⚠︎ ( read this first ): Huening Kai is depraved as fuck. Sorta porn!addict huening kai, milf lover!huening kai, mentions huening kai is an idol. Fem reader is older than he is. Noncon, somnophilia, stalking, intruding, panties sniffing, kissing, creampie, hints of beomgyu at the start. Mentions of reader is like curvy/busty, mentions of reader having a stretch marks, huening kai is basically like pure loser here. No clear plot just pure filth. ALL CHARACTERS INVOLVED ARE ABOVE THE AGE OF 20+ !!!
Notes: I wrote this pretty fast so this would prob come out as a half-cooked food and im so sorry (ू˃̣̣̣̣̣̣︿˂̣̣̣̣̣̣ ू)
WC: 5k+
theres hundreds if not thousands of things that Huening Kai really fond off of this world. But one of them is something that most people, even his beloved, most loyal fans ever predicted: a milf. He had no idea why, but the thought of an older, dominant and hot woman laying beneath him as his gaze and lust devoured her makes the little man inside his pants grows uneasy. And yet even with such public profession of being an idol, he can't possibly wandering around easily and fuck any old woman he could find. That, until he met you —
fuck, you were irresistible. The truth is, he didn't find you all by some kind of hidden gem. Beomgyu did. He sent him a suspicious twitter link in one of their private messages on a second phone — as Huening Kai's curious finger clicked onto the linked text, he sees .. that. Those, fuckin' chudai or whatever it is. With your body displayed there. Beomgyu himself aint stupid, he knows the taste of his friend all too well.
“So.. do u like that?” Beomgyu asked over their chat message, ah.. that fuckin' bastard.
”Wdym..?” Huening Kai plays off, trying to ignore the growing sensation under his now choked pants.
“The woman duh” Beomgyu replied with that stupid laughin cat emoji as he does so.
After the conversation, Huening Kai kept finding himself going back to that same ol' link over and over again, despite telling himself that this wasn't healthy for his mind nor body. I mean how could he handle allat? he could have an international performance on stage and inside his mind it's all have been flooded with tides of none other than you, your face, the curves as you sat down to those massive dildos and those.. provocative looking eyes.
It was all under his control until he couldn't take it anymore as he stormed to your location, paying off a hacker under an anonymous name to track you down. This is fucking disgusting, he knew it. He's supposed to be this angelic, sweet guy remember? The Huening Kai — so unreal that people mistook him for a game character.
And yet, here he is. Staring outside your window like some kind of sick old pervert, which can be true except its the fact that he's younger than you.
His mouth drools over silently, hands tremoring as he watched you walked out of the bathroom with nothin' but a skimpy towel covering your body and tightly wrapped around your figures.
Your upper boobs float over like bubbles, stretch marks laid between your shoulders and upper thighs like roots. The print marks of your peach-shaped ass glazed under the night lamp. Fuck — you were even more irresistable in real life, like a fuckin' succubus, or somethin'..
Huening Kai watches as the towel drops, slowly wearing the pajamas around your body before laying onto your soft mattress, unaware of the young perverted idol peeking from your window like a sick man.
As your eyes fluttered shut and drifted upon your sleep, Huening Kai wasted no time, his fingers grabbed the edge of the window frame as he pulled it above, the slight creaking sound anticipates him before he slowly jumped over, right infront of your sleeping state.
His left hand grabs the already impatient shaft inside his jeans, growing more and more angrier with each times he delayed. He didn't want to waste any more time, its now or never. Before you woke up, before you smear off his reputation, before.. anything worse comes first.
He unbuckled his belt, drifting his jeans down to the ankles as his cock sprung above, hitting the very bare surface of his stomach. The tip's slightly trembling, like it has been waiting for this moment all along.
All those times he jerked off, gooned like a newly grown man to your lewd videos finally came to this exact time. He slowly walked onto your bed. Feet's softly pushing down against the mattress as he stand above you, sleeping soundly with no precautions.
He bent his body downwards, one hand steadily grabbed the length of his cock before it moves to the lace of your pajama's pants. Slowly as he does so, pulling it down.
His eyes couldn't help but kept switching between the action he's about to commit, and the very sleeping state you were in. As he finally met with your cute, polkadot-patterned panties, he softly pulled it down between your mid-thighs.
He slipped two of his fingers, fuck — you were wet, and slippery. It seems like it was the ultimate result of all this time you've been playing with those huge dildos of yours.
He positioned his shaft onto your entrance. Biting back his lip to hold in as much sound as he wants to produce. Before slowly pushing it into the lips of your plump, milf pussy.
Even with that much holding back, he couldn't help but let out a satisfied groan. Fuck — so this is what sex feels like? God, this might be one of the best thing that anyone could have ever felt.
He doesn't want to wake you up, that'll be a disaster. He kept his pace steady and light, trying to not disturb you and ended up awakening you in the middle of his fantasy-come-true moment.
The moon light glazed over Huening Kai's angelic face as he quietly whimpers. Staring down at the beautiful sight of his cock neatly wrapped around your pussy like it's always meant to be for him. His eyes drifted up to your face, sleeping soundly, so unaware of what's sin he is doing to you, he couldn't hold back his impulsive as he leaned down to lightly kiss you just right into your soft lips.
Thanks to him being a virgin, he cums pretty fast within a few minutes. But he knows he cant stay here. As his climax had come forward, his gem-like eyes now gazing down at your pussy, now's filled with his baby batter like a cream puff. Couldn't really help but licked his lips as he devoured the very last view of your delicious, vulnerable state.
He quickly grabbed onto his pants and jeans, pulling it up in a way that he wants it to be quick, and yet also still silent. Before fully leaving, he ended up doing one more despicable thing as he looked over your wardrobe, his hands grabbing one of your used panties as he took a deep sniff, before leaving into the night.
Best to say, he will leave you confused and possibly traumatized in the morning, unknown to the fact that your perpetrator was no other than this young, depraved, secretly loser idol — Huening Kai.
Synopsis! Your best friend’s brother finds a solution to ease your frustrations.
Contents! Best friend's brother Jungwon x fem!reader, service dom Jungwon, dubcon (??? But reader is very okay with it and consent is given), fingering, nipple play, lots of kissing, kitchen sex, biting, thumb sucking, unprotected sex, creampie, against the wall(fridge), pussy eating, praise, dirty talk.
Wc! 3.5k words
Note! This is for my very beautiful wife @v3lv3t-th1rst ily and thank you for trusting me with this request.
You knew that you should have gone straight to bed.
That you should have said no the moment Jungwon said those words in a slow and deliberate way, like he already knew you wouldn't refuse him.
You don’t even like Jungwon, more like you tell yourself that you’re not supposed to. Mainly because of the slight hostility he sends your way each time you’re in his vicinity.
To you, he’s just Jungwon, no one significant. Just your best friend’s handsome cheeky brother, just someone who didn’t speak unless spoken to, someone who kept to a small circle of friends.
Someone who glares at you every time you enter the room, and it leaves you to wonder if you actually did something wrong to him.
Then you came to realise that his stare downs and broken conversations were because of something else entirely.
-
You had gone down for a drink, thirsty from all the talk you were having about with your best friend. Your discussion circled around men who were horrible in bed, focusing mainly on your blind date who you carelessly took home the other week.
You don’t even remember his name, Caleb, Calvin, Charles, something that began with a C. You don't wish to remember. Just thinking of the scene in your bedroom, that man being so horribly horrible in bed, not even giving you the luxury to help you reach your climax, leaves you cringing physically hard.
And after your friend fell asleep, you decided to head on down to the kitchen, where you saw Jungwon, just…standing there. Not doing anything in particular, not drinking water, not scrolling through his phone, just there, as if he was waiting for someone. As if he had been waiting for you.
When he saw you enter the kitchen, he tailed after you. He looked like he was trying not to be obvious about it, but you noticed.
“What.” you deadpanned, matching the coldness in the tone he had been using on you for the past few weeks.
Jungwon leaned back against the kitchen counter, eyes locked onto yours, the same way they usually did. Only this time, his eyes looked intense, like something more sharp was hidden behind them. Something darker. Almost Predatory.
He crossed his arms across his chest and you furrowed your eyebrows at him, scanning his body before you could stop yourself.
When did his shoulders get so broad?
“You’re up late,” he had said matter-of-factly.
You breathed out a laugh and lifted the bottle to your lips, drinking it. A few drops slipped past your lips and trailed down to your shirt, and Jungwon’s eyes followed the trail. He didn’t look, he watched. No shame. Perhaps even slight amusement.
That was when Jungwon dropped the words like a bomb.
“I can make you cum.”
Oh. Wait what?!
You freeze, the water bottle you grabbed from the fridge frozen in your hands, hovering halfway to your lips.
“What?” you had chuckled awkwardly, trying to make sure you had heard him right.
Your grip tightened around the bottle.
“You heard me, I can make you cum.”
He pushed himself off the counter and started to take a few steps towards you.
You stepped back instinctively, heart starting to pound against your ribs.
Jungwon didn’t say anything, he kept stepping forward until your back hit the edge of the kitchen island. That’s when he smirked.
He took the bottle from your hands, setting it aside on the island and leaned closer, trapping you against the island between his arms on either side.
For some reason, you suddenly felt small, and felt that the space around you was shrinking.
“What? You think I can’t?”
You glanced over your shoulders, making sure that no one else was around, “What?!” you whisper shouted, “Are you crazy?” you landed a half-hearted shove to his chest.
You expected Jungwon to pull back, to say he was joking, to apologise.
But he doesn’t. Far from it actually.
He leans in even closer, letting you know that he wasn’t about to let you go easily. A cheshire grin on his face as he leans in close, enough for the fresh smell of his shower gel to infiltrate your senses.
“I heard you with my sister,” he admitted with no sign of hesitation nor shame in his voice about the fact that he had been eavesdropping.
“You talked about how frustrated you are,” he says, jogging your memory.
You felt embarrassed, but he was right, you were frustrated, that was the only reason why you brought that asshole into your apartment, and he was of no help.
“Jungwon, someone might see us,” you said, glancing back restlessly again.
He grabs your jaw between his fingers, guiding you to face him.
You stare up at his eyes. They’re serious, dangerously serious, staring you down with lustful intensity. You don't even know what to make of it. He was staring into your eyes like he had already claimed you.
“I’ve seen how you look at me,” he says, “I’ve seen how you scan across my shoulders,” he spoke deliberately, his hand moving from your jaw to your hair, twirling a loose strand around his fingers before he tucked it behind your ear.
“I’ve seen how you glare at me,” he says, his knees slowly pushing your legs apart. Your breath hitches, stomach coiling uncontrollably.
“You’ve been staring,” he leaned in closer to your ear, his breath hot against your ear, sending a bolt of electricity to your spine.
“Like you want me to take you,” he whispers, knees pushing up against your dampening core.
A whimper leaves your mouth before you can contain it. Your hands instantly grip around Jungwon’s surprisingly strong and steady arms, and he delivers you a victory painted smirk.
“I can make you cum,” he repeats to make sure you know of his intentions, as if those words hadn’t been echoing in your mind since the moment that he said it.
“Just say the word,” his hand slides to your face, cupping your cheeks, grazing his thumb against your skin gently. His knee was still pushed up against your heat, then moving it up and down with slow, teasing movements
You felt your arousal pool in your panties, dampening them, you could feel the way it stuck uncomfortably and hot to your pussy each time Jungwon pulled his knee away.
“Please Won," you breathed.
“Please what y/n?” he tilts his head, now moving his knee against your core in slow circles. You bite down on your lips hard, trying your best to hold in your moans.
“Please…make me cum,” you give in, and it had Jungwon feeling over the moon.
With one swift move, he grabs you by the hips to hoist you up on the kitchen island. You gasp and Jungwon immediately shushes you, “Don’t make a noise baby, wouldn’t want my sister to hear you,” he chuckled.
Before you could swat his chest, Jungwon pulled you into a kiss, slow at first, steady. But the kiss shifted into something more needy and desperate once he let his hands roam around your body.
He slips his tongue in your mouth, letting you taste him, he tastes of mint and vigor. You hum softly into the kiss when Jungwon’s hands shift from your back to your waist, his hand sliding up under the fabric to cup your breasts, his thumb grazing the underside of your breasts.
You gasp into the kiss when he squeezes them. Jungwon continues kissing you, sucking on your tongue as the kiss elevates into a messy and wet one.
He pulls down your bra to release your tits from them and he just holds them, no groping, no teasing, he just gently holds them as he pulls away from the kiss.
You take a good look at Jungwon’s face, his eyes looked determined yet soft, pupils slightly dilated, his lips were glossy and swollen from the kiss and he gives you a small smile which makes your stomach churn.
He attaches his lips to your neck, kissing you there.
His hands move, gently squeezing on your tits and you sigh, throwing your head back.
Jungwon lips travel up to your ears, biting and licking on the lobe. He starts flicking your nipples with his thumb, and you instantly dip your head against his shoulder, biting down on your swollen lips.
Your body jolts as he continues his ministrations on your nipples. He kissed your ear, “Bite down on my shoulder,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. He started leaving open mouthed kisses along your neck and jaw.
You bite down on Jungwon’s shoulder, moans muffled as you bite down harder. Jungwon hums against your neck, his fingers now pinching your nipples and gently rolling them between his fingers.
“Fuck Jungwon,” you curse through your clenched teeth and he hums knowingly.
“I know, just feel what I give you baby,” he mouths against your neck.
One of his hands leaves your breasts and slowly starts to dip down into your pants and panties. His thumb finds your clit and he places the pad of his thumb against the bundle of nerves, then he starts to rub the swollen nub in slow, deliberate circles, his other thumb back to circling your nipple again.
You bite down harder and Jungwon groans, “Shit- that’s it,” he chuckled.
Your hands grinded eagerly against his thumb, pussy aching and begging for more. “Jungwon,” you managed as you pulled away from his shoulders, your voice breathy and desperate.
He hums and locks eyes with yours. He pressed down his thumb against your clit and your breath hitches, your nails sinking deeper into his arm.
You begged him with your eyes, eyebrows drawn together, eyes glossy and pleasing. But he ignores it and presses his thumb harder, “Ngh- fuck,” you breathe out.
Jungwon stares at you with an innocent smile, almost mocking.
“Want me to put a finger in you? To have your dripping pussy full of my fingers?” He says, his voice is hushed, reminding you that you had to keep quiet no matter what.
You nodded frantically, wanting more than just his thumb on your clit and his hand flicking your nipple, it was too much to hold in, and yet it was not enough for you to let go.
“Good girl, tell me what you like,” he whispered and slid his thumb down to your entrance, prodding in it experimentally first before sticking his thumb in, and your hips instinctively chase after his hands
The sensation was still not enough, you were still not full enough.
Jungwon noticed your desperation, and with a small shuddered laugh, he pushes two digits in your sopping hole, “Fuck, it slid right in,” he said, more so to himself, a hint of astonishment in the way he said it. Then he began to move his fingers in and out of you.
Your body jolts forward to chase Jungwon’s fingers, “Oh my fucking god-” you mouthed, not because you had to keep your silence, but because the words were stuck in your throat, only threatening to get out, but failing.
Your thighs shook at the sensation, the pleasure, the fullness.
