretending."

"She's right," Jake nodded approvingly. "Smart woman."

"How exactly am I supposed to develop 'comfort' on demand?" Sunghoon asked, frustration evident in his voice.

His three friends exchanged looks ranging from disbelief to pity.

"The same way you became friends with us," Jay said finally. "You spend time together. You pay attention to what she likes. You talk about things that aren't work."

"I pay attention," Sunghoon said defensively. "I know which tea she prefers after night shifts, which chair she likes to read in—"

"Do you tell her these things," Heeseung asked gently, "or just notice them?"

"I leave notes when relevant."

The collective groan from his friends turned heads at nearby tables.

"Notes," Jake repeated. "You leave your wife notes about her tea preferences."

"It's efficient."

"But not personal," Heeseung pointed out. "When's the last time you complimented her?"

The question caught Sunghoon off-guard. "What?"

"You know," Jake said slowly, "told her something nice about her. That she looks pretty. That she's smart. That you like her laugh. Anything."

Sunghoon frowned slightly. "I mentioned her bathroom schedule was well-designed."

Jay dropped his head to the table with a thunk. "We're all doomed."

"I also told her that her insights on Bulgarian potion regulations were useful," Sunghoon added, feeling oddly defensive.

"That's... something, at least," Heeseung conceded. "Professional respect is a start. But maybe try something more personal?"

"Like what?"

"Tell her she looks nice," Jake suggested. "Or that you like being around her. Small things."

Sunghoon considered this. There were, in fact, several qualities he'd noticed in you that deserved acknowledgment. Your persistent optimism despite difficult circumstances. The focused competence you showed when discussing healing cases. The way your entire face lit up when you laughed.

"I'll think about it," he said finally, checking his watch. "I need to go."

"Think fast," Jay advised, stealing the last bite of Heeseung's tart. "Connection isn't something you can plan like a diplomatic negotiation. Sometimes you just have to let yourself feel things."

"And Sunghoon," Heeseung added as they stood to leave, "we're giving you a hard time, but we're on your side. It's a terrible situation, but she sounds decent. Maybe it won't be as bad as you feared."

"Maybe," Sunghoon admitted, a rare moment of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Thanks for the advice," Sunghoon replied, his tone dry but not entirely ungrateful.

Back at the Ministry, Sunghoon found himself replaying his friends' advice while finalizing the Bulgarian trade agreement. Their suggestions, while buried in unnecessary teasing, weren't entirely without merit.

After sending the final draft to the Bulgarian liaison, he made a detour to the Ministry atrium's small conservatory. After checking no one was watching, he carefully selected three perfect lilac flowers from a charmed flower grove that cycled through seasons.

They weren't a traditional gift, but they were a reference to your conversation—a silent acknowledgment that he had listened and remembered what you'd shared.

As he arranged the lilacs in a small vase on the kitchen table that evening, Sunghoon admitted to himself that he actually wanted to see your reaction when you discovered them. Not just for the assessment. Not just for show.

A troubling realization, indeed.

-

Two days after the Ministry assessment, you noticed subtle but unmistakable changes in Sunghoon's behavior.

It began at breakfast. You'd come downstairs to find him already seated at the table, the Prophet open before him, a cup of tea steaming at his elbow. Nothing unusual there. But when you entered the kitchen, he looked up immediately—not the brief, perfunctory glance you were accustomed to, but an actual pause in his reading, his eyes meeting yours directly.

"Good morning," he said, his tone lacking its usual clipped efficiency.

"Morning," you replied, slightly thrown by the attention. "Sleep well?"

"Adequately," he answered, watching as you moved to prepare your tea. Then, with visible deliberation: "And you... angel?"

The endearment came out so awkwardly that you nearly dropped your mug. It sounded foreign in his mouth, as if he were attempting to speak a language he'd only read about in books. You turned slowly to find him looking faintly uncomfortable, a hint of color high on his cheekbones.

"What did you just call me?" you asked, certain you must have misheard.

Sunghoon cleared his throat, his discomfort visibly increasing. "I was attempting a term of... affection," he said stiffly. "If it's unwelcome, I won't repeat it."

The realization that Park Sunghoon was genuinely trying to use a pet name—and doing it so badly—created a warm bubble of amusement in your chest.

"It's not unwelcome," you assured him, hiding your smile by turning back to your tea preparation. "Just unexpected."

"Noted," he said, his usual crispness returning as he retreated behind his newspaper.

You thought that might be the end of it—a single awkward attempt never to be repeated. But that afternoon, as you sat in the living room reviewing patient files, Sunghoon surprised you again.

He entered from his study, a stack of parchment in hand, and paused by your chair. "I've been reviewing the childhood magical stabilization protocol you mentioned," he said. "Your approach is quite innovative... baby."

The endearment was even more stilted than the first, tacked onto the end of his sentence like an awkward afterthought. This time, you couldn't suppress your laugh.

Sunghoon's expression closed immediately. "You find it amusing."

"No—well, yes," you admitted, your smile softening the words. "But not in a bad way. It's just... very clearly not something you're comfortable with."

"Comfort develops with practice," he said defensively. "All skills require initial periods of inadequacy."

Understanding dawned. "Are you... practicing endearments on me?"

The color on his cheekbones deepened slightly. "The Ministry assessment demonstrated our need for increased displays of familiarity," he said, not quite meeting your eyes. "Verbal indicators of affection are standard components of marital communication."

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh again. It was so very Sunghoon to approach pet names as a skill to be mastered through deliberate practice.

"You don't have to force yourself," you told him gently. "The assessment went fine."

"It was adequate," he corrected, "but future evaluations will require deeper evidence of bonding. Advance preparation is practical."

Before you could respond, Nyx darted into the room, weaving between Sunghoon's legs with her typical disregard for personal space. To your surprise, rather than stiffening or stepping away, Sunghoon merely looked down at the cat with a slight frown.

"Your tactical timing remains impeccable," he told Nyx, who meowed back as if responding to the observation.

You watched in fascination as Sunghoon lowered himself to the sofa, still holding his parchments, and allowed Nyx to jump onto the cushion beside him without protest.

"She's really taken to you," you observed, pleased by the unexpected truce between your cat and your reluctant husband.

"She's persistent," Sunghoon replied, though there was no real annoyance in his tone. "I've determined that resistance requires more energy than accommodation."

"A diplomatic solution," you said, smiling. "Very on-brand for you."

Something that might have been the ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Effective negotiation often requires strategic concessions."

The conversation lapsed into comfortable silence as you both returned to your work, the only sounds the occasional rustle of parchment and Nyx's rumbling purr. It wasn't until you rose to make a fresh cup of tea that Sunghoon spoke again.

"Would you like me to prepare that... sweetheart?"

The third endearment was no less awkward than the previous two, but something about his determined persistence was oddly endearing.

"Thank you, but I've got it," you replied, fighting another smile. "You know, Sunghoon, you really don't have to keep doing this."

He looked up, his expression serious. "Is it objectionable?"

"No," you assured him. "Just unnecessary. And clearly uncomfortable for you."

"Discomfort is temporary," he said with characteristic stubbornness. "Adaptation requires consistent effort."

You studied him for a moment, a new understanding dawning. This wasn't just about Ministry assessments. In his own way, Sunghoon was genuinely trying to build something more comfortable between you—following the advice you'd given him about creating real connection rather than rehearsed proximity.

"Well, if you're determined to practice," you said lightly, "maybe focus on one or two that feel less unnatural to you. And perhaps use it when it actually fits the moment, not just randomly inserted into conversation."

Sunghoon considered this suggestion with the same gravity he might give an international treaty amendment. "A logical approach," he conceded. "Which would you recommend?"

The question caught you off guard. "It's not really about what I recommend," you explained. "It's about what feels natural to you when you look at me."

He studied you then, his dark eyes surprisingly intense. The scrutiny might have been uncomfortable if not for the genuine consideration behind it. After a moment, he nodded once, as if coming to a decision.

"Angel," he said simply. No sentence wrapped around it, no awkward placement—just the word itself, spoken with unexpected softness, “or Baby, I’m more determined to conquer that one.”

Something fluttered in your chest at the simple declaration. "Those ones definitely sound more natural," you managed, your voice not quite steady.

Sunghoon nodded again, apparently satisfied. "Angel," he repeated, testing the word. "Yes, that seems most appropriate."

The moment hung between you, charged with something neither of you was quite ready to name. Then Nyx broke the tension by standing abruptly, stretching, and deliberately knocking one of Sunghoon's parchments to the floor.

"Your cat requires remedial boundary training," Sunghoon observed, though there was a hint of something almost like humor in his voice.

And just like that, the unusual intensity dissolved, replaced by the comfortable routine of your shared domestic life. But something had shifted, however slightly. Sunghoon didn't use any more endearments that day, but his eyes lingered on you more often, and there was a new thoughtfulness in his expression when he caught you watching him.

That evening, as you prepared for bed, you found a note on your pillow:

Your suggestion regarding term selection was efficient. Implementation will continue at appropriate intervals. —S

Below, in what appeared to be a hastily added postscript:

Thank you for your patience with the process, angel.

You smiled, running your fingers over the carefully written endearment. It was such a small thing—a simple word that countless couples exchanged without thought. But from Sunghoon, with his carefully maintained walls and precise distance, it felt like a tiny miracle.

All you knew, in that moment, was that Park Sunghoon was trying—in his methodical, occasionally awkward way—to build something real with you. And for now, that was enough to fall asleep with a smile on your face and hope warming your chest.

-

You woke to the sound of Sunghoon's voice drifting up from downstairs. Curious about who he might be speaking to so early, you wrapped yourself in a robe and padded quietly toward the stairs.

What you heard made you pause, hand frozen on the banister.

"No, absolutely not there," Sunghoon was saying, his tone exasperated but lacking its usual edge. "That is designated working space, not a cat leisure area."

A plaintive meow followed.

"Your objection is noted but overruled," Sunghoon continued, as if having a perfectly normal conversation with your cat. "Previous concessions regarding the armchair do not constitute blanket permission for desk occupation."

Another meow, this one somehow sounding argumentative.

"Fine," Sunghoon sighed. "You may observe from the corner of the desk, provided you maintain a minimum six-inch clearance from active documents. Those are the terms."

You covered your mouth to stifle a laugh, hardly believing what you were hearing. Cautiously, you descended a few more steps until you could see into the living room, where Sunghoon sat at his writing desk with Nyx perched on the corner, exactly six inches from his paperwork, looking smugly satisfied.

"Your negotiation skills are improving," Sunghoon informed the cat, who began to purr loudly in response. "Though I maintain that emotional manipulation through sustained eye contact is a questionable tactic."

The sight of a stern, proper Sunghoon having a serious diplomatic negotiation with your cat was so unexpectedly charming that you couldn't help the small sound of delight that escaped you.

Sunghoon's head jerked up, genuine surprise crossing his features when he saw you on the stairs. For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed at being caught in such an unguarded moment.

"Good morning," you said, descending the rest of the stairs. "I see Nyx is expanding her territory again."

"We've reached a compromise," Sunghoon replied, recovering his composure with impressive speed. "Though I suspect her compliance will be temporary at best."

"She's very strategic," you agreed, moving into the kitchen to put the kettle on. "Always looking for weaknesses in the defense."

You heard Sunghoon's chair scrape back, followed by his measured footsteps as he joined you in the kitchen. When you turned from the stove, he was standing closer than expected, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

"You have an early shift today," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"Until four," you confirmed. "Barring emergencies."

Something that might have been disappointment flickered across his face. "I had hoped we might discuss the Eastern European educational initiative this afternoon. Your research on childhood magical stabilization has direct applications."

"Tomorrow?" you suggested. "I'm free all day."

Sunghoon nodded, though the slight downturn at the corner of his mouth suggested genuine disappointment at the delay. "Tomorrow then."

As you prepared your tea, you were acutely aware of him watching you, his usual morning efficiency temporarily suspended.

"Is something wrong?" you asked finally.

"No," he said, then, with visible effort: "I simply find your presence... agreeable, My angel."

The endearment came more naturally now, less practiced but still careful. Combined with the unexpected compliment, it created a flutter of warmth in your chest.

"That's... thank you," you managed, oddly flustered by his direct gaze.

Sunghoon nodded once, as if confirming something to himself, then returned to his desk and a quietly smug Nyx, who had inched closer to his papers in his absence.

You finished your preparations for work, your mind replaying that quiet "angel" and the unusual intensity in Sunghoon's eyes. Something was shifting between you—something neither of you had anticipated when the Ministry had forced you together.

-

Your shift at St. Mungo's had run longer than expected. A seven-year-old with a case of magical hiccups that turned everything she touched temporarily invisible had required careful handling, especially when she'd accidentally made her little brother's left ear disappear. By the time you restored visibility to all affected body parts and calmed the panicking parents, you were running nearly an hour late.

You hurried through the hospital corridors, expecting to find an empty house and probably one of Sunghoon's notes about dinner being in the warming drawer. Instead, as you pushed through the doors into the reception area, you stopped short. Sunghoon himself stood near the welcome desk, his immaculate posture unmistakable even from behind. He appeared to be studying a display of educational pamphlets about magical childhood ailments with surprising interest.

"Sunghoon?" you called, still not quite believing he was actually there.

He turned, and for a moment—just a fleeting second—his expression softened with what looked remarkably like relief before his usual composed mask returned.

"Your shift ran late," he said, though his tone lacked its usual edge of criticism.

"Invisible ear emergency," you explained, still caught off guard by his unexpected presence. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd meet you directly," he said, moving toward you. "I was in the area anyway."

You knew this was almost certainly untrue—Sunghoon's schedule was planned with such precision that spontaneous neighborhood visits were virtually nonexistent. But the fact that he'd chosen to wait for you rather than return home alone created a warm flutter in your chest.

"That was thoughtful," you said, genuinely touched. "Thank you."

A hint of color appeared high on his cheekbones. "It wasn't a problem," he replied, his eyes not quite meeting yours. "I thought we might try that new restaurant near Gringotts. Unless you're too tired, angel."

The endearment still sounded slightly practiced, but not as awkward as his previous attempts. Progress, it seemed.

"Dinner sounds lovely," you said, smiling. "Just let me grab my things."

As you collected your bag from the staff room, you couldn't help but marvel at this unexpected development. Sunghoon waiting at the hospital? Suggesting dinner out? Using endearments without Ministry officials watching? It was as if the carefully constructed walls between you were developing hairline cracks.

When you returned to the reception area, you found Sunghoon in conversation with Healer Matthews, one of the senior pediatric specialists. To your surprise, he didn't look uncomfortable or impatient—his usual response to unexpected social interaction. Instead, he appeared to be listening with genuine interest as Matthews gestured animatedly.

"—revolutionary approach, really," Matthews was saying. "The integration of emotional stabilization techniques with magical dampening is precisely what these cases need. Y/N's research could change our entire treatment protocol."

"She mentioned her work with the unstable core case," Sunghoon replied, his tone carrying a note of what sounded remarkably like pride. "The international applications are significant."

"Oh, absolutely! We're already documenting the methodology for the international healing journal. Your wife is quite the innovator." Matthews beamed at you as you approached. "Ah, speak of the devil! I was just telling your husband about the Mira case. Brilliant work, truly."

"Thank you," you said, slightly flustered both by the praise and by hearing Sunghoon referred to as your "husband" in a context unrelated to Ministry requirements.

"You two make quite the powerhouse couple," Matthews continued cheerfully, oblivious to your discomfort. "International magical cooperation and pediatric healing innovation under one roof! How long have you been married?"

"Three weeks," Sunghoon answered smoothly, surprising you with his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back. "Though it feels like we've known each other much longer."

You nearly choked at this uncharacteristic display of charm. Sunghoon was many things, but "smooth" had never been one of them.

"Newlyweds!" Matthews exclaimed delightedly. "Though you'd never know it from how in sync you two are. Young love is so refreshing to see these days."

You felt Sunghoon's hand tense slightly against your back but his expression remained pleasantly neutral. "If you'll excuse us," he said politely, "I've made dinner reservations."

"Of course, of course! Don't let me keep you lovebirds," Matthews winked. "Enjoy your evening!"

As you walked away, Sunghoon's hand remained at your back, guiding you through the evening crowd in the hospital lobby. The warmth of his palm through your robes created a distracting tingle up your spine.

"That was... unexpected," you said once you were outside. "You were very convincing."

"Practice makes perfect," Sunghoon replied, though his hand didn't withdraw from your back. "It seemed important to be consistent even outside the assessments."

"Right," you agreed, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment. "For consistency."

Sunghoon glanced down at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "The restaurant is just ahead, baby."

The second endearment caught you off guard, especially without any Ministry officials present to necessitate it. This one sounded less rehearsed than his previous attempts, almost natural despite the slight hesitation before it.

"I'm not used to hearing you call me that," you admitted as you approached the restaurant, a cozy establishment with warm golden lights visible through the windows.

"Do you mind it?" Sunghoon asked, a hint of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Not at all," you assured him quickly. "Just... different. Nice different."

Something that might have been relief relaxed his expression. "Good to know," he said simply.

The maître d' welcomed you, leading you to a quiet corner table partially screened by a decorative trellis covered in tiny fairy lights. It was, you couldn't help noticing, a notably romantic setting.

"This is lovely," you commented as Sunghoon held your chair—another unexpected courtesy.

"The Bulgarian ambassador recommended it," he replied, taking his own seat. "Apparently their seafood is exceptional."