Jungwon stared at you, his gaze intense and burning. He could feel his cock growing painfully hard at this fucked up sight of you, your eyes fluttered shut, your lips pressed together in a line as you desperately tried to contain your moans.
He takes his free hand out from beneath your shirt and he cups your jaw. He pushes his thumb to the corner of your lips, slowly pushing it in.
You opened your mouth, letting Jungwon press his thumb against your tongue. You don’t wait for his instruction and start sucking on his thumb. You circle your tongue around his thumb, letting out silent moans.
The wet sounds of Jungwon’s fingers moving along your walls are loud and obscene in the quiet of the night.
But that doesn’t stop him or you. Jungwon drives his fingers in and out faster, with obscene precision that makes you dizzy, your mind spinning with pleasure each time he pushes his fingers knuckles deep in you, curling them while he’s in deep.
“Fuck you look good like this baby,” he groaned, his cock aching with the need to be inside your warm, wet, pulsating hole.
You squirmed in place as Jungwon kept dragging his digits along your hot convulsing gummy walls, keeping his thumb in your mouth tugging at the corner, pushing his thumb in and out as you continued to suck on it.
It was so incredibly hot and filthy.
Your arousal gushed out of you, wetting your panties and his fingers kept digging deliciously deep into your hole.
Your body tensed up, clenching around Jungwon’s fingers, Jungwon notices how the muscles contract around his fingers, “Wanna cum around my fingers baby? Wanna let your pretty pussy drip all over my fingers?” he asks, his voice low and controlled.
He lets out a heavy breath through his nose when you nod. The pace of his fingers speed up, he drives them into you sharper, with more precision. His thumb finds your pulsing clit again, rubbing circles on the small nub while fucking his fingers knuckles deep into you, working inside you and hitting your g-spot.
“Cum for me pretty, let that tension go hm?”
Your thighs shook even harder, your whole body shaking on top of the marble surface, thrashing about, legs hovered up in the air, toes curled as you felt the tension coiled up in your abdomen.
Then you cum. Hard. Raw. All over his fingers, coating it with your arousal. Your pussy clenched around his fingers, pulsating in strong rhythmic beats.
Jungwon removed his fingers out from your dripping pussy and pushed his arousal coated fingers into your mouth, “Taste it baby, let yourself know how good you taste,” he sighed.
You sucked on his fingers, his thumb tugging the corner of your lips, urging you to open your mouth wider, allowing him to push his fingers in deeper.
He pulls them out and lets you take a moment to breathe as he palms himself through his pants. He hisses at the touch, his cock sensitive and throbbing with need, begging for attention.
“Jungwon…I need you” you begged weakly, thighs threatening to close around him.
“Yeah?" He cooed, “Want me to put my cock in you? Fuck you deep and hard?”
“Yes. Yes- fuck I want you,” you whimper and Jungwon’s hands are back on you in no time. He holds your waist, leaning into a kiss. You kiss him back, releasing a satisfied hum, “So Fucking Pretty,” he muttered, kneading the flesh of your waist.
He then tugged on the waistband of your shorts, his lips refusing to leave the fevered kiss. He pulls the shorts off of you, his hands caressing your bare thighs.
His hands then move to your back, grabbing your ass and lifting you off the marble surface easily.
You gasp lightly, “Surprised?” he asks, pressing soft kisses against your lips now, “Maybe,” you giggle, returning Jungwon’s now soft kisses.
He pushes your back against the refrigerator, the appliance cold and humming against your back, “So pretty,” he said in a low voice, “God I should have done this long ago,” he added, his lips migrating to your neck.
Jungwon holds you against the cold surface in place, one hand holding you securely in place, the other dropping to his pants to release his cock from its restraint.
Jungwon’s cock springs free, hitting the base of his stomach when he pulls his pants down hurriedly, the fabric pooling carelessly at his ankles.
He pulls your soaked panties aside, then kisses you and whispers sweet nothings into your ear, like you’re all that matters to him right now.
Jungwon lines his cock to your entrance, sliding the red and angry tip along your folds to lubricate it with your wetness.
“fuckkk” he drawled as he slid himself along your folds, “You’re so wet for me baby,” Jungwon said to your ear. Heat rose up to your neck, to your ears and face, a whine threatening to leave your mouth.
Jungwon then slowly pushes the throbbing tip of his cock, ready and eager, hard into your aching pussy. He pushes it in slowly and your hands grip a handful of his hair, mouth hung open as his cock gives you a delicious stretch.
“That’s it, feel the stretch baby, feel me,” Jungwon grunted, smirking when you tug on his hair harder. Jungwon started to move his hips, rolling them upwards to push his length in you with slow strokes.
You start to see that he was slowly losing himself. You could tell in the way his cock throbbed inside you, heavy and aching with each deep roll of his hips.
He started moving faster, cock slamming upwards making wet and filthy sound bounce off the walls. “Jungwon- that feels so good- ngh-” your moans become choked. You felt so full with Jungwon’s length drilling deep inside you, his tip hitting your g-spot each time he filled you to the brim.
“Pussy’s so wet, so tight just for me,” he stuttered, “Isn’t that right baby?” He chuckles breathily.
“Yes,” you whisper-whined, mind numbed out as Jungwon kept pistoning his length along your walls, his cock sliding in and out easier gradually as more wetness gushed out of you.
Jungwon messily kisses your neck, letting out small grunts each time he thrusts his cock deep inside you with sharp precision.
You let a moan slip out, immediately biting down on your lips. Jungwon’s cock twitches at your noise, speeding up his thrusts, “You sound so pretty baby,” he muttered against your neck.
His hands dug into your skin harder, his body pressed against yours even more than it already was, practically fusing into yours.
“This pussy’s gonna milk me dry,” he groaned, his thrusts sloppy yet unrelenting now. You could only hear Jungwon, only feel Jungwon, only think of Jungwon. Your initial fear of getting caught kept far in the back of your mind now when all you could focus on was the pleasure.
You wrap your arms around Jungwon’s neck and pull him in a kiss. Jungwon pauses, momentarily surprised, but kisses you back nonetheless, his body taking delight at your excitement.
“Make me cum Wonie,” you moan into the kiss. Jungwon straight up moans, not his small grunts, not his quiet and constraint moans, a loud genuine moan, “Keep calling me that baby,” he kisses you, sloppily swirling his tongue with yours.
“Wonie,” you whine and he hums appreciatively, still pushing his arousal coated cock inside you with an uneven tempo.
You felt your orgasm approaching, coiling up in the base of your stomach, “Wonie, I’m so close,” you say and Jungwon delves his tongue deep into your mouth.
“Cum for me baby, be a good girl and cream all over my cock,” he moaned again.
“Fuck! I’m going to cum too,” Jungwon said, his hips stuttering briefly, then proceeding to slam his length upwards relentlessly, his thrusts become powerful and impossibly deeper.
“Cum with me baby, okay?” He kisses your lips, cheeks, the corners of your lips, everywhere on your face he could.
And you let go. The overwhelming climax taking over the nerves of your body, vibrating in every fibre inside you, your body arches in his hold. And Jungwon shoves his dick inside, balls deep in you, spilling his white and sticky release inside you.
He kisses you through your orgasm, softly moaning into the kiss and he moves his hips up and in lazy circles to make sure his seeds are emptied completely deep inside you.
You can feel his seeds flow out of you as Jungwon pulls out, the liquid dripping down to the clothes pooled at his ankles. He still holds you in place, pecking your cheeks as he tries to even out his staggered breaths.
Your chest heaves up and down, body still twitching from your climax.
“Fuck,” he chuckled breathily, resting his forehead against yours.
He pulled back to examine you, to make sure you were alright, you smiled at him lazily, still resting your hands around his neck and grazing your nails at his nape.
“I told you I could do it,” he said, that familiar cheeky smile returning to his face, you scoff and roll your eyes.
He leans in, pressing his lips against yours, soft and careful. It is entirely different from the previous lust driven kisses you just shared. It is soft and gentle, as if you would shatter into a million pieces if he put any more pressure.
“Told you,” he kisses the corner of your lips, “I could help ease your frustrations,” he kisses the other corner, “That I could make you cum,” he presses his lips against yours again, in that same gentle manner.
“And I did,” he smirked, “Twice,” he lifted his brows proud, perhaps even child-like.
“You’re so stupid,” you chuckle, and his teasing grim transforms into a small smile.
“Sure, whatever you say,” he says, pressing his lips against yours again.
PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! heavy dom/sub dynamics, anal sex, painal, anal sex used as a punishment, strict mingi, sadist mingi, degradation, humiliation. major daddy kink, fair amount of dumbification and infantilisation (you go a bit dumb at the end and he baby talks you a bit), breeding, mention of pregnancy & pregnancy kink, unprotected sex. mingi loves humiliating and demeaning you and he loves seeing you in pain. be warned.
this does not represent mingi or my perception of him; this is a fictional character inspired by him. hate is blocked.
words: 4.4k
for @yestodayys
It’s not that Mingi isn’t traditional; not that he doesn’t enjoy traditional punishments, traditional discipline. He does.
He just likes to be creative. Likes to catch you by surprise. He likes the sort of punishments where he can watch you squirm; where he can not just see your body’s reactions but feel them, too; every emotion, every thought, every feeling that passes through you for even a second, and know for absolutely certain that you’re learning your lesson.
That’s how he landed here. On this. It was somewhere you ended up together.
He’s always liked anal. Loved the feeling of a hole squeezing him; the way it contracts and tenses and spasms, the way your body jolts and tries to get away from him on instinct no matter how much you want it. And he loves the implications, too; knowing how dirty it is, how demeaning it is for you to be fucked open in a hole you’ve scarcely explored yourself. Knowing that you know, too; knowing you know exactly how degrading it is to be fucked and stretched there. The sort of thing only a whore would like—that what he says, when he wants to remind you of it. When he wants to make sure it’s not slipping your mind; that you’re not forgetting what’s happening and what it means.
You’ve been pushing it today. You often do, the little brat that you are, but today you’re worse than normal. Snide remarks, eye rolls when you think he’s not looking and when you know he is; little things that have added up to something he just doesn’t have the patience for.
For a while, while you were toeing the line but not quite crossing it, he was planning on just taking you home and smacking you around. Getting your ass red, the tears flowing, then putting you into the corner to think about your behaviour. Maybe he’d finger you against the wall, if you took your punishment well.
When you began crossing it, he decided on the belt. It’s not his go-to, but he’d hardly say it’s rare that he uses it. It’s more fun, gets his adrenaline flowing, and doesn’t hurt his hand; and nothing else makes you quite as sorry quite as quickly as thick, strong leather snapping against your bare ass and thighs.
Well. Almost nothing.
You’re well and truly over the line, past the point of no return and about two miles north, when he decides you’re going home. This behaviour, this attitude, just can’t wait.
And there’s no way you’re getting the belt anymore.
He walks you to the car with a hand on the back of your neck. Firm, his grip tight, long thick fingers splayed out across the expanse of your flesh. It’s rare—these days, at least—for him to do this. Or for him to have to do this, as he always corrects you, because it’s not his choice—it was your choice to misbehave. To be such a bratty little bitch that he has no choice but to treat you like it. No choice but to set you straight.
“Mingi,” you hiss, squirming weakly in his grip, a halfhearted attempt at escape. God, his grip is tight; sometimes you wonder if he actually knows his own strength before you remember that he definitely, absolutely does. He’s choosing to use it—he likes using it. “C’mon. Hurts.”
“This happens every time,” he gruffs in response. “Thought you’d have learned to stop complaini— will you stop fucking struggling, girl?” His voice dips, almost a snarl now, and his grip tightens punishingly in response. “You’re making a fucking scene. M’sure I've taught you not to make a scene. Not to embarrass me, brat.”
“Ouch, fuck, okay, sorry— I’ll be good, Min, sorry.”
“Atta girl.”
He fishes the keys out his pocket as the car comes into view and unlocks it, stuffing them back in with a grunt. He doesn’t speak as he opens the door, shoving you into the front seat and buckling you in; you try to do it yourself, mumbling that you’re an adult, you can do it yourself, but he slaps your hand away. “Don’t get in my way,” he grunts. “I taught you how to behave, act like it. If you move an inch before I’ve got you home you’re gonna get it worse.”
“M’kay,” you murmur.
He doesn’t look at you as he drives; doesn’t talk. You at least have the sense not to try and make conversation. You just stare out the window, watching the city pass you by and wondering what awaits you at home.
Even if you do already know.
The door has hardly closed, the lock scarcely clicked shut when his hands are on you again. They’re even harder than before, even heavier; one is in your hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking your head backwards, and the other lands against your face once, twice, three times until your eyes are watering and you’re fairly certain you’ve bitten your tongue.
You don’t try to look at him. You know better than that now.
“Kneel,” he grunts. You’re on your knees, legs spread, before he’s finished saying it.
Your pussy is dripping, you feel it. You wouldn’t be surprised if there was a dark, damp patch on the crotch of your panties. You wonder if he can see it from beneath your tiny little skirt where it’s surely ridden up over your hips.
He probably can’t, though, from so high up—but he doesn’t really need you. He knows you. He knows how fucking soaked you get when he treats you like this.
He takes a step towards you; you watch the movement of his boots, the black ones with the red soles he’d gotten for the Louboutin show he went to, move across the floor towards you. Then he stops.
He doesn’t speak. The silence stretches. The air between you gets hotter and thicker with every second you’re waiting to hear your sentence.
“You just can’t resist, can you?” He says. “Can’t resist the urge to act out, no matter what I do. Whether I beat you like a dog or spank you like a little girl, you just can’t help yourself. Isn’t that right?”
You nod. He moves his foot forward, across the floor, squeaking against the wood, until it’s pressing against your pussy. The contact makes you gasp, shuddering; you bite down the moan you know you don’t have permission to let out.
“Verbal answers,” Mingi orders. “Don’t go quiet on me.”
He increases the pressure, enough that you’re certain you almost white out for a second. “Yes sir,” you squeal.
He grunts. “So you’re not dumb, then. You know how to answer me. Just don’t know how to act.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t lie.”
He moves his foot back, so the tip of the toe is only just grazing against your panties, then presses it back with full force. You feel like you’re going to pass out. “I’m sorry.”
“For lying, maybe. But not for acting out. You were hoping for this, weren’t you? You like this.”
“I…”
“You don’t need to answer,” he says. “Your cunt is answering me, and she loves it. I bet you’re dripping now, aren’t you?”
You open your mouth to reply, but the words don’t come. Can’t come, because Mingi cuts you off before you can speak. “Or is dripping too small a word?” He muses. “I don’t think it quite covers it, not for someone who gets as wet as you do. Never met anyone like it; never met a girl who fucking leaks like this. Especially not from being kicked around.”
“Yes, sir,” you nod. “I’m… I’m leaking.”
“I know you are,” he says. “This much slick, the whole room smells like pussy. Neighbours can probably smell it too. I bet they’re wondering what you’ve done to get yourself abused this time.”
“Maybe, sir.”
“What would you tell them? If they came and knocked on the door and asked you why you’re on your knees this time, what would you say?”
“I’d say I misbehaved,” you answer. “That I… I acted like a bitch. I didn’t respect you.”
His boot is still pressed against you, rubbing against your clit. You wish he would let you move a little, just enough to stimulate yourself. You’re half hoping he’s going to order you to; that he’s going to make you get yourself off on his boot like you’ve done before, but you know he isn’t.