Conversation flowed with surprising ease as you perused the menu. Sunghoon, typically so reserved about personal matters, spoke of his day at the Ministry with unexpected detail, describing the frustrating negotiations with a hint of dry humor you'd rarely witnessed. You shared stories from your hospital shift, including the invisible ear incident, which actually earned a small quirk of the lips that was the closest thing to a smile you'd seen from him.

When your hands accidentally brushed while reaching for the bread basket, Sunghoon didn't withdraw immediately as he might have done before. Instead, his fingers lingered briefly against yours, the contact brief but deliberate.

"You still haven't told me why you really came to the hospital," you said as your main courses arrived. "I know you didn't just happen to be in the area."

Sunghoon's fork paused halfway to his mouth, his expression shifting to something almost uncomfortable. "You caught me," he admitted after a moment. "I wasn't in the neighborhood."

"So why come wait for me?"

He set his fork down carefully, as if buying time to formulate his response. "I didn't particularly want to go back to an empty house," he said finally, the admission clearly difficult for him. "It's... quieter when you're not there."

"You missed me," you said, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

He frowned slightly. "I wouldn't go that far," he said, though the color in his cheeks suggested otherwise. "I've just gotten used to having you around."

"You missed me," you repeated, still smiling. "It's okay to admit it, Sunghoon. I'd miss you too if you were gone all day."

Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something warmer. "You would?"

"Of course," you said simply. "We've gotten used to each other."

"We have," he agreed, his gaze dropping to his plate. "More than I expected, honestly."

The meal continued in this vein—moments of surprising warmth interspersed with Sunghoon's more familiar reserve. Yet something had undeniably shifted between you. His eyes found yours more frequently, lingering longer than necessary. His hand occasionally brushed yours when passing the salt or reaching for his wine glass, each touch seeming less accidental than the last.

By the time dessert arrived—a shared plate of tiny pastries filled with various magical creams that changed flavor with each bite—you found yourself genuinely enjoying not just the excellent food but Sunghoon's company as well.

"I found something for you today," he said as you sampled a pastry that tasted first of chocolate, then unexpectedly shifted to lemon. "It's at home."

"For me?" you asked, surprised. Sunghoon wasn't exactly the gift-giving type.

"It's nothing big," he said quickly, seeming almost embarrassed. "Just something I thought you might like."

Curiosity piqued, you finished dessert with perhaps more haste than the exquisite pastries deserved. Sunghoon paid the bill with characteristic efficiency, then surprised you by offering his arm as you left the restaurant.

"It might rain," he observed, glancing at the darkening sky as you walked toward the apparition point. "The forecast mentioned thunderstorms overnight."

"I've always liked storms," you commented, acutely aware of his arm beneath your hand. "They're so dramatic and unpredictable."

"You would like chaos," Sunghoon replied, though there was no criticism in his tone. "You and your disorganized filing system."

You laughed softly. "And you prefer everything orderly and planned. We're quite the opposite pair, aren't we?"

"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," he suggested, surprising you. "Different perspectives, working together."

Before you could respond to this unexpectedly thoughtful observation, you reached the apparition point. Sunghoon's arm tightened slightly around yours as he prepared to apparate you both home.

"Ready, angel?" he asked, the endearment now sounding almost natural on his lips.

The journey was brief, and moments later you found yourselves in the front garden of your shared home. The air felt heavy with approaching rain, the scent of ozone sharp in the twilight. Sunghoon's hand remained at your elbow as he guided you up the garden path, his touch light but steady.

Inside, the house felt different somehow—warmer, more inviting than the functional living space it had been when you first arrived. Your books now mingled with his on the shelves, your colorful throw blanket draped across one end of the sofa, Nyx's toys scattered across the rug. Somewhere along the way, it had become a home rather than just a house.

"Tea?" Sunghoon offered, removing his cloak.

"Please," you agreed, curious about his mentioned "something" but not wanting to seem too eager.

As Sunghoon moved to the kitchen, you wandered into the living room, drawn to a small vase on the side table that hadn't been there this morning. Inside were three perfect lilac flowers arranged with characteristic precision.

"Oh," you breathed, touching one petal gently. The texture was perfect, the colors vibrant despite being separated from their roots.

"They're from the Ministry conservatory," Sunghoon's voice came from behind you. "The groves there cycle through all four seasons weekly. These are from its spring phase."

You turned to find him watching you, his expression uncharacteristically uncertain. "They're beautiful," you said softly. "Is this what you meant?"

He nodded once, his posture almost stiff. "You mentioned liking spring. I thought... well, I thought you might like them."

The gesture touched you deeply. Not because the flowers themselves were particularly valuable or rare, but because they represented something precious—proof that Sunghoon had truly listened to you, remembered details of your conversation, and gone out of his way to bring you something personally meaningful.

"Thank you," you said, stepping closer to him. "I love them."

Something in his expression shifted, softened. "I'm glad."

"No one's ever given me autumn leaves before," you said, smiling up at him. "It's very thoughtful."

"It's nothing," he said, though he looked pleased at your reaction.

Standing on tiptoe, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek—a gesture that would have been unthinkable just days ago. Sunghoon went very still, his eyes widening slightly at the unexpected contact. For a moment, you feared you'd crossed some invisible line, pushed too far too fast.

But then his hand came up to your waist, steadying you as you settled back on your heels. Instead of stepping away as you expected, he remained close, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"Y/N," he said softly, your name almost a question.

In answer, you reached up, touching his cheek gently. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, the slight stubble of late evening rough against your palm. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved, suspended in a moment of unspoken possibility.

Then, with a deliberateness that made your heart race, Sunghoon lowered his head and kissed you.

It wasn't the brief, almost clinical kiss he'd given you during the Ministry assessment. This was different—tentative at first, as if he was testing unfamiliar waters, but growing more certain as you responded. His lips were surprisingly soft against yours, the pressure gentle but unmistakably real.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the surprising strength beneath his always-perfect robes. His own hands settled at your waist, holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Always so careful, even now.

When you finally broke apart, Sunghoon looked slightly dazed, his usual composure temporarily shaken. A strand of his always-perfect hair had fallen across his forehead, making him look younger, less severe.

"That was..." he began, then seemed at a loss for words—a rare occurrence for someone usually so precise in his speech.

"Unexpected?" you supplied, your own voice not entirely steady.

"But not unwelcome," he added quickly, his hands still resting lightly at your waist.

"Definitely not unwelcome," you agreed, smiling up at him.

For a moment, you simply looked at each other, something new and fragile hovering between you. Then, with a sureness that took your breath away, Sunghoon kissed you again.

This time, there was nothing tentative about it. His arms drew you closer, one hand sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck. You responded in kind, your fingers threading through his hair, disrupting its perfect arrangement in a way that felt quietly rebellious.

The kiss deepened, lips parting, breaths mingling. Sunghoon made a soft sound in the back of his throat—something between a sigh and a groan—that sent a shiver down your spine. Who knew that proper, composed Park Sunghoon could kiss like this?

You found yourself pressed against the bookshelf, the spines of ancient tomes digging into your back, but you hardly noticed. All that existed was Sunghoon—his mouth hot against yours, his hands now bolder in their exploration, the surprising heat of him through layers of formal robes.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Sunghoon looked thoroughly disheveled. His hair stood up where your fingers had mussed it, his usually pale cheeks flushed, his perfect robes slightly askew. The sight of him so undone—because of you—created a flutter of something dangerously close to pride in your chest.

"I..." he began, then cleared his throat. "That was not what I had planned for this evening."

You couldn't help but laugh softly. "Do you always plan your evenings in such detail?"

"Usually," he admitted, a hint of something almost like humor in his eyes. "Though I'm finding that some deviations from schedule can be... acceptable."

"Just acceptable?" you teased, straightening his collar where your hands had disturbed it.

His expression softened, becoming almost vulnerable. "More than acceptable, baby."

The endearment, spoken in this context, created a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the lingering heat of your kiss. This was not a practiced performance for Ministry officials—this was something real, however unexpected.

"The tea must be getting cold," you said finally, though you made no move to step away from him.

"I believe you're right," Sunghoon agreed, though he seemed equally reluctant to break the moment. With visible effort, he stepped back, his hands lingering at your waist before finally falling away. "We should probably..."

"Yes," you agreed, though neither of you moved toward the kitchen.

A distant rumble of thunder broke the moment, reminding you of the approaching storm. As if on cue, Nyx appeared, winding her way between your legs with her usual disregard for personal space.

"Your cat has impeccable timing," Sunghoon observed, his composure gradually returning despite his still-mussed hair.

"She does have a talent for interruption," you agreed, bending to scoop her up. "Though she seems to approve of you."

"A dubious honor," Sunghoon replied dryly, though his hand came up to scratch behind Nyx's ears, earning a loud purr of appreciation.The tension of the moment eased, replaced by a new kind of comfort as you both moved to the kitchen for tea. Outside, the storm drew closer, occasional flashes of lightning now visible through the windows, followed by increasingly loud rumbles of thunder.

As you finished your tea, a comfortable silence fell between you, broken only by the sound of rain beginning to patter against the windows and Nyx's contented purring from her spot on the kitchen chair.

"It's getting late," Sunghoon said finally, his eyes meeting yours with lingering warmth. "You mentioned an early shift tomorrow."

"Six-thirty," you confirmed with a sigh. "The joys of pediatric emergency rotation."

Something that might have been disappointment flickered across his features, but he nodded. "You should get some rest."

As you both stood to clear the tea things, your fingers brushed again, the brief contact now charged with new meaning after your shared kisses. Sunghoon's hand caught yours, holding it gently for a moment.

"Thank you for dinner tonight," you said softly. "And for the flowers. It was... nice."

"It was," he agreed, his thumb tracing a small circle on the back of your hand. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of saying something more, but then simply nodded. "Sleep well, angel."

The endearment, now perfectly natural on his lips, created a warm flutter in your chest. "Goodnight, Sunghoon," you replied, reluctantly withdrawing your hand.

You both moved toward the stairs, the approaching storm casting dramatic shadows through the windows. At the landing where the hallway branched toward your separate bedrooms, you paused, suddenly reluctant to part.

Sunghoon hesitated as well, his usual decisive movements temporarily suspended. Then, with deliberate care, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips—gentle, brief, but unmistakably genuine.

"Goodnight," he said quietly, drawing back.

"Goodnight," you echoed, your voice not quite steady.

You turned toward your bedroom, feeling his eyes on you until you closed your door. Inside, you leaned against it for a moment, touching your lips where his had been, trying to process everything that had happened.

From casual dinner to heated kisses against a bookshelf to this new, tentative tenderness—it was a lot to absorb in one evening. As you prepared for bed, you could hear Sunghoon moving about in his own room across the hall, the familiar sounds somehow comforting despite the growing storm outside.

You slipped under your covers, Nyx jumping up to claim her usual spot at the foot of your bed. The approaching storm had intensified, lightning now flashing more frequently, thunder following in quicker succession. You'd always enjoyed storms, finding something soothing in their wild energy, and tonight the dramatic weather seemed to match the tumult of your thoughts.

Sleep came more easily than you expected, the day's events and emotional revelations having left you pleasantly exhausted. You couldn't know that in just a few hours, the storm raging outside would wake you both, creating an opportunity for the final barriers between you to fall completely.

PART 2

TL: @ziiao @seonhoon @beariegyu @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @cherrybeomm @urmomdotcom5678 @jaeyunsbimbo @yongbokified @changbinniescurlyhair

[enhaflixer]

Hi guys long time lol!

Sk it has recently come to my attention that an author @jamesjohn009 has completely stolen my work ‘cherry trees’ and turned it into a Heeseung fic called la copia da studio or smth like that.

lol not cool

[enhaflixer]

lol guess who’s back

[enhaflixer]

hii just checking in, hope everything’s well!! xx

Hiiiii!! Yes yes everything’s great! Just a lil busy but have so many fun fics coming up.

[enhaflixer]

are you bangladeshi?

Hi no I’m not lol

[enhaflixer]

You're actually married??? Not kidding right?

yesss oh my days im not kidding

[enhaflixer]

Hiii, I’m not sure but I think my request got buried under all the recent ones so pls let me ask again 🚶‍♀️‍➡️🧍‍♀️🧎‍♀️‍➡️ can you do ot7 imagines wherein reader wore a kind of revealing outfit (like for when they’re going out for a dinner or clubbing) and instead of the guys asking reader to change, they will go, “go on, where what you want, I can fight.”

Lichrally already crashing out just imagining it 🥹😔🙏 i love uuuu you are my most fave fanfic writer ever pls live with me 🙏🙏🙏 thank uuuu~

Hi! no i got ur request! im just tryna get through the ones before yours!!!! sorry for the waitttt

[enhaflixer]

Omaigoshhhhhhh never knew my gorgeous author already married 🤍 you don't how I'm in loveeeeeeee with your story 💋 thank you so much of ur exist 🫂 ur story really made my day ❣️

mwahhhh i love u

[enhaflixer]

wait you just got MARRIED??? i had absolutely no idea but that's so so cool congratulations ahhhh!!!! i hope you had an amazing honeymoon 💗

thank you!!!!! yes yes it was so amazing!

[enhaflixer]

WAIT YOU’RE MARRIED??? I THOUGHT U WERE 19 WHAT THE FLIP

lollll yes yes yes im 20 now lol and i JUST got married!!!

[enhaflixer]

“Cherry trees”

One of the best written piece I’ve read. The story is incredible and captivating. I never been so captivated by someone’s writing style before. Your wording, phrasing, your narration, and your storytelling all i can say that they’re spectacular.

Every single paragraph is written with such grace and precision. Every conversation and description holds a deep meaning. The story is so well written I forgot myself and got completely immersed in it. The pacing of the story, the progress and the characters development were all done in a perfect rhythm, I didn’t feel the passage of time while reading.

From the indifference at the beginning till the unmasked truth at the end, it’s a marvellous round. Not to mention your absolutely phenomenal description, your imagery is not to be topped.

Every single detail of the environment, atmosphere, and people dynamics are spotless, they didn’t go unnoticed. This piece of literature holds a high standard quality fitting for a well distinguished author by the way 🤎🤎🤎

Oh my god, I don’t even know what to say—this is one of the kindest and most beautifully written messages I’ve ever received. I’m genuinely speechless. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to write all of this. It means everything to me that you felt so immersed and connected to the story. That’s all I ever hope for when I write—to make someone feel something.

Your words gave me chills. You picked up on so many little things I poured into this piece, and to know it resonated so deeply with you just makes all the effort worth it. Thank you for seeing it, feeling it, and expressing it like this. I’ll be rereading your message every time I doubt myself. Sending you the biggest hug and all my love

[enhaflixer]

I really like how transparent you were with the annon who asked about notes and followers. I’ve been wanting to post my works for a while, as I think some people might like it. Like you I don’t care about notes or anything like that, just the general message and work I do. I guess my question is, how do you post your works without feeling insecure? Like I feel like people will hate it or not read it? I know not everyone will read my works but I feel like nobody will read them at all

I want to be seen and make people happy, but scared I’ll be hated and pushed to stop doing what I love, how do you do it?

Hey, thank you so much for this message—it honestly means a lot. I totally get what you’re feeling. It’s scary putting yourself out there, especially when you’re not sure if anyone will care or if people will be harsh. But I promise, there are people who will connect with your work, and even if it’s just a few at first, it still matters. You never know who you might impact.

For me, I just had to reach a point where I told myself: even if only one person reads it and enjoys it, that’s still worth it. And even if no one does right away, I still made something I’m proud of. That’s powerful. And you deserve to be seen. Don’t let the fear of being ignored or judged stop you from doing what you love. You never know—you might post something that becomes someone’s favorite piece. Just start.

[enhaflixer]

Hiiii, could you write smth bout having a sleepover with bsf Jake and you have a wet dream an moan and he hears it and makes you say what you dreamed about yk and than doin the stuff to you 🥲🥲

yessss ofc here

[enhaflixer]

best friend!jake x f!reader - REM

cw: explicit content a wet dream sex MDNI 18+ ENHA HARD HOURS flufffffy at the end

wc: 3.3K

-

Jake had always just been Jake. Your best friend. Your couch-sharing, video game-obsessed, cereal-stealing best friend. There was never anything weird about sleepovers with him. You’d done it a dozen times before—falling asleep in the same bed after a movie night, limbs tangled like siblings, breath evening out in the warm dark. 

That was just you and Jake. Comfortable. Safe. Normal.

Until this time.

You didn’t even realize you were dreaming until the heat wrapped around you like a second skin. In the dream, it was still Jake—but not the way you knew him. He wasn’t just teasing you over cereal anymore. He was behind you, mouth hot against your ear, voice lower, rougher. You could feel his hands sliding up your thighs, his breath telling you to keep quiet. 

You were soaked, aching, grinding back into him like your life depended on it. And then he said it—low and filthy: “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

Your whole body jerked.

In the real world, Jake was half-asleep, rolled onto his side when he heard it. The softest moan. Barely there, but unmistakable. His name. Whispered in your voice. Breathless.

“Jake…”

He froze. Eyes wide now. Alert.

You said it again, a little higher, a gasp tangled in the syllables.

Jake blinked at the ceiling. His mind short-circuited. It had to be a mistake. You were asleep. People talked in their sleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it wasn’t even—

“Jake,” you moaned again, thighs shifting beneath the blanket.

His brain stopped trying to logic its way out of it. That was his name. That was your voice. And that was very clearly a moan.