These days, that’s a reward. And Mingi is clearly not in a rewarding kind of mood.
“Get up,” he says. “And get on the bed, in position. Holes presented. If you want me to use lube, you’ll be in just your panties by the time I get there. Yeah?”
“Yes, sir.”
You rise to your feet and scurry away without meeting his eyes; you feel him standing there, unmoving, watching you run down the hall and into the bedroom.
You don’t have many clothes to remove, just your tiny skirt that’s already halfway off and your shirt. The problem is the buttons, all the way down your front; you give up halfway through undoing them and just yank the thing over your head, throwing it and the shirt onto the chair and clambering into position.
Just in time, too; even knowing you’ve obeyed his commands exactly, the sound of his footsteps getting closer and closer down the hall feels a little like an omen.
“Good.” He’s in the doorway now, lingering; you can picture it even with your face pressed into the comforter, eyes squeezed shut like you’re hiding from what’s about to happen; picture his frame, large, looming, predatory eyes fixed on you, lips curling the way they do when he knows he has you wrapped around his finger. “You’ve some survival instincts, at least.”
He’d slow as he walks over to you; leisurely. As though this is nothing more than amusement for him; something to entertain himself with. He comes to stand next to you, resting his on your bare ass cheek.
His hand is large, warm, the skin soft and calloused at the same time. He runs it over your ass, down the back of your thigh, then mirrors the action on the other side. You stay still, silent, refusing to move no matter how much you want to squirm, whine, shiver at his touch, at the strength and control you feel even in the slightest contact. Fuck.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs. His voice is like a physical presence against your skin, like a feather running down the backs of your thighs. “Can’t believe such a pretty little thing manages to be so fucking bad.”
His hand pulls back, the other arm hooking under your stomach to hold you still, then slams down against your ass with full force. It lands in the center, above your crack, and the pain shoots through the entirety of your body like an electric current. You cry out, can’t help it, vision going white, and he pulls back and hits you again.
You forget how strong Mingi is; forget the muscles you love to cling to and touch and bite and just look at, imagining everything he could use them for, aren’t just for show. Aren’t just to fuck you with, to pleasure and service you with—that he can and does use them to keep you in line, as well. That he can punish you with them, too.
“You always fucking push it, don’t you?” He sneers, hitting you again, this time on the back of your thigh. “Can’t help yourself. You just like to see me mad. Like acting like a bitch so you can see me fucking treat you like one, is that it?”
You whine, kicking your feet against the comforter, crying out into the pillow as another hit lands. “Stay still,” he says. “M’not even punishing you yet. Just getting you ready, baby, gotta break you into it. I know what a little crybaby my girl is, don’t I?”
The hits stop as quickly as they started; his hand rests on the back of your thigh where the last one came down. For a moment, it’s silent. Just your heavy breathing, an occasional soft sob you can’t hold back. His hand runs up and down the red, painful skin, a gentle caress, then travels up your ass and hooks into the band of your panties. They’re down and bunched at your knees before you can blink.
And then he’s there; long, strong legs clamber onto the bed, settling behind you, his hands gripping each side of your hips. He nudges your legs apart with his knee, planting it between them to keep them separated, your pussy now bare and exposed to the cold air of the bedroom. “Look at that,” he croons. “Perfect, tiny little pussy. And she’s fucking wet, d’you feel it? Feel how you’re dripping at this?”
You mumble a response, barely aware of the words as they tumble from your mouth. By now the pillow is wet, soaked with drool and tears and sticking to your flushed skin. Mingi exhales, breathing out a laugh. His hand moves over your pussy, so close it almost feels like he’s touching it, like he’s brushing over it—but he never does.
You knew he wouldn’t.
That’s a rule—when you’re naughty, your pussy gets ignored.
“This little hole,” Mingi slides his finger across your rim, making contact now, pushing the tip of it in just enough to make your muscles tense in protest, “is getting fucked open. She’s gonna cry for me, isn’t she?”
“Yes sir.”
His laugh comes low and soft and knowing; the sort of laugh you only hear in moments like this. He clicks his tongue, squeezing your cheek hard enough to sting. “Oh, baby,” he coos. “You don’t have to call me that anymore, honey, you’re not being scolded. We’re past that now. You’re being punished. What do you call me when I’m teaching you how to behave?”
You groan, eyes squeezing shut, burying your face deeper into the pillow. You can practically see the grin stretching across Mingi’s face, all the cockiness and knowing of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing to you and enjoys it. Savours it.
“Daddy,” you mumble.
“What was that?”
“Daddy,” you say, louder now. His finger pushes in a little further, past the first joint, and your breath hitches.
“That’s it,” he smiles. “Now. Daddy’s gonna split your little butt open. Gonna get it all sore and stretched and sorry, yeah? We’re gonna make sure you learn your lesson.”
“Okay, daddy.”
His finger pushes in all the way as his other arm hooks under your waist again, holding you up and keeping you still with a firm grip on your hip. You’re immobile like this, unable to move or escape or even to collapse when your legs eventually give out as they’re wont to do.
“So dry,” he says, “and tight. She doesn’t open up for me the way your little pussy does. But that’s what makes it fun, isn’t it? The pain, the stretch, knowing even your body knows I’m not supposed to be in here. Knowing I’m gonna fuck her anyway.”
“Daddy,” you cry, voice tiny, hollow, already fucked out. “Please.”
“Hm?” He pumps it in and out a few times, pushing in deeper each time, then pulls it out entirely. The presence behind you disappears for a moment, then there’s the sound of the bedside drawer opening and closing. Your hole clenches on instinct.
He’s back behind you again, squeezing the back of your thigh. “Reach back and spread your cheeks,” he gruffs.
Your hands are shaking as you obey, pulling your cheeks apart. The cold air is biting on your hole, bare and sensitive and twitching with need. Mingi pops the cap, squeezing the lube onto his fingers. His other hand braces your waist, fingers digging into the flesh as he presses his coated fingers against your hole. “Easy now,” he grunts. “You’re not getting much, naughty little thing. I should be going in dry with what a bitch you’ve been today.”
He pushes both fingers in at once; it’s a stretch, the lube cold, near freezing, and it makes you gasp, muscles tightening, toes curling into the comforter. You’ll never get used to the size of Mingi’s fingers; knowing they’re just the preface for his cock, so much thicker and longer and meaner, just makes it even harder to take.
He works efficiently, opening you up quickly, almost cruelly.
The sound of his zipper, yanked down so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t tear off, then his jeans shuffled down far enough for him to pull out his cock, makes you flinch, shivering, anticipation crawling down your spine.
His dick is hard, twitching, already leaking as it presses against your hole. He squeezes another dollop of lube onto the shaft, then curls his hands around your hips again, then pushes in.
He goes slowly, at least, but the stretch still burns. His fingers are digging into your hips hard enough to bruise, making your muscles tighten as you try to withstand the pain that’s spreading throughout your lower half.
“You need to fucking relax,” Mingi grits out, teeth clenched. He’s barely fit the tip in by now, and you’re already crying, your body trying to wriggle away instinctively but his grip is iron and unyielding on you. And fuck, your pussy is crying, weeping, clenching and unclenching around nothing, but there’s so much happening in the rest of your body that you barely even notice.
“I’m never gonna get in like this,” Mingi grunts. “Fucking hell, quit fucking tensing. Acting like a fucking virgin. Relax.”
You nod, mumbling a yes daddy that’s muffled by the pillow, and force your legs to relax. He gets in a little further like that, but it’s a matter of millimetres. He’s just so fucking big.
He growls your name, low and harsh like a scolding and a warning in itself, then smacks your thigh hard enough to make you wince. “I’m fucking telling you this once,” he says. “Slack, girl, like you’re a fucking show dog. Open that fucking hole for me. Don’t make me tear it open myself.”
You know he wouldn’t—of course he wouldn’t. That’s the one thing Mingi is entirely and unmovingly firm about—he won’t cause you any permanent damage. But you don’t have the capacity, the facilities to understand that right now. All you know now is the pain, the pleasure, the need to have him all the way inside you. The need to be good.
It’s not immediate—it’s not easy. But with a little coaxing, soft, harsh words pressed into the patch of flesh between your shoulder blades, his tongue catching on your skin, he manages to relax you enough to push in all the way.
It hurts. The stretch is agony. But you can’t help but push back against it like you’re trying to keep him even deeper.
“Fuck,” Mingh hisses, finally bottoming out, the pressure of his hands growing heavier. “That’s fucking perfect, you— shit. Never met a girl who likes getting her ass fucked this much, god damn. You know how fucking dirty this is?”
He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks it upwards, then pushes your head back down so it’s lying sideways on the pillow; his hand comes to rest there, pressing your head down against it as he starts to move, the other still digging into your waist.
There’s something different about having Mingi in your ass. The sensations, yes; everything feels bigger and more intense in here—but other things, too.
How wrong and gross and degrading it is. The way your pussy cries for attention and goes ignored. How your body is fighting against it and begging for more at the same time.
And more than anything else, how Mingi is the only man who could ever, ever have you like this.
The sound of sobbing fills the air now, a piercing sound; it takes a moment to realise it’s you, overwhelmed, on the edge of orgasm but unable to cross it.
It took a while for Mingi to teach you to cum with just his dick in your ass, without the slightest of contact with your pussy. A lot of effort, a lot of failure, to bring your ability and control to that level.
But nothing was more difficult and arduous than training you to wait for permission. Not just wait for it—to need it; to be physically unable to climax without his consent. You still don’t know how he did it; how he managed to rewire you like that—you don't really need to. What you know, what you feel right now, is that until he tells you you can, you won’t even get close.
You know without even asking that permission is not coming. Not when you’re being punished. He’d probably hit you again for even suggesting it.
“You’re crying now,” he laughs, sneering, hand moving down to slap your thigh. “Got a dick in her ass and she’s crying from the pleasure. Isn’t that pathetic? You’re meant to be ashamed of this, getting your asshole fucked like an animal, but you’re loving every second of it. I should film this.”
“Daddy,” you groan. You want to turn around, to see him—fuck, you can picture it, the clenched draw, the furrowed brows, the eyes dark, all pupil, glazed over, the sweat gathered on his forehead, strands of hair sticking to his skin—but the pressure of his hand against your face is too much for you to fight again. “Daddy, please—”
“Shut up,” he spits, fucking into you harder. “You’re gonna take what you earned, little girl. Just gonna— just let me do what I gotta do, you gotta learn, don’t you?”
“Got— learn,” you whine. You’re fisting at the sheets, curling them around your hands. Fuck, it feels so—
“Yeah,” Mingi says, “that’s right. I’m gonna fuck you til I’m satisfied, and you know what you’re gonna do?”
“Take it?”
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re gonna take it, and not cum. Naughty little cunts don’t get to cum.”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Don’t get to cum. Please d-don’t let me cum, daddy, please.”
“I won’t, baby, don’t worry.”
You don’t know how long it’s been now; you’re fairly certain your legs have gone numb, and despite the pain and pleasure still coursing through it it somehow feels like your asshole has gone numb too; your pussy, weeping with neglect, hardly feels like it’s part of you anymore. You’re not sure if anything feels part of you now, or if you’ve reached the point you sometimes do with him, when you’re fucked out and submissive beyond the point of awareness or consciousness, when it feels like you don’t really exist inside your body anymore. You feel his grip on your hip and the pressure against your face, the movement of his dick in and out of you, your hole stretching and protesting and clinging to his shaft, the pressure in the bottom of your tummy—but it all feels distant. Separate. Like you’re floating.
Even fucked dumb like this, you can tell when Mingi approaches the edge: feel his thrusts get sloppier, more desperate, hear his breathing grow ragged and laboured, his grip tightening. He leans over you, his lips pressing against the back of your neck, sucking at the tender flesh as he fucks into you. His voice is low, shuddering, cracking and fraying at the edges. “I’m almost there,” he hisses, pressing the words into your skin like a secret. “I can’t— fuck, this tiny little hole is fucking strangling me. I’m gonna split her open— gonna fill her up, hold on.”
“Please,” you mewl, hips bucking back into him. “Fill me up— want it, daddy. Want your babies.”
“My babies?” He pauses, movements ceasing for a moment, then laughs, a loud, sharp, fond sound. “Oh sweetheart, my dumb little girl. Stupid girl, I can’t give you a baby in here. It’s the wrong hole, gorgeous.”
Oh. You frown, brows furrowing, lips curling into an upset pout. That’s not— you don’t like that. You want a baby. You want Mingi’s babies filling you up, making your tummy swell, your breasts growing and leaking—and he’s telling you you can’t even have that? You whine, kicking your feet, tears welling, and Mingi laughs again. But it’s softer now; gentler. Tender. He coos, rubbing your butt soothingly, pressing a kiss to your neck.
“My sweet little girl,” he murmurs. “Just wanna be a mommy, don’t you? Just want daddy’s babies. Don’t worry, honey, I’ll give ‘em to you.”
“Really?”
“I promise, baby,” he smiles. “Daddy’s gonna fill up your little butt until it’s all messy and leaking, and then you’re gonna have a baby. A nice, sweet baby, almost as pretty as you, yeah?”
“Okay,” you sniffle. You’re not sure if you believe him—something about it seems a little…off—but if Mingi is saying something, then you know it must be true. Your daddy would never lie to you. If he says this is gonna get you pregnant, then it’s gonna get you pregnant. You push your leg back a little, pressing your foot against his leg, and he squeezes your ass cheek hard enough to sting.
“My good girl,” he mutters. “Hold on tight, sweet girl. Gonna fuck you full of it now.”
His hands move to grip your shoulders, like an anchor point as he speeds up again, face pressed against the back of your neck; your eyes close of their own volition, squeezed shut, body tensing and tightening and folding in on itself as he pushes over the edge.
He cries out as he finishes, a guttural sound, hands tightening, hips bucking against your ass, his legs almost buckling under the pressure. You sob through it, crying out his name, over and over—Mingi, daddy, Mingi—like it’s the only thing you know how to say.
He almost collapses on top of you; he catches himself in the nick of time, instead rolling off to the side, pulling you with him, his dick still embedded in your hole. Your lower half feels warm, tummy full, cum leaking from around his still twitching shaft. You’re gasping for breath; so is he. He pulls you into him, hands moving to cup your tummy, pressing down hard enough for you to feel it—the warmth, the fullness, his presence still deep inside of you. Your head falls backwards and lands in the crook of his neck.
“Daddy,” you whisper. He hums. “Don’t pull out.”
Mingi coos, increasing the pressure on your tummy, and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”
pairing: lee jeno x fem.reader
genre: established relationship, smut, fluff
wc: 8.6k
summary: When a night of kinky experimentation leaves Jeno at his girlfriend’s mercy, he discovers a new side to both of them - and he likes it. A whole lot.
content warnings: explicit sexual content, fem!dom, sub!jeno (switch technically), light bondage, edging/orgasm denial, unprotected sex, healthy exploration of kinks, rough sex, begging, swearing, biting/marking, mild objectification, sex toy usage (on jeno), oral sex (m. receiving) . lmk if i missed anything!
a/n: hiii guys!! here’s a cute little fic (it is absolutely not cute, do not be deceived) that i wrote in honor of the JNJM unit debut 🤍 jaemin isn’t in this one, i know, i know, but i promise a proper nomin fic is coming in the future to make up for it. the concept for this was heavily inspired by doja cat’s song “freak”, and also by jeno in those JNJM teaser photos bc HELLO??? that man in office attire??? HELL YEAH. i fear i had no choice but to write this. anyway. enjoy responsiby.