He turned his head slowly, heart hammering in his chest. There you were—curled toward him in the dark, blanket half-kicked down to your hips, your shirt rumpled, your lips parted. You looked soft. Warm. And when your hips gave the tiniest, unconscious roll into the mattress, he almost choked.

You were dreaming about him.

And worse—your body liked it.

Jake stayed frozen for a moment, torn between panic and something a lot darker. Something he hadn’t let himself think about. Not until now.

Then you whimpered, a breathy little sound soaked in want, and whispered his name one more time. It broke him.

He rolled onto his side, slowly, watching you. His voice came out low, cautious, but tight with something new. "Hey. Wake up."

You stirred, lashes fluttering. The dream clung to your skin like heat. When you opened your eyes and met his, confusion washed over your face.

“Jake?” you whispered, voice rough with sleep.

He swallowed hard. "You were dreaming."

You blinked, then realization hit you like a punch to the chest. Your face went hot. "Oh my god—"

Jake didn’t look away. “You said my name.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You moaned it.”

Silence stretched. You stared at him, mortified. He stared back, breathing harder than he should’ve been.

“You want to tell me what that dream was about?” he asked, voice lower now. Hungrier.

You sat up, panicked. “No. It was stupid. Forget it.”

He followed, staying close. Too close. “I don’t want to forget it.”

You tried to look anywhere but at him. He was warm, bare-chested, the blanket slipping low on his hips, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. Everything about him was unfamiliar in this moment.

“You said my name like I was inside you,” he whispered. “Like I was fucking you.”

Your whole body burned.

Jake leaned in. “Tell me what I did in the dream.”

You closed your eyes. “You made me beg.”

“For what?”

“To be touched.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped. “Did I touch you?”

You nodded.

“How?”

You could barely breathe. “You said I’d be soaked just from hearing your voice. You were right.”

Jake exhaled a curse under his breath. His hand slipped under the blanket, not touching, just there. Warm. Present. Waiting.

“You still are?”

You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You want me to do it now? Make the dream real?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned closer.

“Say yes.”

Your silence only made it worse. Or better. Jake couldn't tell anymore. 

All he knew was that you weren’t pulling away, weren’t saying stop, and your body was giving you away with every breath. The way your thighs pressed together, the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted like you were still moaning for him in your sleep. It was driving him insane.

He slipped his hand under the covers again, but this time, he touched. Lightly at first. Just a brush of his knuckles along the top of your thigh. He was watching your face, eyes scanning every microexpression, every twitch of hesitation. But there wasn’t any. Only heat. Only want.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice tight.

You shook your head.

He dragged his fingers higher.

“Tell me what else I did in the dream,” he murmured, the backs of his knuckles grazing the edge of your sleep shorts.

“You kissed me,” you whispered. “Everywhere. You said you needed to know what I tasted like.”

Jake swore again, quietly, under his breath, like it physically hurt to hear you say it. He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw. His hand settled on your inner thigh now, warm and firm, keeping you open.

“Like this?” he asked, kissing just below your ear, his thumb stroking slow circles against your leg. “Was this how it started?”

You nodded, breath catching. “Y-yeah. And then you… you made me say it. Everything I wanted.”

Jake smiled against your neck. “You gonna say it again for me now?”

Your voice was barely a breath. “I want you to touch me.”

“Where, baby?” he whispered. “You’re gonna have to be specific.”

You swallowed. “Between my legs.”

Jake moved then—slow but sure, his hand sliding up, his palm cupping you through the fabric, pressing down just enough to make you gasp.

“That wet already?” he asked, voice hot and low against your skin. “Goddamn.”

You were burning now. Everywhere. Jake shifted closer, his mouth finally finding yours in a kiss that started soft but darkened fast. It was everything the dream hinted at and more—his tongue sliding against yours, his hand working you over your shorts until your legs were shaking.

And when he finally slipped beneath the fabric, fingers brushing bare skin, his voice dropped to a whisper that sent shivers up your spine.

“You gonna cum for me like you did in your dream?”

You nodded, breathless.

Jake grinned.

“Good girl.”

Jake didn’t let up. Not once. Not when your hips twitched into his hand. Not when your moans grew softer, more breathless, too real to be part of any dream now. And definitely not when you whispered, voice breaking, that you still wanted more.

His fingers were slow, careful, pressing into the damp fabric between your thighs with maddening precision. He was watching you unravel beneath him, tucked under the blankets in his bed like you hadn’t just crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. The room was quiet, heavy with breath and heat and the low rustle of sheets.

Jake’s voice dropped even lower as he shifted closer, his thigh brushing yours beneath the covers. “Take these off for me,” he murmured, fingers catching on the waistband of your shorts. “Let me touch you the way you dreamed about.”

You hesitated for only a second before lifting your hips, helping him slide them down. He peeled them off slow, deliberate, like he was unwrapping a secret. The air kissed your skin, cool against your heat, and Jake exhaled a rough sound when he saw just how wet you were.

“Fuck, baby,” he said, hand stroking up your inner thigh, his voice gone hoarse. “You’re soaked.”

You turned your face into the pillow, a flush burning from your chest to your ears. He leaned over you, mouth brushing your cheek.

“Don’t hide from me. Not now. You were dreaming about me wrecking you, right? Saying filthy shit, touching you everywhere, making you fall apart just from my fingers.”

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes.”

Jake kissed your jaw, slow and hot. “Then open for me.”

Your thighs parted again, breath stuttering as he slid his hand between them and finally touched you. Skin to skin. No fabric. No barriers. Just Jake’s fingers sliding through your slick folds, circling slow, spreading the mess he found there.

Your hips jerked. Your hand flew to his wrist.

“Jake—”

His lips brushed your ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to—”

“Say it.”

“I want your fingers,” you breathed. “Inside me.”

He groaned low, dragging one finger down until he was teasing your entrance, rubbing gentle circles, making your legs tremble.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered. “Asking so pretty.”

Then he slid in. Slow. Deep. Curling just enough to make your breath catch. You were tight, soaked, gripping him like you’d dreamed about it for weeks. Maybe you had.

His other hand pressed against your stomach, holding you still as he worked you open, mouth at your neck, murmuring things he’d never dared to say out loud until now.

“You sound so fucking pretty like this. So sweet for me. So desperate. You’re not gonna forget this in the morning, are you?”

You shook your head. You couldn’t even speak.

But something wasn’t right.

You whimpered, hips shifting, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers—but it wasn’t enough. It felt good, warm, intimate, but the pressure didn’t build. He wasn’t hitting where you needed. The ache was there, pulsing, hungry, but nothing he did with his fingers made it crest.

Jake noticed immediately.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, brushing a kiss over your jaw. “Not enough?”

“I—I don’t know,” you admitted, breath catching. “It feels good but—something’s missing.”

Instead of getting frustrated, he only smiled. Patient. Steady.

“Okay,” he said, kissing your neck again, softer this time. “We’ll figure it out. I’ve got you.”

He pulled his fingers back slowly, making you whimper at the loss, and kissed his way down your stomach, lifting the covers, settling between your thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world. You stared down at him, dazed, mouth open as his hands gently spread you open again.

“Let me try something else,” he murmured, and then his mouth was on you.

Warm. Wet. Careful.

He started slow—kissing, licking, exploring, letting you guide him with the way your body tensed and shuddered. His tongue stroked low, up, around—and then his fingers returned, sliding in again with a different angle, a new rhythm.

And that was it.

Your back arched off the bed, legs shaking as your voice ripped out of your throat like it had a mind of its own.

“Ngh—Ohhhh my god, Fuck!”

Jake moaned into you, gripping your hips harder, tongue pressing deeper, fingers curling with a newfound precision.

“There it is,” he murmured against your skin, smug and breathless. “That’s what you needed, huh?”

You couldn’t answer. Your body was already spiraling, nerves unraveling, vision white hot as he kept going—steady, focused, relentless—like he was going to make you say his name like that all over again.

Everything was too much now. Every flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers, every muffled groan vibrating against you—it all hit at once. Like he’d found a switch and refused to let go. You couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t stop whining. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the heat, the pressure, the way he made you feel like you were made for this.

“Jake—Jake, I—I can’t—”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down.

“You can,” he said, voice low and thick between licks. “You’re gonna cum for me, baby. I’m right here.”

You sobbed, hands fisting the sheets, legs shaking uncontrollably. Every nerve in your body lit up with electricity, your throat releasing soft, desperate cries you couldn’t contain.

And Jake took all of it. Ate you through every gasp, every tremor, every broken moan like it was everything he’d ever wanted.

“Fuck, you sound so pretty when you whine,” he groaned, licking slow and deep. “Gonna make you do it all night.”

Your hand found his hair, tugging, not to stop him, but to ground yourself. You could barely think, barely breathe. Every time his mouth moved, it was like the world narrowed to just that. Just him. Just the wet heat and the flick of his tongue and the way he looked up at you like you were the only thing he’d ever worship.