"Tie him down to my queen bed, tease him just enough for him to hate me."
It’s a law of the universe that polar opposites are irresistibly drawn to one another. Perhaps it’s the allure of complementary forces coming together in perfect balance, each half making the other whole. Yin and yang, light and shadow, order and chaos.
Jeno and you were a textbook case of antipodes attracting. Where you were colorful sweaters and mini skirts, he was crisp dress shirts and tailored slacks in somber shades of black and navy. Your voice filled any room you entered, words tumbling out in an endless torrent, while Jeno was a bastion of calm quietude, content to listen with undivided attention. You created chaos wherever you went, a beautiful disaster leaving a trail of forgotten items and unfinished projects; Jeno brought order to that world, everything in its proper place, not a hair out of line.
When you first got together, your friends took bets on how long you’d last, convinced your differences ran too deep. A month, tops, most predicted. “He’s too boring for you,” they said, convinced that some fundamental law of life would surely tear you apart.
Eight months later, you were still going strong. Oh sure, you had your share of lover’s quarrels - more often than not sparked by some silly thing you got into your head to be upset about. But your sweet Jeno, ever patient, couldn’t bear to see you sad for even a moment. He made it his mission to soothe whatever ailed you, even when your “ailments” were petty and ridiculous.
“Baby, I really don’t know what’s got you so upset,” Jeno said, his voice edged with fond exasperation.
He’d always come to your place straight from the office, not a crease or wrinkle marring his crisp white button-down, hair slicked back in that severe style that never failed to make your knees weak. The way his fitted slacks hugged his toned thighs was downright criminal.
Even now, annoyed as you were, you couldn’t help but ogle him appreciatively. If you worked together, you’d never get anything done, too busy staring at this gorgeous man all day. You frequently fantasized about showing up at his workplace and mussing up that perfect hair, undoing a button or five on that shirt, making him come undone on a desk…
“I am not upset,” you huffed, but a pout was already forming on your lips quite without your permission.
Jeno chuckled, a warm, pretty sound that reverberated through his chest as he pulled you onto his lap. You went willingly, already feeling your irritation start to melt away.
"Is that so? Then why are you all..." He trailed off, imitating your pouty frown before quickly kissing it away, as if he just couldn't help himself.
"This is just my normal face. If you don't like it, you can always dump me or whatever." You crossed your arms, but the action ended up pushing your boobs up and practically into Jeno's face.
His gaze drifted down, eyes darkening with desire as he took in the view. God, he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in your soft curves, to get lost in you for days. But first, he had to figure out what was bothering you.
"Why would I ever want to break up with you? You're my girl." His hands slid down to span your lower back, fingers splaying across the dip above your hips.
"I don't know. I can just tell when a guy's not as into me anymore," you muttered, stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze.
Jeno frowned, all traces of amusement wiped from his face, replaced by confusion and concern.
"Hold on. Where is this coming from?" He sat up straighter, the sudden movement making you bounce lightly in his lap. If you weren't so annoyed, you might've taken the chance to tease him a bit, maybe wiggle around and really get him going. "Baby, what are you talking about? When have I ever made you think I'm not completely crazy about you?"
"Well, I don’t know... You've been working late constantly, I barely see you these days. And then the other night, you clearly didn't want to...you know..." You waved a hand vaguely. "Touch me."
"Oh, that... it's only because I—" Jeno sighed heavily, shoving a hand through his perfectly styled hair and messing it up. "Well, I... I thought I hurt you then. I didn't want to make it worse. Sometimes I just get too carried away because, god, I can't control myself when you're under me like that. Baby, I was trying to hold back so I wouldn't hurt you—"
You pressed a finger to his lips, silencing his rambling explanation. "What, why do you think you hurt me?"
He dropped his gaze, shame etched into every line of his handsome face. But for the life of you, you couldn't recall a single moment during sex when he'd caused you pain. If anything, Jeno was always too gentle, as if you might shatter if he dared go too hard.
"Well... you were crying..." he admitted slowly.
An incredulous laugh bubbled up in your throat, but you managed to tamp it down to a grin when you saw how genuinely distraught he was about this.
"Jeno, oh my god." A giggle escaped despite your best efforts. "I only cried because it felt good," you explained, gently grasping his chin and tilting his face up to meet your gaze. His eyes went wide, lips parting in surprise.
"Good? But... you've never cried before," he said, confusion clear in his expression. In that moment, he looked so boyish, his eyes shining with an almost innocent bewilderment.
"That's just because...you've always been so careful with me. And don't get me wrong, I love that. But the other night... I don't know, it was different. It felt like you weren’t holding back anymore. And, well... I really, really liked it."
Jeno was completely at a loss. He had no idea you felt this way. Being significantly taller and more muscular than you - a result of his rigorous daily gym routine - he always took great pains not to be too rough during sex. It took immense restraint, too. Because his deepest desire was to well and truly ravish you, to fuck you through the mattress until you were screaming his name and woke up sore. But when it came to you, his own wants and needs always took a backseat. He only wanted what was best for you.
But now, to discover you wanted the same thing all along? Well, color him shocked.
"What's with that face? Are you just now realizing you've got a freaky girlfriend who wants you to manhandle her with these big, strong arms?" You punctuated your teasing by giving his bicep an appreciative squeeze.
Jeno let out a breathless chuckle. "I just never thought my self-control was leaving you unsatisfied," he admitted. "I didn't realize you wanted me to be...rougher."
"Jen, you're so unbelievably hot, I practically have to physically restrain myself from jumping your bones every second we're together. Honestly, I'm the one holding back here."
A fierce blush crept up his neck. Why was he feeling so shy all of a sudden? For god's sake, you'd been together nearly a year, sex was a near-daily occurrence - sometimes more than once a day even. But now it turns out he didn’t know the first thing about your preferences? Upon reflection, your sex life was pretty vanilla. He'd assumed you were content like that, but now a horrifying thought struck him… What if you'd been faking it this whole time?
"Oh god," Jeno groaned, burying his face in your neck. "I'm the worst boyfriend in history."
"What? Don't be ridiculous. Of course you aren't. You're the best, most incredible boyfriend a girl could ask for, Jen. You're perfect."
He emerged from your neck, glasses adorably askew. With a tender smile, you adjusted them, then let your fingers card through his hair as you settled more firmly in his lap. "Whatever ridiculous idea is running through that brilliant, overthinking brain of yours right now, it's not at all what I meant."
Somehow, with a single glance into his eyes, you'd read his mind like an open book.
"You mean the fact that I've probably never truly satisfied my girlfriend even once because I stupidly thought I was being considerate by holding back? And that she's probably faked countless orgasms just to spare my fragile ego?" His tone was laced with self-recrimination.
"Okay, whoa! That's completely absurd, baby. None of that is even remotely true, and you know it." Your fingers continued their soothing path through his hair, and he let his eyes flutter shut, momentarily lost in the calming sensation. “But I'll admit, this is partly my fault for not communicating my desires more clearly”
"And what exactly are those desires?" he asked, hands once again finding a spot on your hips.
Now it was your turn to blush and avert your gaze. Why oh why did you have to open this particular can of worms? How were you supposed to look your boyfriend in the eye and confess all the deliciously filthy, kinky things you wanted him to do to you - and you to him?
"Um, was that the dryer?" you blurted out, making a feeble attempt to extricate yourself from his embrace, only to be tugged right back down onto his lap.
"Y/N." The use of your full name made it clear he wasn't fooling around. "Tell me. Please."
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. "It's stupid, really. Not even worth discussing. Aren't you exhausted after working all day?" you deflected, fussing with his now-wrinkled shirt. He covered both your restless hands with one of his own (god, his hands were massive), stilling your fidgeting.
"Believe me, I have no problem staying right here all night until you talk to me. I'm quite comfortable like this, actually," he murmured, a hint of amusement coloring his words.
You sighed in resignation. "I just don't want you to think I'm some kind of weirdo or something..."
"I could never think that, pretty girl," he reassured you, punctuating his words with a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. "Go on, tell me."
"Well..." you began, nervously twisting your fingers together. "There's something I've always wanted to try with you. But I thought it might be a bit...much."
Jeno's curiosity was piqued. "Okay, what is it?"
"God, this is so mortifying," you whined.
"Come on, it can't possibly be any worse than that time you confessed to having a massive crush on Shrek," he teased, trying to lighten the mood.
Oh, to hell with it. You'd come this far, might as well just let it all out.
"I've always wanted to...to tie you down. To my bed, I mean." The words tumbled out in a rush, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
Jeno was perfectly still for all of two seconds before he let out a slightly strained chuckle. But then, seeing the deadly serious look on your face, he sobered. "Wait... what exactly do you mean by that?"
You cleared your throat. "Just that... I want to tie you up... and do whatever I want to you, for as long as I want."
"Oh." Jeno blinked owlishly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "That's, uh... Wow."
You couldn't quite decipher the look on his face. Shock, definitely. But was that a spark of intrigue in his eyes, or were you just projecting your own desperate hopes onto him?
"I know, I know, it's super weird. Just forget I said anything," you babbled, squirming in his lap, suddenly desperate to escape this mortifying situation. "I mean, what kind of girlfriend wants to tie up her boyfriend like some kind of pervert, right? God, I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe I actually told you that. Can we please just pretend this conversation never happened and go back to—"
"I want to try it," He blurted out, his deep voice cutting through your nervous rambling.
You froze, certain you must have misheard him. "Wait, what?"
Jeno’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaze intense and unwavering on yours. "I said... I want to try it. What you said, about tying me up and..." He cleared his throat, a distinct flush creeping up his neck. "...having your way with me."
"You... You do?" you asked, scarcely daring to believe it.
"Yeah, I really do." He leaned in close, his breath against your lips. "The thought of being at your mercy, completely helpless while you do whatever you want to me... It's really fucking hot."
Your breath caught in your throat, desire pooling hot and heavy in your belly at his words. "Oh my god, Jeno..."
"So," His large hands slid down to cup your ass, pulling you flush against the rapidly growing bulge in his slacks. "Why don't you show me exactly what you want to do to me, hm? Let me be a good boy for you."
You didn't need to be asked twice.
He’d barely finished the sentence before you had his tie undone and draped around your own neck for later use. You felt the unmistakable shiver that ran through his body as you worked open the top buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. It felt almost illicit, the way he allowed you to take control so easily.
Jeno. The consummate rule-follower who color-coded his gym schedule by muscle groups, who maintained a spreadsheet tracking his protein intake down to the gram, who ironed even his workout clothes—breathtakingly vanilla until this very moment. Here he was, his abdomen tensing with each shallow breath as you traced the hollow of his collarbone with your tongue, tasting salt and clean soap. His pulse hammered visibly beneath the thin skin of his throat when your teeth grazed his jawline.
It was amazing how a few words could completely upend someone's entire operating system. Yours included—desire unfurling hot and liquid in the pit of your stomach, climbing upward through your chest, making your fingertips tingle and your thighs clench as it threatened to spill from your lips in a gasp or a command, you weren't sure which.
You had always felt a little bit monstrous about your deepest desires. Not in a depraved way, you would never dream of doing anything without enthusiastic consent, but there was a shadowed, primal need within you, an itch at the base of your skull to be the one in control, the one who upset the delicate balance just when things began to feel too predictable.
The kind of need that often got suppressed in relationships, because men liked the idea of a woman "taking charge" until, inevitably, she actually tried it, and then suddenly it was too much, not sexy anymore, a bridge too far from the unspoken script. But apparently, Jeno was different.
"You want to be a good boy for me?" you purred, relishing the effect your words had on him. His breath quickened, Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to conceal his shudder with a slight tilt of his head.
Jeno never allowed himself to relinquish control. Not at work, not at social gatherings, not even at the gym. But now, under the heat of your gaze and your touch, he was so beautifully vulnerable it made your heart flutter wildly in your chest.
You paused your kisses on his neckline, mouth hovering above his skin, and let your breath fan out in a slow exhale. His fingers flexed on your hips, tightening imperceptibly. Just the faintest tremor. It was a revelation, seeing him so uncertain and yet so hungry at the same time.
"Lie down," you commanded, surprising even yourself with the steadiness of your voice.
He complied, moving onto the bed with a curious sort of grace, as if he feared shattering the charged atmosphere by making one wrong move. The mattress dipped and groaned beneath his weight. You smiled, giddy with the thrill of this newfound power, but also a little awestruck. Was this alright? Was it too much, too fast? Jeno gazed up at you, his eyes swirling with both trepidation and anticipation.
You looped the tie around his wrists, securing it with a knot, and gently pressed his bound arms above his head. The action felt at once absurd and profoundly meaningful--as if you'd crossed a point of no return together, one that had been beckoning to you all along.
"You know, people usually have a safe word for this kind of thing," you said, settling your knees on either side of his hips. His thighs tensed, then relaxed, as if you'd just handed him a Get Out Of Jail Free card and he'd simply ripped it to shreds right before your eyes.
"Should I choose one?" he asked, and the sheer guilelessness of his tone made your heart ache for reasons you couldn't quite articulate. Perhaps it was because Jeno had never looked at you quite like this before: vulnerable, eager, a little lost. The dynamic had always been slightly inverted--him guiding you, patient and careful, a steadying hand at the small of your back in a crowd. You thought you enjoyed being cared for, and you did. But this thrilling new arrangement, with him splayed out beneath you, ignited a heat low in your belly that threatened to consume you from the inside out.
"Yeah," you breathed, trailing your fingertips down the smooth expanse of his chest with agonizing slowness. "If you want."
He hesitated, his lips silently forming and discarding a litany of options, before finally settling on: "'Spreadsheet.'"
A surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat, the unexpectedly nerdy choice conjuring an oddly arousing mental image of Jeno in a sexy office roleplay, his tie askew and his glasses fogged. "You want your safe word to be 'spreadsheet'? Really?"
"Too dorky?" he asked, a little self-conscious.
You leaned in close, hands planted on either side of his head, and murmured, "It's perfect. Just like you."
Before he could protest or make a joke, you captured his lips in a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of your desire, your adoration, your hunger into the press of your mouth against his. Jeno melted into the mattress, surrendering himself completely to you. His hands, bound in that tidy little knot, flexed helplessly. You suppressed a grin. This look suited him, the utter lack of control, the complete surrender. It made you feel not only powerful, but deeply trusted.
You refused to let him off easy, though. Where other women might have pounced on him, riding a fleeting high of feminine dominance for a scant few minutes before gratefully lapsing back into the familiar status quo, you enjoyed every second of this reversal like it was the last luscious bite of dessert on earth.
So you took your sweet time. You explored him as if laying eyes on him for the very first time, mapping the contours of his chest, his jawline, even the delicate shell of his ear with gossamer, butterfly touches. You let your tongue swirl around his nipples, languid and unhurried, drinking in the way his eyes widened first in bewilderment, then understanding, then abashment. (He'd always been oddly self-conscious about his pecs, as if they were some shameful secret. Perhaps they were too sensitive, or maybe he'd simply never had a lover lavish them with genuine curiosity rather than perfunctory attention.) You suckled gently, barely applying any pressure, and he arched beneath you, his entire body shaking once before he instantly reddened, averting his gaze as if mortified by his own visceral response.
"Are you--fuck, enjoying this?" Jeno gasped, his chin tucked to his chest, a bashful, almost petulant furrow marring his brow.
"God, yes," you breathed, and to underscore your sincerity, you laved a leisurely path up his sternum, savoring the salt of his skin and the heat emanating from beneath. "You're so sensitive here, baby. It's adorable."
He tried to match your breezy tone, but his voice cracked when he protested, "It's not adorable. It's humiliating." He was achingly hard now, a fact he couldn't possibly hide with your thighs bracketing his hips and his arms pinned above his head.
You let your fingertips tease along the edge of his waistband, but left his pants in place, the fabric pulled taut by his obvious erection. Instead, you splayed your palm over his clothed erection, letting the heat and weight of your hand linger there. Jeno went still, his breath coming in shallow, rapid puffs. You waited. Then you eased your palm just slightly, applying a little more pressure through the fabric, and watched as he bit down hard on his own lip. So serious. So determined not to give you the satisfaction of hearing him beg. You decided to test how long that resolve would really last.
You murmured, “If you want something, just ask, baby.” You gave a gentle squeeze to the base of his cock, feeling, through the layers of his trousers and underwear, the heat and tension coiling there. You softened your touch, tracing lazy circles with a single finger. Jeno squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, his wrists flexing against the tie, but he said nothing.
You loved this about him. The quiet stubbornness. You wondered how many people in his past had ever seen him this exposed. How many had been allowed to glimpse the frantic need pent up in his body, or the brittle fragility behind his wit? You felt almost protective of it.
You bent low, lips grazing the edge of his trembling jaw. “I like you like this,” you whispered, your hand stroking down the length of him, just to watch his composure slip. “You don’t have to hide how much you want it. You know I could do this all night, and you’d just get needier, wouldn’t you?” His whole body shuddered with the effort of not answering.
“Word?” you asked softly.
Jeno’s laugh was hoarse. “Spreadsheet,” he replied, so fast it was almost a moan.
Abandoning his groin, you circled back to drag your nails up his sides, then dipped your head to press a kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat. "So sensitive," you type, this time letting a note of faux astonishment color your words. "Who would've guessed?"
He shot you a baleful look, but with his arms trussed up, it only served to make him appear more deliciously helpless, more endearing. "You're mean" he grumbled, though his hips canted upward of their own volition when you ghosted your lips over his collarbone.
You almost felt guilty. Almost. Instead, you pulled back, eager for his next reaction with the slightly cruel edge of a cat toying with a cornered mouse. You knew exactly what he wanted. You could sense it in the desperate way he strained toward you, in the way he flexed his hands against his bindings, in the way his breathing had gone from even to erratic and labored. But you had no intention of giving in, not yet.
"Is there something you want, baby?" You let your fingertips dance up and down the sensitive skin of his inner arms, gossamer-light, so soft it tickled. He shuddered, his muscles rippling beneath your ministrations.
"I'm fine," he bit out, his voice strained.
You beamed down at him. "You sure?" you pressed, leaning in to nuzzle the tender spot just behind his ear. "Because you're about to burst."
His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking. "I'm not—"
You nipped at his earlobe. "You're not what?"
He pressed his lips together, eyes screwed shut. "I'm not going to beg," he ground out, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.
You clicked your tongue, feigning disappointment. "That's a shame," you slid off him just enough to trail your hand over the length of his body, lingering at the waistband of his trousers. "Because I think you're dying for it." You unbuttoned him with a slow flick of your thumb, savoring the way his chest lifted with each shallow breath. He wore sleek black boxer-briefs under his slacks, and the sight of him—so painfully, embarrassingly hard, a dark stain already spreading at the tip—gave you a rush of adrenaline.
You drew back, just to drink in the sight of him, to admire the delicate flush staining his cheekbones and the desire smoldering in his eyes. His lips were kiss-swollen and slightly parted, as if poised to say something before he clamped down on the words and glowered up at you, defiant.
God, you wanted to absolutely wreck him.
He thought he could out-stubborn you? How funny. You'd been emotionally tormenting older siblings and exes since you were in middle school. Jeno, for all his seriousness and self-discipline, was woefully outmatched by the age-old feminine art of slow-burn, high-stakes teasing. If he wanted to engage in this battle of wills, you'd ensure he regretted the day he ever underestimated you.
You charted every last inch of his torso, every rib and divot, every spot that elicited a hitch in his breath or a twitch of muscle beneath your touch. His nipples were exquisitely responsive, and you traced languid circles around them with the tip of your tongue, just once, before neglecting them entirely as he squirmed under you.
You bit his hipbone, and he startled with a strangled whine that reverberated through the room. Grinning, you pressed a soothing kiss to the spot immediately after. "Sensitive everywhere, aren't you?" you mused, your fingers skating over his erection.
He managed an incredulous groany laugh. "I didn't realize you were this intense," he panted, his head tipped back against the pillow, exposing the vulnerable line of his neck. You took the invitation for what it was, trailing the line of his vein with your tongue before sucking a dark mark on the hollow above his pulse.
His hips jerked, and he muffled another moan. Your grin was uncontainable. The way that mark appeared, raw and red, right where only you will see it tomorrow, triggered a curious protective urge, as if you wanted to carve your initials into Jeno’s skin, make him unmistakably yours. Perhaps it was caveman logic, or the months of restraint, but you wanted, all at once, to break and cradle him, to see him undone and then stitch him back together.
You cursed yourself for not buying actual restraints. That trendy boutique you passed with window displays promising sturdy vegan leather harnesses, silk ropes dyed in neon, handcuffs shaped like Hello Kitty--why had you hesitated? You’d dismissed it as a fantasy, as something people like you only joked about over brunch, not something real-world couples like you and Jeno attempted for more than a fleeting, tipsy weekend. But you refused to let a lack of props stop you now.
You leaned in and whispered, in your best threatening purr, "Move again, and I'll edge you so long you’ll cry."
Your mouth watered at the sight of him when you finally pulled his boxers down: thick and flushed, rigid and throbbing.
Even now, every molecule in Jeno’s body radiated tension, a desperate need to do something, anything, to get you to touch him. You didn't. You sidestepped his need and worked your way methodically down, kissing the jut of his hip, the springy line of dark hair trailing from his navel to his groin, the smooth roundness of his knees, the curve of his calves. His thighs jumped when you so much as breathed warm air over them.
He made a noise like laughter, disbelief sparkling in it, until your mouth closed around his tip and his head thudded back so hard against the bed frame you worried he'd bruise.
You were not, in fact, a blowjob expert-- your exes had been content with clenched eyes and an awkward "that feels good, baby" while you did the obligatory motions, but not one of them had ever surrendered their body with such single-minded attention as Jeno was doing now.
He looked down the line of his body at you, glasses askew, cheeks flaming, breathing ragged, and eyes so tender. You let your mouth hollow around him, your tongue mapping the throbbing ridge of vein, then backed off.
"D-don’t stop," he breathed as you dragged your tongue through the sticky spill at the tip and smirked.
"Patience is a virtue, baby," you crooned and kissed his tip again.
You dragged your mouth up his length slowly, and felt a shiver that started at his toes and climaxed in a delicious, helpless buck of his hips. The tie binding his wrists strained, but held fast, and his hands flexed and unfurled in an unconscious search for something to grab onto.
"Oh, fuck, Y/N," he gasped, voice ragged and breathless, the syllables bouncing off the ceiling and landing between your ribs where they took root and blossomed into hot, sticky pride. You slowed, dragging your tongue along the side of his cock, swirling around his head, once, then again, flicking just the way you secretly knew he liked it.
You pulled off, lips glossy, letting the air hit him cold and sharp. He whimpered, a pathetic, beautiful sound. "Why," he said, voice a thin whine, "do you keep stopping?"
You grinned up at him. "Because you're so fucking cute when you pout."
You crawled up, letting your hair trail his chest, and hovered just above his mouth. "Want to kiss me?" you provoked, already knowing the answer.
He nodded helplessly and strained for your lips. You let him sweat a moment longer, watching the need bloom in his eyes, before planting a ferocious kiss that left you both gasping. You knew he could taste himself on your tongue and wondered if it would weird him out or if he’d find it as electrifying as you did.
You kissed him until he writhed, until the friction between his cock and your belly painted his stomach with a slick smear. He tried to deepen the kiss, tried to tilt up, but you pulled back, dragging your teeth over his bottom lip and biting down just hard enough to make him gasp. His hips jerked again, straining unconsciously, his cock fully engorged and weeping.
You grabbed at the nightstand, a fierce need to see just how far you could take this. The top drawer gaped open, revealing its pile of treasures: tattered paperbacks, loose hair ties, a flattened tube of lip balm, and—hallelujah—a vibrating ring you’d once gotten as a gag gift at a bachelorette party and promptly forgotten about. You held it up between two fingers, watching Jeno’s eyes track it warily.
“What’s that…?” He cut off, a flush creeping from his neck to the tips of his ears.
You smirked. “Color-coding and spreadsheeting every aspect of your life, but you never thought to research sex toys?” You plucked the cellophane wrapper open with your teeth, tossed it aside, and switched the ring on. You let it shake against your palm before slipping it gingerly over the base of his cock. His whole body jolted as if you’d wired him directly into a light socket.
You let the ring do the work for a moment, watching Jeno struggle not to buck into the sensation. Every trembling muscle in his body begged for more, but you made him wait. You made him watch as you undid the buttons of your shirt, slow enough to make him keen in protest, his dark eyes never leaving the skin you revealed inch by inch.
You toyed with the clasp of your bra, letting the anticipation stretch enough to make him whine a little, his bound hands flexing in the air above his head. When you finally flicked the clasp open and let the scraps of lace fall away, Jeno exhaled a curse word so filthy it made you grin. You basked in the raw hunger on his face, the way the sight of your bare breasts made him bite his lip so hard it went white.
You shimmied out of your skirt with a little flourish, the hem catching on your thighs and making Jeno whimper softly when he realized you’d gone without panties. He drank in every movement, every exposed surface of you, like it was oxygen. You stood over him for a second, drinking in the view, too: your gorgeous, brilliant man undone by a ten-dollar battery-powered ring and a men's tie, his face open and desperate and so, so in love with you.
You straddled him again, and let your heat hover just above the flush, taut head of his cock. It took every ounce of self-control not to simply drop and ride him until you both blacked out. Instead, you hovered, pressed slightly, let the electric brush of the ring buzz against your clit, then drew away.
Jeno whined your name in disbelief, arching up like he could make you take him inside. You refused, just for the pleasure of watching him suffer. Maybe he deserved it, after all the nights you’d lain awake, quietly vibrating with need while he snoozed with monastic stoicism, all that serious energy funneled into containing what you now realized was a feral hunger.
You pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, so close he was probably tasting your slick heat with every nerve in his body, and then, with a grin, you let him watch as you languidly circled your clit with two fingers. The sight made Jeno sob out a half-choked plea, but you stilled him with a palm flat to his chest. “Not yet, baby,” you whispered, raking your nails lightly down his sternum.
He whimpered, and if you’d ever suspected in your life that the sound could be made by a guy like Jeno, you’d have called yourself a liar. You marveled at yourself for being able to draw forth such primal noise from someone so reserved; you couldn't help but feel slightly monstrous for it.
Each time you teased yourself with your own fingers, his breathing grew harsher, his cheeks more flushed. Even restrained, his body was a livewire, shoulders pressed deep into the mattress, thighs trembling with the effort not to buck, breathless with the burden of not asking, not pleading, even though you could see just how close he was to breaking.
You kept him on the edge so long that he started babbling. “Please, please, I can’t—” and you only giggled, pulling away every time you judged him too close, just to watch his face twist from relief to exquisite frustration.
“Fuck, st--stop teasing me” he gasped, but you could tell from the frantic way he strained against his bonds that he would do anything for you right now, say any ridiculous, humiliating thing just for a minute of your time and the pressure of your walls around his cock.
When you finally, finally slid down onto him, it was so overwhelming you both gasped. He was huge, perfect, and the vibrator at your clit sent shocks through your core.
For a second, you just sat there, pressed full and tight. You wondered if you looked as fucked out and vulnerable as he did, hair wild, mouth open, every muscle trembling from restraint. You rolled your hips, grinding down slow and steady.
“Y/N,” he breathed, “please, god, I want—”
You clamped a hand over his mouth. “Good boys take what they’re given.”
He moaned into your hand, eyes rolling back, and the tension that traveled through his body was so immense it was like riding the aftershock of an earthquake. The tie at his wrists went taut. His legs strained against the bedposts, all of him desperate to consume and be consumed.
You wrapped your hand around his throat gently and rode him in long, greedy plunges that had him gasping for air. His hips bucked up, desperate for friction, but you kept your pace slow. The wild look in his eyes confirmed it: he loved every second of this, the helplessness, the hunger, the way you reduced him to pure need.
The mattress creaked, your knees ached, sweat beaded between your breasts and along your hairline. You swore you could feel every inch of him on a cellular level, every twitch and pulse and trembling, needy plea.
At the apex of each bounce, you ground down with ruthless precision, sending shocks through your own body that almost knocked you loose from your seat. You’d had sex that was wild before, and loving; you’d had sex that was disappointing and transactional; but you’d never known pleasure that could be this mean, this strange, this deeply, vibrantly alive.
“F-fuck, I, I, I can’t—Y/N, I’m—” The words broke loose from his mouth in a choked growl.
You leaned forward, pressing your lips to the shell of his ear, your voice low and breathless: “You can. You will. But only when I say.”
You eased off, sinking your nails into his thighs as you lifted until only the tip of him remained pressed at your entrance. The vibrator thrummed against you both. You could feel the way he trembled, the way his cock pulsed in time with his racing heart.
“Say it,” you commanded, teeth grazing the curve of his jaw. “Tell me you’re my good boy. Tell me you’ll wait for me.”
He whimpered, face twisted in frustration. “I’m your good boy,” he choked out. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you, baby, please—”
You smiled against his cheek. “Good.”
His mouth fell open, but nothing came except a low whine, his bound arms flexing so hard you could see the cords standing out on his forearms. You lifted off him enough so that the ring buzzed unencumbered between your bodies, and Jeno’s head twisted on the pillow like he was in pain.
“Please,” he managed. His face was red, sweat beading at his hairline, and you could see the actual glimmer of tears poised in the corners of his eyes.
You froze, suddenly worried you’d gone too far, but the frantic shake of his head and the way his hips bucked up told you he was exactly where he wanted to be. You shushed him, stroked his cheek, and rode him a tiny bit slower, let the pressure and the build accumulate until it was an agony you shared, both of you perched together at the edge of some wild precipice.
You kept him there, squirming under you, for as long as your own resolve would allow, which, embarrassingly, wasn't very long considering how fucking good it felt to have him stretching you. You'd always suspected Jeno would be incredible if you ever managed to get him to just let go. Still, you'd never imagined he'd be the sort of lover who could, with nothing but muscle and sheer willpower, fucking snap an expensive tie.
He’d waited for you to get greedy, to close your eyes and tip your head back, and then he pulled.