“Jake,” you whimpered, voice breaking, “suck—can you suck really, really, really hard?”

His breath hitched. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you nodded quickly, eyes wide, body trembling. “I—I was gonna say—”

But whatever you were about to say disappeared into a shattered moan as Jake sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked. Hard. Precise. Deep. The pull of it sent shockwaves through your spine, and your words collapsed into a cry so loud, so raw, it felt like your soul left your body for a second.

Jake didn’t let up.

“Just like that?” he asked against you, voice thick, lips slick.

You could only nod, hands gripping his shoulders now as your hips bucked wildly, chasing the pressure, the drag, the sting of pleasure that tipped you past the edge. Your moans were constant now—high-pitched, pleading, delirious.

He groaned in return, sinking his fingers deeper, curling perfectly into the spot he knew you needed.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped. “You’re making a mess all over me. You’re perfect like this. Keep going. Don’t stop.”

And you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Your orgasm hit you like a wave—overwhelming, endless, bright. Your body seized, toes curling, legs shaking as Jake held you steady, mouth still working you through it like he couldn’t get enough.

And when it faded, when your muscles sagged and your chest heaved and the only thing left was the sound of your breathing and the feel of his breath on your skin—Jake kissed your inner thigh, soft and slow, like he’d just done something sacred.

Then he looked up at you, lips swollen, chin glistening, eyes dark with pride.

“Taste better than you dreamed?” he asked.

You were still breathless, eyes glazed, but the smile that curled on your lips was all he needed to see.

“Way better.”

Jake kissed your thigh one more time, slow and reverent, before dragging himself up the bed. His chest brushed against yours, and he hovered over you, lips glossy, breath still uneven as he stared into your flushed, fucked-out face.

He leaned in, hand cupping your jaw, and kissed you—deep, slow, messy. You moaned into it, tasting yourself on his tongue, your fingers curling in his hair as your body trembled beneath his. His weight, his mouth, the way he held you like he never wanted to let go—it was too much and not enough all at once.

"Can I—" he started to ask, voice raw, mouth barely pulling back from yours.

But you didn’t wait for him to finish.

Your hand slid down between you, fingers wrapping around him without hesitation. He groaned—loud, guttural—as your fist tightened around the base of his cock, guiding him down.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyes rolling back as you angled your hips, lined him up with your entrance, and started pushing the tip inside.

“Baby,” he gasped, head dropping into the crook of your neck. “Fuck, you’re—”

You cut him off with another roll of your hips, pushing down until he was halfway in. Your back arched, legs wrapping around his waist as the stretch hit, deep and hot and perfect. His breath hitched again, hands gripping your thighs like he was trying to anchor himself.

“Wanted this,” you breathed into his ear, voice trembling. “Wanted you.”

Jake shuddered, nearly losing it right then. He kissed you again, harder now, one hand cupping the back of your neck as he whispered against your lips.

“You’ve got me.”

He started moving—slow at first, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you, every breath and moan and whimper. His strokes were deep, unhurried, every push and pull drawing out long, shaky breaths from your throat. Your hands roamed his back, nails dragging over the ridges of muscle as he filled you again and again, each time more deliberate than the last.

“God, you feel unreal,” he muttered into your skin, lips dragging across your collarbone. “So tight—so warm—every time I move, I feel you clench around me like you don’t wanna let me go.”

“I don’t,” you whispered, voice rough. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop, Jake, please—”

He buried his face in your neck and kept going, kept moving, hips rolling smoother now, harder, deeper. The room was filled with heat and skin and the obscene sounds of slick and gasping breath. Your body responded to every thrust, meeting him halfway, legs pulling him in like you couldn’t stand any space between you.

He shifted your hips slightly, angling deeper—and you cried out, nails digging into his shoulders.

“There,” you gasped. “Jake—right there—”

He groaned like he was in pain, like holding back was getting harder with every second. His hand gripped your thigh tighter, his rhythm slipping just slightly as you clenched around him.

“You close, baby?” he panted.

You nodded, desperate, trembling. “So close—keep going—please—”

His mouth dragged up your neck, hot breath on your cheek. He kissed you again, messier this time, barely holding it together.

And then you whispered, “Cum inside.”

Jake’s rhythm faltered. “No, baby,” he gasped. “Fuck, I can’t—”

“I’m on the pill,” you breathed, staring up at him. “I want it.”

He groaned but still hesitated.

So you leaned up, voice low and filthy, words curling straight around his resolve.

“You came inside me in my dream,” you said. “I thought you said you were gonna do it better.”

Jake swore under his breath and slammed into you harder, deeper, making you cry out.

“Say that again,” he demanded, voice tight.

“You said you were gonna do it better,” you repeated, moaning when his hips snapped again. “So do it. Fill me. Make it real.”

His mouth crushed against yours, and he lost his rhythm—hips stuttering, fingers digging into your skin, every part of him pushing closer, deeper, chasing that final edge with you clinging to him like you’d fall apart without him.

“You want it?” he panted. “You want me to fill you up?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please—Jake, please—”

And with a low, broken moan, he came—deep inside you, holding you down like he needed to mark you, claim you, fuck his name into your body forever.

-

Afterward, the room was silent except for your breathing. The kind of silence that felt heavier than sound. Jake stayed above you for a moment, panting, one hand braced beside your head, the other still resting on your hip. His skin was damp, flushed. Yours, the same.

He pulled out slowly, watching the way you winced and hissed at the sensitivity, and then he collapsed beside you with a deep exhale.

You both stared at the ceiling.

“…What the fuck,” you whispered, voice raspy.

Jake let out a huff of a laugh. “Yeah. That was…” He trailed off, head turning toward you. “Insane.”

You turned to face him too, eyes wide and unsure. “So… what now?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” You swallowed. “We don’t have to make this a big thing, if you don’t want to. We can just… keep it casual or whatever.”

Jake’s expression didn’t change for a second. Then he rolled onto his side, reached out, and flicked your forehead.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“Don’t say dumb shit,” he muttered.

You stared at him.

“I’m in love with you,” Jake said plainly. “Have been. For a long fucking time.”

Your lips parted.

“And if you think I’m gonna let you call this ‘casual’ after I just came inside you because of a dream you had about me, you’re out of your mind.”

A smile spread across your lips before you could stop it.

Jake grinned back, softer now, and leaned in to kiss you—slow, sleepy, real.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m in love with you too.”

-

TL: @ziiao @seonhoon @beariegyu @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @cherrybeomm @urmomdotcom5678 @jaeyunsbimbo @yongbokified @changbinniescurlyhair @en-whims @prettygurlnikittie

[enhaflixer]

hiii can you write a dilf story!! maybe like neighbor or something idk I just love your writing a lot !!

yes yes hereeee

[enhaflixer]

hi! could you write a jake oneshot based off freak by doja? xx

hi yes out here now!!

[enhaflixer]

dilf next door !jake x freak f!reader - Freak like me

cw : m!receiving oral begging, grindin on his shoes, bondage, face slapping, sub!jake until its not, powerplay dom!jake, pussy slapping. 18+ MDNI

wc : 3.7K

a/n: sorry again.

-

Jake’s fat cock is in your throat.

One hand grips the back of his thigh, the other fists his sweatpants at the waistband, just above where his shirt has ridden up. He’s leaking like he hasn’t been touched in years, twitching against your tongue every time you swallow.

 His head is tipped back against the kitchen cabinet, mouth parted, chest rising with short, broken breaths. His fingers are white-knuckled where they dig into the counter behind him, and he can’t keep his hips from twitching forward, not even when he’s trying so fucking hard to stay still.

You know this because Jake is the kind of man who tries. He always tries. Tries to be polite, tries to be soft. Tries to swallow it down when his gaze lingers on your thighs, your chest, your lips wrapped around a popsicle in the summer heat. Tries to keep his tone friendly when you wave from your driveway in tiny gym shorts.

 But you’ve seen the way his smile falters when he thinks you’re not looking. The way his eyes betray him. The way his cock strained the front of his sweats the last time you asked him to help carry a box inside. You’ve known for weeks now.

Tonight, you decided to do something about it.

You showed up at his door wearing only a hoodie and bike shorts, all soft fake innocence and a fake request for salt. He blinked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe, hair messy, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, the soft grey cotton of his pants clinging to thick thighs and the outline of something fat underneath. 

He let you in with his usual shy smile, voice gentle, hand motioning toward the kitchen. He turned away, unaware of the way your eyes dropped to the curve of his ass as he walked. Unaware that you were already planning exactly how you’d have him whimpering before the hour was up.

It happened so fast. 

He bent to grab something from the cabinet. You stepped in closer. 

When he turned, still sweet, still unsuspecting, you looked him dead in the eye and asked, “Do you always get hard when I come over?” 

His mouth opened. Nothing came out. 

His whole face flushed like he’d been caught watching porn at work. You didn’t give him a chance to lie. You just grabbed his cock through his sweatpants, felt how stiff and heavy he already was, and smiled like you’d been gifted something expensive. 

And then you dropped to your knees.

Now here you are, lips stretched wide around the tip of his cock, spit clinging to your chin, eyes watering as you sink lower, and lower, and lower. 

Jake is a wreck above you, completely undone. He’s panting your name in between gasps, whimpering, telling you in a shaky voice that you don’t have to do this—but you already know that. You’re not here to be asked. You’re here to feast. 

You moan low in your throat just to watch the effect it has on him.

 His stomach jerks, his thighs go tight, his voice cracks as he lets out a ragged, “F-fuck, baby—Jesus Christ—” He sounds like he’s seconds from breaking, and you love it. 

You love how soft he is, how sweet, how deeply unprepared he is for someone who wants him like this. His ex-wife probably laid there like a mannequin, barely touching him, letting him do all the work while she criticized him with her silence.

 You’re the complete opposite. You’re on your knees for him, begging for the chance to be used. And you want him to see it.

You pull back with a slick pop, and before he can speak—before he can ask if you’re okay or say something adorable and unnecessary—you reach down, shift your knees, and begin grinding against the top of his shoe.

Jake freezes.

His eyes drop, jaw falling open as he watches you drag your clothed cunt along the arch of his sneaker, slow and deliberate. 

You rock your hips down with needy little grinds, moaning softly under your breath, your spit-slick lips still parted, your panties already soaked through. “Needed something,” you whisper, breath shaking. “You feel so good, I couldn’t help it.”

Jake makes a noise that doesn’t sound human. “You’re… fucking my shoe.”

You nod, completely shameless, already moving faster. “It’s yours, isn’t it?” you murmur. “Smells like you. Feels like you. So warm, so firm… fuck, it’s perfect.” Your eyes flutter shut. “I could cum like this.”

“You’re serious.” His voice is rough now. Wrecked. Disbelieving. “You’re actually getting off on my fucking shoe.”

“Hard,” you gasp. “Gonna make a mess, too. Want your sock soaked through. Want you walking around all day with my cunt on your foot like it belongs there.”

Jake groans. His cock twitches hard in front of you, the head flushed and leaking.

You moan again and swallow him down—deep, fast, desperate—and that’s it.

He breaks.

“Fuckfuckfuck—baby, I can’t—I’m gonna cum—please, I’m gonna fucking cum—”

You hold him there. You press your nose to his skin and take him to the root, let your throat tighten around him like a vice, and let yourself go absolutely slack with it—like you were made to take him. Like this is the only place you’re meant to be.

He cums hard, thick ropes pulsing into your mouth, your throat, hot and messy and endless. He whines like it hurts. He shudders from head to toe, tries to pull back, but you keep him in your mouth, swallowing around him as he trembles. He sounds so broken when he moans your name again, voice shaking, eyes shut tight. Like it’s too much. Like it’s exactly what he never knew he needed.

You keep grinding.

Harder now. Desperate.

Your panties are ruined. The pressure of his shoe against your clit is unbearable. You’re soaking the laces. Your thighs are shaking. Your orgasm builds like a scream in your chest, your body locking down around the drag of fabric and friction and the taste of his cum still on your tongue.

Then you’re coming.

Violent. Messy. Loud.

Your hips jerk forward, one long, feral cry spilling from your lips as your entire body clenches, rocking through the waves of it with no shame, no filter, no apology. You don’t even stop. You keep riding his fucking shoe until your vision blurs and you collapse forward, catching yourself with one hand on his thigh, panting, dazed, glowing.

Jake looks like he’s about to pass out.

You blink up at him. His face is flushed, lips parted, sweat glistening at his temple. His cock is softening now, still slick from your mouth. He stares at you like he’s trying to remember how breathing works.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind,” he whispers.

You grin up at him. Your voice is hoarse, raw from taking him so deep. “Wait ‘til I tie you to my bed.”

He swallows.

You reach up and pat his chest sweetly, then drag your nails down his stomach. “Better hydrate,” you murmur. “Next time, you’re not gonna be standing by the time I’m done with you.”

Jake moans again.

-

Jake’s fucking naked and tied to your bed, cock hard and leaking, mouth swollen from how many times he’s bitten down trying not to cry.

You’ve ruined him already—left him shaking, flushed, sensitive, the head of his cock glossy and red from being stroked, spat on, denied. His wrists are bound to the headboard with your silk scarves, arms stretched and flexed, muscles tight from the tension. His legs are spread wide, ankles cuffed to the posts at the bottom, so open and vulnerable you could do anything you want to him—and you fucking will.

He looks like a fucking offering laid out for slaughter.

He’s been begging for nearly fifteen minutes now. He doesn’t even know what for anymore. You’ve got him so twisted up he’d say yes to anything. Anything to have your pussy back on his cock. Anything to feel you ride him again like you did the night before when you choked on his cum and came all over his foot like a filthy, brainless freak.

He hasn’t been the same since.

You sit between his spread thighs now, fully clothed, your hoodie sliding off one shoulder, thighs glistening with your own arousal. His cock jumps the second you touch it, and he gasps—so fucking sensitive, twitching like it hurts, but still begging to be touched. You spit on it again, letting the saliva drip slowly from your tongue before you smear it around the tip with your thumb.

Jake lets out a cracked moan, head thrown back, chest flushed and rising fast.

“Please,” he pants. “Please let me cum—please, baby, I’ll do anything—anything you want, I swear—”

You slap his cock. Not hard. Just sharp enough to make him jolt.

His moan breaks into a sob.

“Oh my god,” he chokes out. “I’m gonna fucking lose it, I swear—”

“You already did,” you mutter, climbing into his lap and dragging your soaked panties against the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. “Look at you. Look at this fucking mess you made.”

Your pussy’s dripping. His cock is coated in your slick, your spit, his own leaking pre-cum that you didn’t even bother cleaning up the last time he came. You just licked it off your fingers while he watched, eyes wide and dazed like he couldn’t believe it.

You grind down again, harder, dragging the length of his cock along your soaked slit—your panties so wet you may as well be naked. He can feel everything. And he’s losing his fucking mind.

“Please,” he whines, and it’s a real whine this time, shaky and high and wrecked. “Please let me put it in—I need your pussy, I need it, I’ll fucking cry for it—”

You reach back, grab his cock at the base, and line him up.

Jake holds his breath.

Then you sink down, slow, letting him stretch you open inch by inch, your soaked walls squeezing around his cock so tight he nearly passes out.

“F-fuck—” he gasps, voice cracking. “Fuckfuckfuck—holy shit—your pussy’s—so fucking tight—so wet—oh my god—”

You sit fully on him and grind down. Circle your hips once, twice, just to watch him fall apart.

Jake screams.

“I’m gonna cum,” he gasps. “I can’t hold it—I’m gonna fucking cum—baby, please—fuck—”

“No, you’re not,” you growl, slapping his thigh hard enough to make him jolt. “You’re gonna take it. Every single fucking second of it. You’re gonna sit there and let me use your cock until you’re crying, begging me to stop.”

“I’m already crying,” he whimpers, voice thick and wet and so fucking broken it makes your clit throb.

You ride him slow at first. Just enough for him to feel the way your pussy clenches down every time he whines. He’s shaking so hard the cuffs rattle. His arms flex and his head drops back, throat exposed, mouth open, a string of drool sliding down his cheek. He’s not even trying to be strong anymore.

“You’re so easy,” you murmur, leaning forward, your tits brushing his chest. “One little taste of this pussy and you’ve turned into a cockdrunk mess.”

“Y-yeah,” Jake gasps, not even ashamed. “I don’t care—I’ll be your fucktoy, I don’t care—please—ride me—break me—I’ll cum in you, I’ll fill you up, I’ll give you anything—”

You bounce.

Hard.

The slap of skin on skin is obscene—slick, wet, fucking filthy. Your ass hits his thighs again and again, your cunt swallowing him with every bounce, your juices dripping down his balls and soaking the sheets underneath.

Jake is screaming.

“I’m cumming—baby, please, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum—”

“Do it,” you snap. “Fucking give it to me.”

He does.

It hits him like a freight train.

His whole body arches, arms straining against the restraints, cock throbbing violently inside you as he empties himself, hot and thick and so much it leaks around your pussy and down your thighs. He cums hard. Harder than before. 

You don’t stop. You keep riding. Keep grinding. Keep slapping your cunt against his oversensitive cock until he’s shaking, moaning, twitching beneath you.

He starts crying.

Real tears, silent at first—just leaking from the corners of his eyes while he whispers your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

You slow down. Not to be kind—just to drag it out. Your cunt keeps clenching around him, squeezing more cum out of his twitching cock while he sobs beneath you.