The tie snapped apart, and suddenly his hands were on you—gripping your hips with a bruising force, pinning you so you couldn’t wriggle away. You gasped, the shock of it slicing straight through your haze. His arms wrapped around your waist and yanked you down, impaling you down onto his cock like a spike. The sound you made, the way your back arched involuntarily, must’ve gone straight to Jeno’s lizard brain, because his next thrust was pure animal: no hesitation, zero self-restraint, just the greedy sound of your slick cunt and his ragged moans.
“My turn,” he growled.
The grip on your hips was bruising, but you welcomed it, craved it, felt yourself go liquid in his arms—finally, finally those massive hands pinning you to his pleasure. You barely had time to yelp before Jeno was sitting up, bearing you with a single arm around your waist, the other sliding into your hair and fisting it so roughly you lost your breath. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry, bruising, and the taste of you and him and the faint aftershock of salt and sweat became the whole universe.
His hands found the curve of your ass to hold you in place and fucked into you hard enough to make you see white. The vibrator slammed your clit with every punishing thrust, adding a delirious edge to every bounce. You realized you were the one whimpering now, begging, though the words were incoherent nonsense.
He lifted you off and spun you to your hands and knees in one fluid movement. You tried to protest, to issue some token resistance, but your own body betrayed you, shaking with anticipation as he manhandled your hips into place. You’d always suspected he was strong enough to snap you in half. His hair was a ruined mess, his glasses knocked askew and threatening to fall, the tie a shredded half-garter dangling from his wrist. The sight of him like this nearly undid you.
He fucked you hard, in a way you’d never have dared request. You braced yourself on trembling arms, moaning with each slap of his hips against your bare ass, your whole body ricocheting toward the headboard with every thrust. His hands were everywhere: spanning your waist, squeezing your ass, one palm smeared up your back, and grabbing a fistful of your tangled hair so he could yank you upright, your spine arched like a bow. The change in angle made you see stars, the vibrator wedged between clit and cock pulsing so tight and mean you nearly howled.
“Look at you,” he said, voice thick, “so desperate. My good girl, now.” Mirth and pride bled into the claim, and you leaned into his hand as it tangled deeper in your hair.
You were drooling now, face hot and wet, mascara streaked and running down your neck in wild, black rivers. You weren't sure what noises you were making, but they echoed obscenely—full of plaintive whimpers, shattered syllables, “please” and “god” and “don’t stop.” Jeno responded to each with a wordless, hungry grunt, his palms kneading at your hips, pounding into you so hard the headboard started to knock the wall in a syncopated rhythm.
His eyes burned, black and wild; his jaw set with a kind of furious adoration, as if he’d realized all at once that he’d been starving himself for no reason and now he was going to eat and eat and eat until he was sick on you.
“Didn’t you want it hard?” Jeno growled. “Then fucking take it.”
You couldn’t even find your voice, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except take him whole and clutch at the handful of sheets he left you to grab onto. You wanted to say something to show you were still in charge, but his mouth found your neck and his teeth grazed the curve of your jaw and you bit down on your tongue to keep from screaming. Your vision blurred, the edges of your world tunneling down into the center of your body where Jeno was battering you open, his cock hard and insistent and so fucking perfect you wanted to cry.
You felt his entire body go rigid, pinning you so hard you couldn’t move except to open wider, give him everything. “You’re so—fuck, you’re—
He flipped you onto your back and grabbed your ankles, pressing them toward your shoulders until your knees nearly touched your chest. Each thrust came with such force that the bed frame groaned in protest beneath you. Behind your closed eyelids, pinpricks of light bloomed like distant stars.
There was nothing in this world except the slippery glide of your bodies, the hurricane of need, and the wild, wet convergence of your souls at every point of contact. You clawed at his back, at his shoulders, at the sharp planes of his chest, leaving crescent moons in your wake. When he locked his lips to your collarbone and bit down, you gasped, the sensation igniting along your spine and straight to your core.
Somehow, even in this frenzy, it was Jeno who noticed you were about to come apart, who braced himself on trembling arms and slowed, just barely, so he could see the look on your face as you shattered. He fucked you through it, his eyes never leaving yours, his own release spooling tighter and tighter but held back by brute force. You wondered how he managed it, how he could even think with this much pressure building between you.
“Jeno—”
Jeno let go completely, unleashing months of bottled-up hunger and self-denial. He fucked you like it was his last earthly act, piston-strong and brutal and god, you’d never come so hard, your orgasm slamming through you like a dropped elevator. You shrieked, and he bit your shoulder, and you clung to each other as if you could fall through the bed and into some other universe entirely, a universe where nothing existed but friction and heat and want.
You were still shaking when you felt him shudder, felt the slow-motion ripple of his release telegraph through his core, a split-second tension and then pleasure so strong it blurred the boundary between your body and his. He muttered your name softly, then tipped his forehead against yours.
He didn’t let go, not even after the tremors in both your bodies had subsided. Aftershocks radiated up your thighs, your chest, where his grip had left fingerprints already blooming. You could only stare at him, at the incredulous, almost boyish smile stretching across his lips, lashes trembling as he blinked down at you.
He reached down, gripped the slick rubber ring, and in one smooth motion eased it off, tossing it onto the crumpled sheets beside you. "Jesus Christ," he said, voice shredded with wonder. "Why do people even bother with CrossFit when that exists?"
You snorted, a full-body laugh that left you splayed and shaking. Jeno collapsed beside you, bracing a muscular arm under your neck and tucking you close.
"Never pegged you for a quitter," you managed, struggling to catch your breath.
He groaned, rolling you into the crook of his arm. "It's a temporary strategic withdrawal. I'll destroy you in round two."
You pressed your nose to the hollow just below his earlobe and inhaled the mix of his skin, his cologne, and the dizzying, bitter tang of sex.
“So,” you rasped, “how long have you been hiding Mr. Hyde under that Clark Kent routine?”
“I honestly didn’t know I had it in me,” he admitted, as if confessing to a minor crime.
For a long time, you simply lay there, letting your blood pressure slowly work its way back toward human parameters. The room was a disaster—your blouse stretched inside out over the lamp, the ruined tie hanging limp from the footboard, the nightstand’s entire contents spilled onto the floor like a piñata.
Neither of you spoke until Jeno grunted, propping himself up on one elbow and poking at the remnants of the tie with a rueful finger.
"You know how expensive that tie was?"
You snorted. "I know exactly how expensive that was," you said, propping yourself up to inspect the ruined silk. He rolled his eyes, like he wanted to appear annoyed, but the effect failed when his mouth kept twitching at the corners.
After a while, he grew serious, his gaze softening as he studied your face. "Why didn't you tell me you liked it like that?"
You shrugged, tracing lazy patterns across his bare chest with your fingertip. "I don't know. I guess I thought you might freak out, or think I was weird or something. You have this... reputation, you know? The Human Spreadsheet. I figured it was missionary or bust."
Jeno pretended to take offense. "I'll have you know, I am well-versed in many positions." His voice took on a pompous, academic tone. "It's right there on my resume, under 'extracurriculars.'"
The joke was so unexpected, so quintessentially Jeno, you almost fell off the bed. "You're such a dork," you said, and he beamed, all bashfulness gone. "You love it," he challenged, and you couldn't argue. Especially with the evidence dizzying your every cell, with the sweet ache between your legs or the sated, floating calm that was even now settling into your bloodstream.
You prodded at the bruises forming in earnest on your hips, the faint crescent of his teeth in your shoulder. "Guess we're truly incompatible now. According to my mom, the odds of making it past the one-year mark with a bruiser are statistically null."
Jeno mused, "I suppose we could always break up and bed different people, maybe do a spouse swap, and come crawling back to each other in time for your mom to lose her bet." He winked.
"Or," you countered, drawing out the word like taffy as you sprawled across his chest, "we could just keep this up for the next sixty years and die hot and mysterious in our sleep, so people have to invent all sorts of theories about us."
"I like your plan more," Jeno said. He tilted his head back on the pillow, brow furrowing in the adorable way it always did when debating which of the three hundred brands of protein bar to buy, or now, presumably, which post-coital metaphor was most apt.
You waited for him to say something else, but he just laced his fingers with yours and held them to his chest, where you could feel the hammering sound of his heart. After a minute, you realized the only thing louder was your own pulse, tripping over itself trying to outpace the clock.
Through the open window, traffic noises rose and fell, and in some vaguely zen way you understood that somewhere in the city people were tallying invoices or slicing sashimi or folding hospital corners into bedsheets, their hearts trundling along in their own prosaic fashion. In here, the room still spun with the afterimages of hands and heat and all the odd, gooey data points that, to your mind, elevated sex from a commodity to an existential event. You thought of magnets—how sometimes the only way to split up a pair fused together by attraction was to shatter them outright. Or better yet: melt them, so they pooled and alloyed into something altogether new and improbable.
Jeno then shifted until he was more or less lying fully on top of you, something he’d normally never allow for fear of “crushing you, or oxygen deprivation.” Just like that, you went liquid, one arm around his, one leg tossed over his thighs so thoroughly you could practically feel his DNA rearranging yours on a molecular level. He mumbled something into your hair, insensate and boneless, and instead of feeling smothered, you felt safer than you’d ever known.
---
thank you for reading!! lmk your thoughts about the fic!! <3
the cafe is this cute little pop-up spot with warm wood counters, hanging plants, and that signature coffee riize sign with the hibiscus flower. soft jazz hums low in the background. anton works behind the bar in his black apron over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to show those veiny forearms. his name tag reads “tony” in neat handwriting, and a tiny gold hoop earring catches the light every time he turns his head. his hair is a little messy from the steam wand, and his lips stay naturally pouty while he focuses on latte art.
you come in every afternoon like clockwork with your backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing an oversized sweater that swallows your frame. your hair is tied up messy and cute, and your glasses slip down your nose when you concentrate. you always order the same thing: iced oat latte with extra foam and a dash of cinnamon. you say “please and thank you” with that shy smile that makes his heart do stupid flips.
at first it is all innocent. he notices you because you are always buried in textbooks or your laptop, chewing your pen cap absentmindedly and mumbling formulas under your breath. he starts drawing little hearts or cats in your foam without saying anything. he just slides the cup over with a soft “here you go” and watches your eyes light up when you see it. you look up, cheeks pink, and ask “did you…?” he just shrugs all cool and tall and says “maybe. study hard, okay?”
but then the obsession creeps in slow and sweet. he starts timing his breaks around when you usually show up. he memorizes your exact table preference: the corner by the window, away from the door so no drafts hit you. he remembers tiny details: you like the playlist with more lo-fi when it is raining, you fidget with your necklace when you are stuck on a problem, and you bite your lip when you finally get it right and do this tiny happy wiggle in your chair.
he catches himself staring way too long while wiping the counter, watching the way sunlight hits your face when you push your hair back and how your lashes flutter when you blink at your screen. one day you catch him mid-stare and he panics, dropping a spoon with a clatter. you giggle softly and he wants to die (in a good way).
things escalate when he starts adding secret menu notes on your cup sleeves. little things like “fighting today’s lecture! ♡” or “your smile > my latte art” scribbled in sharpie. you start blushing harder every time, hiding your face behind your book but peeking over the top to watch him work. he pretends not to notice but his ears turn red every single time.
one rainy evening the cafe is slow. you are the last customer, packing up slowly because you do not want to leave the cozy vibe. anton has the closing shift. he walks over with a fresh hot chocolate (not on the menu, just for you). “on the house. you looked cold.” he sits across from you uninvited but you do not mind. your eyes sparkle.
talking turns into hours. he asks about your major and listens so intently his chin rests on his hand, eyes never leaving your face. you ramble about your tough exam coming up and he says “you have got this. you are the smartest person who comes in here.” you laugh shyly and ask “you say that to all the regulars?” he leans closer, voice dropping: “no. just you.”
now he is properly whipped. he starts staying late just to walk you to your bus stop when it is dark (says it is safer but really he just wants more time with you). he brings you little gifts disguised as lost and found items: a cute cat keychain “someone left it, thought it suited you”, extra pastries “they were going to throw these out anyway”.
the obsession peaks when you miss a day. he gets anxious, keeps glancing at your empty table, messes up three lattes in a row. when you finally come back the next day (looking tired, bags under your eyes from all-nighters), he almost drops the milk pitcher. he rushes over with your usual plus a little note: “missed seeing you yesterday. do not overwork, okay? ♡ tony”
you read it, eyes watery from stress and cuteness overload, and mumble “thanks anton… i mean tony.” he freezes. “you know my real name?” you nod shyly “i asked one of the other baristas. sorry if that is weird.” he smiles so big his cheeks hurt. “not weird. i like hearing you say it.”
after weeks of cup-sleeve notes, shy eye contact over the espresso machine, and that one late-night text exchange where you admitted “i study better when i know you are watching from behind the counter :3”, anton finally shoots his shot properly.
he texts you one rainy thursday night: “hey… closing shift tomorrow. wanna come by at 9? cafe is empty after close. i will make you that secret caramel thing you like… no studying required this time. just us?”
you reply in like two seconds: “yes please!!! i will be there ♡”
friday rolls around. you show up right as the last customer leaves, still in your oversized hoodie and skirt combo (the one that makes his heart flips every time you bend to grab a book). the cafe lights are dimmed low, only the warm glow from the hanging lamps and the neon “coffee riize” sign flickering softly. the jazz playlist still hums quiet. anton is already out of his apron, just a black tee hugging his broad shoulders and those damn rolled sleeves showing off forearms that look way too capable. his hair is a little damp from the steam earlier, and his tiny gold hoop glints when he turns to lock the door behind you.
“hey cutie,” he says all soft and low, voice deeper without the cafe noise. he walks over slow, like he is giving you time to back out (you do not). he stops right in front of you, so tall you have to tilt your head back. “been thinking about this all day.”
you bite your lip, cheeks burning. “me too…”
that is all it takes. he cups your face with both hands (big, warm, calloused fingertips from grinding beans and pulling shots) and kisses you slow at first. his lips are soft and taste faintly like the vanilla syrup he always sneaks extra of. you melt instantly, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. the kiss turns hungry fast: tongues sliding, little whimpers from you when he nips your bottom lip. he groans against your mouth and walks you backward until your ass hits the edge of the counter.
he lifts you up easy and sets you right on the marble (cold against your thighs under the skirt). he steps between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs slow, pushing the fabric higher. “fuck… you are even prettier up close like this.” he murmurs while kissing down your neck, sucking lightly on that spot that makes you gasp.
your hands are already tugging at his shirt. “anton… please…”
he chuckles low, that deep rumble vibrating against your skin. “please what, baby? use your words.”
“touch me… been thinking about your hands all week.”
his eyes darken instantly. one hand stays on your thigh, thumb rubbing circles higher and higher while the other slips under your hoodie, palm flat against your tummy, sliding up to cup your breast over your bra. he thumbs your nipple through the fabric till it pebbles hard. you arch into him with a whine.
“like this?” he teases, pinching lightly. you nod frantically. he pulls your hoodie off in one smooth move and unhooks your bra with practiced ease (barista fingers are nimble af). he leans down to take a nipple in his mouth: warm, wet, tongue swirling slow while his free hand finally dips between your thighs.
he finds you soaked through your panties already. he groans against your chest. “shit… all this for me?” his fingers trace your slit over the fabric, pressing just enough to make you buck. “been wet since you walked in?”