“Again,” you say softly. “You’re not done.”

“P-please,” he chokes. “I c-can’t—too much—hurts—”

You slap his face.

He whimpers.

“You wanted a freak, daddy,” you whisper in his ear. “Now take it.”

-

You should’ve seen it coming.

Should’ve noticed the way Jake’s eyes snapped open after the third orgasm you milked out of him. Should’ve heard the way his voice changed when he said your name—lower, rougher, like it wasn’t a plea anymore. Like it was a warning.

But you were too busy grinding out another high on his cock, watching him cry, whispering filth into his ear like he was yours to keep. Too drunk on power to realize that the leash was loosening. That the heat building behind those trembling moans was something else. Something darker.

Something dangerous.

So when his hand broke free from the restraint and clamped around your throat in one swift, unhesitating motion,

You froze.

“Get the fuck off me,” he growled.

It wasn’t a request.

You barely realize what’s happening until your back hits the mattress.

Jake doesn’t warn you. Doesn’t ask. He just grabs you—lifts you like you’re weightless, tosses you onto the bed like you belong there—and you do. You belong right there: on your back, legs open, waiting for him. Your hair’s a mess, your skin is slick with sweat, and you can still feel the faint sting from where he slapped you earlier—tender, warm, and aching for more.

Jake towers over you now, fully in control, not the shaky man you once had sobbing under your tongue. This Jake is all muscle and purpose, eyes dark, chest heaving, every part of him radiating pure, controlled hunger. His voice when he speaks is low, quiet, devastating.

“You thought you could break me?” he says slowly, climbing onto the bed. “You thought you could ride my cock, spit on it, slap it against your tongue like it was yours?”

You nod, dazed, already drunk on him. “I—yes—”

His hand wraps around your throat, not tight—just enough. Just enough to remind you whose bed you’re in now. Whose game you’re playing.

“That’s cute,” he mutters. “Because you don’t belong in control, baby. You don’t belong on top. You belong right here. On your back. Legs open. Mind empty. Pussy leaking. Waiting for me to do whatever the fuck I want.”

Your body answers before your mouth can. Your hips twitch, slick pooling between your thighs again like he hasn’t already ruined you twice tonight.

He laughs when he sees it. “Of course you’re wet. You like it when I talk to you like this. When I tell you you’re nothing but a body for me to use.”

You nod, breathless.

Jake shoves your thighs apart and stares like he owns you.

His hands grip your knees, pushing them up, back, open—not just spread, but displayed, exposed, like you’re nothing more than a fucktoy laid out for his use. You tremble under the weight of his stare. He doesn’t move right away. He just watches you—watches the mess between your legs, the way your hole clenches around nothing, fluttering like it’s begging for him.

“You see this?” Jake mutters, voice rough, chest rising with each breath. “This is what a cockdrunk little slut looks like. All ruined and open and twitching. You get like this just from being told you’re mine.”

You nod again, too far gone to pretend otherwise.

“Say it.” His hand slides up your thigh. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” you gasp. “I belong to you, Daddy.”

His eyes flash. “Say it properly.”

“I’m yours. I’m your slut. Your hole. Your mess. Use me.”

Jake groans low in his throat, the sound of a man completely gone. His hand slips between your legs again, fingers dragging through your slick, knuckles brushing where you’re most sensitive. You arch into his touch like a puppet on a string. And when he slaps you—sharp, wet, deliberate—you moan like it’s your name.

“Fuck, you really love it, don’t you?” he growls, doing it again. The sting shoots straight to your core, makes your body jolt and your eyes roll. “You need it. The pain, the mess, the shame—all of it.”

“I do,” you gasp, eyes wet. “I need it. I need you to use me—mark me—make me your fucking toy.”

Jake leans in close, one hand still pressed to your thigh, the other wrapped tight around your throat. His lips brush your ear, and his voice drops so low it makes you ache.

“Good. Because you’re not getting a break tonight. You’re gonna take every slap, every thrust, every fucking drop I give you—and then you’re gonna beg for more.”

Jake doesn’t give you time to recover. Not even a second.

His hand on your throat tightens—not dangerously, just enough to remind you that you’re not in charge anymore. Just enough that your back arches and your breath stutters, your eyes going hazy even before he says another word.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough, dangerous. “You haven’t even been fucked yet and you’re already shaking.”

You are. Your whole body is trembling beneath him. Your thighs twitch, your chest heaves, your cunt pulses like it’s trying to pull something in. He lets go of your neck and drags his hand slowly down your chest, past your stomach, over the soaked heat between your legs. He spreads you again—thumb parting you with no gentleness at all.

You gasp. Loud. Shameful.

“Fucking mess,” Jake mutters, more to himself than you. “You’re dripping down your thighs, baby. What do you think you look like right now, huh?”

You can’t answer. You’re too dazed. Too open.

But Jake isn’t asking for answers.

He slaps you again. Sharp and wet. The sound echoes, and the burn is instant. Your back jerks off the bed, but your legs stay spread like they know better.

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“Louder.”

“Thank you for slapping my pussy, Daddy—thank you—thank you—”

He cuts you off with another one. Even harder. Your mouth drops open in a silent cry, your hands gripping the sheets like you’ll float away if you don’t anchor yourself to the mattress.

Jake’s breathing hard now. He’s watching your face as you squirm, watching your thighs tremble, watching your hole clench around nothing with every sting of his hand.

“You don’t even know how to behave without being punished, do you?” he growls. “You need it. You need to be used. You need to be slapped open and filled up and fucking wrecked just to remember who you belong to.”

“I do,” you pant. “I need it. I wanna be wrecked. Want to be yours. Just yours. Just a hole—your fucktoy—”

He slams your knees back, folding you in half.

“Yeah?” he hisses. “Then beg for it.”

You’re shaking. Voice thin. Body raw.

“Please, Daddy. Use me. Fill me. Fuck me until I cry. Spit on me. Mark me. I want your cum inside me for days. I want you to ruin me. I want you to break me.”

Jake growls low in his throat.

“Fuck. You’re gonna wish you never said that.”

And then he takes you.

Not soft. Not slow. Not kind.

He takes you like you asked for it—like you were made to be taken. His hands on your thighs, his cock driving deep and rough, your screams muffled against the mattress as he folds you, bends you, owns you. His fingers digging into your skin, his voice dark in your ear, your name warped with every curse.

“Mine,” he snarls, over and over. “My slut. My pussy. My fucking property.”

Your body isn’t yours anymore.

It’s his. All of it. The bruises blooming on your thighs, the slick between your legs, the spit drying on your chest—it all belongs to Jake now. Your name doesn’t matter. Your words don’t matter. Your pleasure is just a side effect of being used the way he wants to use you.

And he’s nowhere near finished.

You’re still folded in half when he pulls out, slow and deliberate, letting the drag of his cock stretch every sensitive inch of you one last time before he sits back on his heels. You can barely move. Barely speak. But he doesn’t need you to.

He just needs you to listen.

“Don’t close your legs,” he growls. “Keep ‘em open. Wide. Let me see what the fuck I’ve done to you.”

You try. Your legs twitch. Shake. Collapse inward from instinct.

Jake slaps your thigh—sharp, fast, not enough to hurt, but enough to snap you back into place.

“I said open.”

You whimper. Force them apart again. Your skin burns. Your hole pulses. Your cunt’s dripping, twitching, raw from being filled and slapped and stretched, and you’re so far gone you don’t even care. You want him to look. You want him to see the mess he’s made.

And he does.

Jake leans forward, grabs your chin, forces your dazed eyes to meet his.

“You see this?” he murmurs, dragging two fingers between your legs, coating them in slick, cum, spit—everything. “This isn’t you anymore. This is mine. This whole filthy body? Mine.”

You nod, throat dry. “Yours.”

“All of it.”

“Every inch.”

Jake hums. Then presses those two soaked fingers to your lips.

“Suck.”

You don’t hesitate. You take them between your lips, tongue swirling, your moan caught on the mess of everything he’s fed you.

He watches you with a filthy kind of pride. Like he’s not just fucking you—he’s training you.

“Good little toy,” he mutters. “Look at you. So easy to break. You’ll do anything, won’t you?”

You nod, still sucking. Still moaning.

He pulls his fingers out, grabs your face with one hand, and tilts it down.

“Look.”

You blink, then see it: the mess between your thighs. The slick, the spit, the raw stretch of your hole. You gasp—shocked by the sight of yourself, of what he’s made you into.

Jake grins.

“You look better like this,” he says softly. “Ruined. Used. Nothing left in that pretty head except my name and my cock.”

You breathe his name like a prayer.

He leans close.

“Flip over.”

You obey.

-

TL: @ziiao @seonhoon @beariegyu @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @cherrybeomm @urmomdotcom5678 @jaeyunsbimbo @yongbokified @changbinniescurlyhair @en-whims @prettygurlnikittie