“y-yes… anton please—”
he hooks your panties to the side, middle finger sliding through your folds, collecting slick before circling your clit slow and firm. you are trembling already, hands in his hair, tugging. he adds a second finger, curls them inside you while his thumb keeps working your clit. pace steady, deep, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl against his hips.
“look at you… falling apart on my counter.” he whispers hot against your ear. “gonna make you cum here first… then take you upstairs to my place. want you in my bed all night.”
you clench around his fingers at the promise. he speeds up, curling harder, mouth back on your neck sucking a mark you know you will have to hide tomorrow. “cum for me, baby… let me feel it.”
you shatter hard: back arching, cry muffled against his shoulder, thighs shaking around his hand. he works you through it slow, kissing your cheek, your jaw, murmuring “good girl… so pretty when you cum for me.”
he does not even let you catch your breath fully. he scoops you off the counter bridal style (because of course he does) and carries you through the back door up the narrow stairs to his tiny apartment above the cafe. the door barely shuts before he has you on his bed: sheets smelling like fresh laundry and his cologne.
he strips you slow this time: skirt, panties, everything, kissing every inch of skin he uncovers. when you are naked under him he just stares for a second, eyes hungry. “fuck… you are perfect.”
you tug at his shirt. “your turn.”
clothes hit the floor fast. he is long and thick, already leaking when he settles between your thighs. he rubs the head through your slick folds, teasing. “ready for me?”
“yes… need you inside—”
he pushes in slow: inch by inch, stretching you so good you are gasping, nails digging into his back. he bottoms out with a low groan, forehead pressed to yours. “so tight… feel so good around me.”
he starts moving: deep, steady thrusts at first, letting you adjust, then harder when you start meeting him halfway. the bed creaks softly under you both. one hand pins yours above your head, other gripping your hip to angle deeper. he hits that spot over and over till you are seeing stars.
“anton… harder… please—”
he flips you onto your stomach, pulls your hips up, slides back in from behind. deeper angle now, balls slapping wet against you with every snap. he leans over, chest to your back, kisses your shoulder blade while pounding you senseless. “like this? taking me so well… my pretty study girl.”
you are babbling: his name, pleas, nonsense, pushing back to meet every thrust. he reaches around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing fast. “cum with me baby… wanna feel you squeeze me.”
you do: harder than before, crying out muffled into the pillow, walls fluttering around him. it triggers him: he groans deep and wrecked, buries himself to the hilt and cums hot inside you, pulsing, filling you up.
he collapses half on top of you, both panting. he kisses your sweaty neck, your cheek, rolls to the side and pulls you into his chest. big arms wrap around you completely, legs tangling. “you okay?” he whispers all soft now, thumb stroking your spine.
you nod sleepy, nuzzling into his neck. “more than okay… best study break ever.”
he chuckles low, kisses your forehead. “good. because this is happening again. every friday after close… maybe more if you keep being this cute.”
you fall asleep like that: tucked against his heartbeat, his cum still leaking slow between your thighs, his hand resting possessive on your hip.
barista anton who went from foam art hearts to fucking you stupid on his bed upstairs… obsessed era fully activated >_<
summary: you are the bane of lord jeong’s existence and the object of all his desires.
genre: fluff, angst, smut
warnings: enemies to lovers trope (kind of), fuckboy!jaehyun, arranged marriage trope, jaehyun is down bad, pussy eating, fingering, loss of virginity
As the new social season approaches, your rising anxiety increases tenfold.
It has been four years since you were introduced to society, which is deemed far too long to be unwed for a lady like yourself. Your mother is nearly chewing her own arm off in anticipation of you finding a husband. She definitely would have married you off to the first gentleman caller by now, but luckily for you, your father refuses to tie you to another man unless you provide your stamp of approval. He possesses a soft spot for his only child that your mother never understood.
Unfortunately, the pool of suitors is extremely lacking, forcing you to pass by season after season with no husband in sight.
“Perhaps this year will be different,” Yerim coos. “They say Mrs. Kim’s son is particularly eye-catching.”
“He’s also a right bore,” you grumble, locking your arms together as you stroll into Mrs. Kim’s soirée. You’ve heard many tales of her son, Doyoung, and how he’s finally ready to settle down and take a wife. However, you also heard he is unwilling to sit for a conversation for more than an hour, and how his expectations for his wife are skyrocketing through the roof. “Maybe I shall just put him out of his misery and marry Lee Donghyuck.”
She struggles to conceal her laughter. “I would love to see that.”
The night carries on as expected, with you and Yerim spending your time near the wall while the other ladies dance around the floor. You deny multiple requests for your hand, conjuring up excuses of a strained ankle or an upset stomach.
It is not until the end of the night when you are confronted with your lie.
“A poor tummy, hm? Perhaps you should have stayed home in case you heave all over Mrs. Kim’s beautiful floor,” Jeong Jaehyun says as he approaches you.
You roll your eyes. “I imagine you find it quite hard to mind your own business, Lord Jeong. I would rather not be subject to hearing your grating voice if it is not deemed necessary.”
Out of all the gentlemen in the ton, Jeong Jaehyun is the one who has stooped low enough to classify himself as a proper rake. A man who preys on the hearts of women and lacks commitment — a rake is not a man that a lady would ever want to associate herself with. They do not take the concept of marriage seriously, and you shall likely find them in the bed of another woman before they grace your own.
Jaehyun smirks at you in the way he knows will dig underneath your skin. He has been out in society just as long as you have, and every year, he never fails to irritate you to no end.
“No luck for you tonight? Tell me, what could possibly be wrong with the wonderful men gracing this room? How have they wronged you so that you have denied every single one of them?”
You try to look for an escape, but Yerim has already made an early departure and the rest of the ladies refuse to mingle with you in fear of also being dubbed as a lonely spinster.
“I did not know you were paying attention to me so ardently,” you bite back, and this has Jaehyun’s ears blooming bright red. You smile in satisfaction.
“I-I was not doing anything of t-the sort,” he stutters. “It is simply hard not to notice when you are the only lady actively rejecting possible suitors. If you really want to drive them away, you should just open your mouth and talk to them. That shall have them running for the hills.”
You narrow your eyes and wonder how much of a scolding you shall receive from your mother if you threw your drink in his face. He guesses what you must be thinking, cupping his hand over your glass and handing it to a nearby staff member.
He continues, stepping closer into your personal space. “Soon enough, the only ones who will be left in this ballroom will be me and you.”
“I loathe the day,” you hiss. “It would personally be my worst nightmare.”
He winks at you. “Trust me, you shall not find a gentleman better than me.”
You hear someone clearing their throat and you both glance over to see Kim Doyoung standing in front of you. You immediately drop to a curtsy at his presence, and you hear Jaehyun scoff at the fact that you did not grant him the same etiquette.
“I hope I am not interrupting, Miss,” Doyoung says.
“Of course not, Lord Kim,” you reply. “Lord Jeong was just telling me how he plans to retire early for the night.”
Jaehyun raises an eyebrow at you and you return his bewildered expression with a heated glare. You would be very content if he made himself useful somewhere else, likely with his hands underneath another maiden’s dress.
“Yes, it seems I have another obligation to head to for the night,” Jaehyun says through gritted teeth, displeased by your dismissal of him. “I shall thank your mother for being a spectacular host before my leave, Lord Kim.”
Doyoung nods once. “It would be much appreciated. Thank you, Lord Jeong.”
Jaehyun departs with one more scathing look thrown your way. You grin to yourself, happy to be rid of his presence, until Doyoung starts speaking and ruins your night.
“I have heard from your mother that you are in search of a husband. I find myself in a similar boat, and I would much enjoy it if you were to accept my offer for tea tomorrow afternoon.”
You could say no. It would not be hard to make up another excuse, but your mother would be absolutely livid to discover you have turned down an offer from Doyoung, especially after she practically handed him to you on a silver platter.
One afternoon of tea shall not kill you.
“That sounds lovely. I look forward to our discussion.”
When you turn to beeline for the exit, you catch a pair of eyes peering over at you, and you swear you see a flash of Jaehyun’s hair before he disappears into the crowd.
Hm. You must be seeing things.
—
Your mother acts as if afternoon tea with Doyoung equates to an audience with the king.
She dresses you in a gown she brings out for special occasions and has your handmaidens spray perfume on you until you are drowning in the floral scent. When she accompanies you to the tea parlor, she lists out your annoying habits that you should try to avoid.
You were not made aware that you possessed so many.
“And the way you look at him, darling, it is extremely unflattering. He can tell you hate him by the way you desire to burn him alive with your gaze. Stare at him with conviction. Make his loins stir from one simple glance at you.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Mother, I shall say that I find this advice to be highly unhelpful.”
She growls at you. “You are nearly four and twenty without a single acceptance for a suitor’s hand in marriage. You shall adhere to any advice I am willing to offer you.”
Doyoung helps take out your chair like a gentleman, and you thank him while your mother sits one table behind you, eavesdropping on your conversation.
He cuts straight to the chase. “What traits do you envision for your future husband to possess?”
Your grip tightens around your teacup. You wonder what to say to ward him off, to get him to move onto the next lady.
“A man who will let me maintain my own hobbies and interests. I want to have children on my own time, not on the timeline my husband sets for me,” you answer, knowing that it is not the typical response a lady of your breeding is supposed to say. You are supposed to submit to your husband’s preferences instead of prioritizing your own. “I ask that he respects my wishes and swears his loyalty to me. I will not, in any circumstances, marry a rake.”
“This one is all bark and no bite, Doyoung. I would not take her threats to heart.”
You clench your jaw when Jaehyun approaches your table with a wide smirk on his face. He appears to be dressed for tea as well, but you see no partner by his side to accompany him. He must be here simply to intervene in your meeting with Doyoung.
“Lord Jeong,” you greet in clear distaste. “I was not aware you had been frequenting tea parlors as of late.”
“Ah, you must not be enlightened of my many passions then,” he replies with a cheeky smile. You resist the urge to slap it off of his face. “The madam who runs this shop has a fond affection for me. I always like to drop by and grab a free pastry.”
“How kind of you to take from the hard work of the common people at no charge,” you challenge with the tilt of your head.
Doyoung clears his throat when he senses the tension between you and Jaehyun rising with every scathing remark. You glance back to see your mother staring at you in abhorrence, and you quickly straighten your posture and adjust your tone.
“I apologize, Lord Jeong. I have been enjoying my time with Lord Kim. I am certain you have somewhere else you need to be.”
Jaehyun, to your chagrin, pulls up a chair. “Actually, my schedule is wide open for the day. I would love to join you.”
Doyoung stares at you, wordlessly asking if this is normal behavior, but you are too pissed off to respond. If Jaehyun wanted to cause a scene, he could have done so when you are not trying to prove to your mother that you still care about searching for a husband.
Your fingernails dig into the corner of the table and you lean forward to hiss at Jaehyun.
“Are you positive you have nowhere else to be?”
He smiles. “Absolutely. Now, catch me up on what you two were discussing. I would love to throw my hat into the conversation.”
Evidently, you and Doyoung have yet to be on the same wavelength for what you should and should not bring up in front of Jaehyun.
“I was asking her what she looks for in her future spouse.”
Jaehyun turns to you with a smirk. “Oh, is that so? Well, please, do not silence yourself on my behalf. I would love to hear the answer.”
“I already gave it to him,” you say in exasperation. “Maybe we should turn the tables on you. What does a rake like Jeong Jaehyun look for in a wife? Likely one that easily spreads her legs?”
You hear a gasp from behind you, and you know it is your mother’s shock at your candor. But you shall not allow Jaehyun to get the better of you and humiliate you in front of Doyoung. You hardly care if this statement will earn you a reputation for your crass nature.
The corner of Jaehyun’s lips twitches in amusement, only fueling fire to your flame.
“I would like for my wife to challenge me. It is not as fun when they comply with my every demand,” he says, and you fail to realize how the distance between you has closed in your heated spat. “I like a lady who knows how to speak up for herself, to voice her thoughts without concern for anyone else’s feelings.”
You scoff. Where in the world is Jaehyun going to find a lady like that?
“Good luck with your search, Lord Jeong. I have conviction that there is at least one lady out there who is meant to be with you.”
“I really should be going,” Doyoung says, standing and nearly toppling over the table.
You glance up at him in alarm. “Oh, I am sorry, Lord Kim. Let me just gather my things and-”
“No need, Miss. It must have slipped my mind that my mother asked for my presence back at home. I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
He scurries out of the tea parlor as if the place had been set to flames. You stare after him with your jaw dropped, offended by his poor excuse to leave you behind.
You growl at Jaehyun. “Oh, you have seriously done it now, Jeong.”
“Come on. Do not tell me you were actually considering that man to be your husband.”
Your mother’s figure looms over you and you shyly look up to meet her judgmental gaze head on.
“I believe it is time for us to return home. We hope you have a wonderful evening, Lord Jeong.”
You’re dragged away by the crook of your arm, glaring at Jaehyun while your mother dishes out the biggest scolding you have ever received in your life.
—
“Your mother has brought me a proposal that I think may be in your favor.”
Your father is hesitant when he enters your study, catching you reading books by the fire. It is often the pastime you favor when your mother is upset with you, which has become more frequent in the past year. Your father is the one who searches out for you to try and talk you down, amending your qualms with your mother for a harmonious household.
“I shall not marry Kim Doyoung, father,” you say with the shake of your head. “He embarrassed me in front of the entire ton today! I will not be able to stave away the mortification for days.”
He sits next to you on the chaise lounge and looks at you solemnly.
“I have not come to converse about Kim Doyoung. I am speaking about Jeong Jaehyun.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “What does Lord Jeong have to do with this? He is the reason why Lord Kim fled from me in the first place.”
Your father wrings his hands around nervously, and you speculate on what has him so antsy. He is usually very candid with you about your behavior, which means you must have crossed a hard line if he’s withholding information from you.
“Lord Jeong’s mother came around this afternoon after your incident at the tea parlor. She thinks her son is acting far too reckless and wants him to settle down. She is considering sending him to his uncle’s house in the country if he does not start listening to her wishes.”
“That does not sound like a bad idea,” you reply with a giggle.
He offers you a strained smile. “Yes, your mother was thinking the same thing. Except she was imagining it for you.”
You leap out of your seat. He must be lying. Your mother cannot possibly be entertaining the idea of shipping you off to her brother’s house. He lives on acres and acres of land without a soul in sight except for the farm animals he cares for.
It would be your absolute nightmare.
“Father, please tell me you objected to this,” you plead, your heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach.
“Of course I did, darling,” he sighs, assuring you. “But then your mother and Lord Jeong’s came to an agreement that I could not oppose. I saved you from being shipped off, but in a few months’ time, you shall find yourself married to Jeong Jaehyun.”
You gasp. “F-Father, you cannot! You promised that I would get the final approval!”
He takes your hands in his and pulls you back towards his side. You are trembling at the picture of you and Jaehyun living as husband and wife. You would fight everyday and drive yourselves into a haze of madness.
“Darling, there shall never ever be a man good enough for you. I knew it from the day you were born, but your mother’s insistence on this matter has forced my hand. I think Jaehyun is a fine young man. You may not grow to love him, but he shall never put you in harm’s way. It is the most important quality a father can ask of his son-in-law.”
You start to tear up. “Please, father. Do not do this. Do not make me marry him.”
He pities you. “We shall start slow, darling. He shall be your escort to Mrs. Park’s upcoming ball and we shall ease into announcing your engagement. If he does anything untoward or compromises your virtue, I swear to you I shall back out of this deal.”
“But why can you not back out now?” You whine, wiping away the tears streaming down your face. “Why can you not save me now?”
He winces as if your pain physically brings him harm. You understand your father has bailed you out of your mother’s many propositions before, but you honestly cannot let this one slip through. Jaehyun is the exact opposite of who you envision yourself marrying.
He has to be just as horrified by this proposal as you are. You have no doubt he’s sitting in a similar situation to you, arguing with his mother over her ultimate decision to alter the course of his life. This must be the first agreement you have landed on in history.
“You shall not realize it now, but I am saving you from a lifetime of heartache, trust me.”
You spend the rest of the night weeping in your bedchamber, burdened by Jaehyun’s constant overbearing presence in your life. You think back on all of the memories you have of him, and if this changes the way you feel about your inevitable coupling.
—
When you first met Jaehyun, it had been your first season out in society. You were optimistic back then, drinking in the fairytales of finding your one true love at your first ball.
You were not the only one jaded by love as many of the other ladies your age had fantasized about their first ball as an eligible lady for years. You would gossip to each other while promenading around the veranda, dreaming of the young bachelor who would swoop you up in his arms and make all your dreams come true.
You had known a few of the men from growing up with them as noble families. They were usually brothers of your closest friends, and your nose would twist in disgust at the thought of being courted by them. You were stubborn about your choice in a husband even back then.
Jaehyun had been the talk of the town that year. He already made an impression on the older ladies, winning them to his side with his dimples and classic charm. You heard of him through Yerim and how many of the other ladies were vying after the massive amount of wealth in his estate. He was one of the richest bachelors of the season, and any lady who was wed to him would automatically be elevated to a higher social status.
You assumed that because of his upbringing, he would act in a more gentleman-like fashion than the rest of his peers. You were proved wrong by his display of behavior at your first ball.
“Is he planning to dance with every lady in this room?” You asked Yerim, watching as Jaehyun once again swept through the floor with a different lady latched onto his arm. “I mean, every dance card in this place has his name written on it.”
She laughed at you. “Can you blame him? He has a lot of prospects. Everyone knows he’s the first pick of the season.”
“It is disrespectful. He is toying with their feelings for his own amusement. I do not like it.”
She poked you with a twinkle of mischief sparkling in her eyes. “No, you do not like that he has not asked you. You want a chance with him, do you not?”
You scoffed at the assumption. “Absolutely not. I have my sights set on a much higher man than Lord Jeong.”
You were so adamant on your superiority over him that when he approached you later that night for a dance, you swiftly rejected him.
“I think you have had enough dances for the night. Would you not agree, Lord Jeong?”
He narrowed his eyes at you, likely wondering what he had done to already get on your bad side.
“One more shall not bring me harm. Unless your dancing skills are not up to par, Miss?”
You grinned at him. “My dancing skills are meant for a man who shall actually appreciate my talents instead of using me to cross another name off his list.”
That was the first time you had drawn Jaehyun’s interest.
—
Your mother had not been so gracious with you by your second year.
You had fumbled through a shoddy proposal from Kim Jungwoo, who was far too nervous to actually place a ring on your finger. You unfortunately injured his ego way too far for him to recover, and he quickly withdrew his proposal with his tail tucked between his legs.
Your mother blamed you for the ordeal and ordered at least five new dresses for you to present yourself in your second season. Luckily, Yerim had not caught any gentleman callers either, and you two began flocking together at every event.
By then, Jaehyun’s infamous status as a rake had spread across the ton.
He had been spotted slipping out of brothels late at night, flirting with married women when their husbands were away, and escorting random ladies to balls just for the fun of it. You never possessed a single ounce of respect for him.
Despite this, Jaehyun would not seem to leave you alone.
Every time you turned a corner, he would be there, waiting to surprise you with an insult or tease you about your almost-marriage with Jungwoo.
“Must we keep meeting like this?” He said after the season was nearly halfway over and you had just turned down another suggestion to dance. He stalked you all the way to the bowl of lemonade while you tried to ignore his grating voice. “No one here is up to your caliber?”
“What do you want, Jeong?” You spat out, tired of his nonsense. “I thought you would be halfway down the street by now, searching for an open brothel.”
He chuckled at your jest. “They have put up warning signs about me to all the women. Apparently I caused a few too many internal fights over my rugged good looks.”
You rolled your eyes. “I find it more likely that they figured out you are sexually impotent.”
“There is only one way to find out for yourself, hm?”
“I would rather gauge my own eyes out.”
“What’s the matter? Am I not as pretty as Jungwoo?”
Johnny Suh had been the one to rescue you, asking you for a dance, which was the first offer you accepted that night. You would glance to the side from time to time to catch Jaehyun’s gaze following you around the floor, but you preoccupied yourself by staying near Johnny, preventing the loathsome creature from approaching you again.
—
Johnny had gotten married to Lady Joohyun by the next year, leaving you without a regular dance partner in your third season. Many believed he would propose to you, but you knew that he had only wanted to make Joohyun jealous after his confession to you one night.
Jaehyun, surprisingly, did not bother you whenever you were with Johnny. He had been noticeably absent from any ball where Johnny was your escort.
You believed your luck had taken a turn until your first appearance after Johnny’s marriage.
“Well well well,” you heard his drawl from a mile away. Yerim looked at you hesitantly after you tensed by her side. “Look who has decided to make an appearance on her own.”
At the time, you were giddy about your chances of a husband that season. Many noblemen had returned from vacation with friends and distant relatives accompanying them, nearly doubling the pool of gentlemen at your disposal.
You were absolutely not going to allow Jaehyun to ruin the year for you. You decided to play civil, to hopefully make amends and let bygones be bygones.
“Lord Jeong,” you greeted with a curtsy, which had Jaehyun stifling a chuckle. “How lovely to see you here.”
“Is it?” He replied with a raise of his eyebrow. “If I recall, you compared me to a horrid bug staining the bottom of your shoe just a few months ago.”
Yerim pursed her lips to prevent a cacophony of laughter from slipping out. You squeezed her arm with a scolding glance.
“That was the old me, Lord Jeong. I am a new woman, so you see. I am about to become a bride after all.”
“A bride? To whom have you been betrothed to? I have heard no news of your engagement,” he said in a flurry, his eyes flashing with a panic for reasons unbeknownst to you.
“You have not heard news of my engagement yet,” you emphasized. “The night is young and I am a very willing maiden. Therefore, if you’ll excuse us-”
“If you are so willing, then shall you entertain me with a dance?” He questioned as he held out one hand, challenging you.
You clenched your jaw in frustration. You were all in favor of extending an olive branch, but dancing with him at the first ball of the season was a tad too far. You did not want to be making a statement for yourself by befriending Jaehyun’s company.
The ladies would assume you held no dignity for yourself and the gentlemen would be appalled by your association with him.
“I have already promised my first dance with Lord Lee,” you lied through your teeth. You knew Donghyuck would not mind dancing with you just to save you from Jaehyun. “I shall see you around, Lord Jeong.”
If you had known better, you would have caught the dejected expression on Jaehyun’s face after you refused him. But all you could remember from that night was his teasing smirk and the playful lilt in his voice as he mocked you.
—
Your memories of Jaehyun do not assure you in the slightest that your parents have made the right decision.
Yerim comes over the next morning after the news of your forced marriage, soothing your cries with warm pastries and fresh tea. She rubs your back while you lay in bed, moaning for your misfortune.
“It is not that horrible,” she says in an attempt to pacify you. “At least he is good looking.”
You blink up at her. “Are you serious? I hardly care about his looks, Yerim! He is deplorable! He does not have a single redeeming quality. My mother wants to ruin my life, I am positive about that fact. How could any other suitor ever want me again once I have been tainted by Jeong Jaehyun?”
She chews on her lower lip. “I know you are not fond of him, but he may not say the same for you.”
Her statement has you peeking over your pillow, curious to hear more. She catches your gaze and exhales sharply.
“Have you ever noticed that he attends events when he knows you plan to be there? Or how he talks about you to everyone who will listen? He may have a reputation for being a rake, but you are the only lady he has asked to dance with since our first season.”
The information slowly dawns on you, but Yerim must be imagining things. Jaehyun has never felt any real romantic feelings towards you. You remain faithful that you share this conviction with him.
You shake your head. “He is deluding you as well. Trust me, Yerim, I know where Jaehyun’s true feelings lie.”
She eventually helps you get out of bed and you fail to exchange a single word with your mother while you break your fast. Yerim nudges for you to say the first word but you refuse.
Your mother only acknowledges your presence later in the night when you are due to be escorted to your first public appearance with Jaehyun.
“You are not dressed.”
You brush your hair in front of the mirror, humming softly to yourself. Yerim left to prepare herself in her own home, but you wish she had stayed to help you fight this battle with your mother.
“That is because I am not going.”
“Whatever game this is that you are playing, I do not find it amusing in the slightest. Lord Jeong will be here within the next hour and I expect you to welcome him downstairs with a proper gown and your best smile.”
As your handmaidens help you into your dress, they exchange knowing glances with each other until you grow tired of their mind games.
“May I inquire what has piqued your interest?” You ask in a bored tone.
Seulgi, your handmaiden of over five years, smiles gently at you. She has been dressing you since your first season, and is very aware how irritated you can get during times like these.
“The staff have just been discussing, Miss, since your mother announced your plans for engagement. We have been in communication with the staff employed at Lord Jeong’s household.”
You perk up slightly. “Is that so? And what have you discovered?”
Seulgi beams at you. “Lord Jeong is positively delighted by your coupling. The staff has never seen him more alert. He has been placing orders for brand new decor for your wing of the house and has requested for his staff to research your favorite delicacies to stock the cupboards. It is quite endearing.”
You frown. Jaehyun has wormed his way into the minds of your handmaidens too. His ability to manipulate others should honestly be lauded.
“How sweet of him,” you say through gritted teeth, holding back your true feelings. Although they spend more time with you, your handmaidens are employed by your mother, which means anything you say in front of them could be parroted back to her.
You devise a plan while they continue to adorn you in jewelry and work at pinning up your hair. If you could get Jaehyun to call off this marriage, you are certain his mother would relent. Your cries may go unanswered because you are simply a woman who was born into the right family, but Jaehyun will run his own household after he is married, which means he has superiority over his mother’s decisions.
You hear his voice filter from up the stairs when you walk out of your room.
“It is honestly my pleasure, madam. Your daughter is a gift that I promise to treasure.”
You huff. Where does he keep pulling these lines from?
As you walk down the steps, you take in the scene unfolding in your foyer. Your parents are speaking to Jaehyun with radiating smiles, laughing at every little thing he says. His mother stands closely behind him, joining in on the laughter with a chuckle here and there.
When your heel hits the last step, they turn to you. For the first time, you identify the twinkle in Jaehyun’s eye that tells you he’s excited to see you.
Could Yerim be right? Does Jeong Jaehyun like you?
“There she is,” your mother says, tugging you over and pretending she wasn’t upset with you an hour ago. “She is beautiful, is she not, Lord Jeong?”
“Stunning,” he whispers, and you desperately want to punch him in the face.
“Let us head out, shall we? We do not want to run late,” you say, itching to remove yourself from the spotlight. Jaehyun nods in agreement, outstretching his arm for you to take it, and you reluctantly wrap your fingers around his bicep. You lead the way to the carriage waiting outside, murmuring loudly under your breath so Jaehyun can hear you. “You are so dead to me, Jeong.”
He helps you into your carriage, and you don’t miss the pained look in his eyes as he forces a smile onto his face.
—
Jaehyun never wanted to fall in love.
He has witnessed enough of his friends losing their sanity over the matter, finding themselves on the receiving end of their mother’s meddling into their lives. Some of them have found happiness while the others have settled for what they were given.
Although Jaehyun is the only child and he knows he must marry to continue his lineage, he never imagined he would marry for love. He would likely find a well-bred lady, one who would simply finish her duty in childbearing and leave him alone otherwise.
Before tying himself to her, he desired a little recklessness in his life. He tugged on the heartstrings of the ladies in the ton and stopped by brothels when he was searching for something quick and fast. It earned him a reputation but he hardly cared about what other noble families thought of him. He knew at the end of the day, they prioritized the wealth of his estate far more than his outside trysts, which means he would have no issue in securing a wife when he wanted to.
He really was not intending on taking an interest in you.
His mother had educated him on the ladies of his season, so he knew a little of your background. You are also the only child in your family, but being born a daughter means you must get married to receive an ounce of your father’s wealth. Still, this fact never seems to spur you on in your quest for a husband. He has noticed other ladies approach him quite confidently yet you stay sidelined at every ball, waiting for the gentlemen to come to you, even though you refuse most of their offers to dance.
And he shall admit that your adamant refusal to dance with him has him intrigued.
Although the other ladies are appalled by his reputation, they remain courteous enough to accept a dance or two, mingling with him when they see fit. Since his first season, Jaehyun has made it his own personal mission to get you to join him on the floor, come hell or high water.
He just never expected forcing you to marry him as being the catalyst for you to adhere to his wishes.
“You shall tell your mother that you want to call this marriage off,” you say as soon as the swell of the music starts and you take to the floor.
He takes a step towards you with a raised eyebrow. “And why would I do that?”
“Because I am positively certain I will make your life a living hell if I become your wife. You may not favor me now, but you shall surely detest me once I am finished with you.”
But as you twirl around the floor, he fails to find his voice to tell you that he does not harbor any hatred for you at all. You may play those parts in public and it may be true for you, but Jaehyun has never thought of you as the chip on his shoulder.
The rest of the ton stares at you with wide eyes, whispering to one another about the sudden closeness between you.
“Is marrying me such a stain on your character? What, am I not on par with the likes of Kim Jungwoo and Johnny Suh?”
It infuriated him to no end when Jungwoo was courting you. The man did not even know a single thing about you! He was lured in by your pretty face, and Jaehyun snickered to himself when Jungwoo soon discovered that you have an independent mind, judging the man whenever he uttered the wrong thing. Jaehyun was over the moon when Jungwoo ended your courtship.
Johnny, however, was a player that Jaehyun was not expecting. The man was tall, handsome, and could definitely handle your sharp edges better than Jungwoo. Jaehyun worried that you two would actually marry so he shipped himself off for a vacation to avoid seeing you walk down the aisle. He was content when he returned home and learned you were still single.
“Marrying you would tarnish my reputation. I cannot imagine the other ladies respecting the woman who ties herself to the world’s most infamous rake.”
He falters at the insult from you. When his mother had approached him with the idea to marry you, she expected him to swiftly turn it down, so it came as a surprise that he accepted the deal fairly quickly. He honestly could not stand the thought of you marrying the boring Kim Doyoung. The man would not understand how to entertain you, how to keep you on your toes and humor you.
He would never say it out loud, but the prospect of you becoming his wife satisfied him. He could already picture you running his estate with an iron fist, organizing the awful ledgers he has to sort through and checking if each member of the staff is well taken care of.
He wants it. He wants to wake up next to you. He wants to dance with you when there is no one else around. He wants to bury himself into you, listen to your sweet little moans as he tangles a hand through your hair-
He shakes his head to ward away the lewd thoughts threatening to crawl forward. The music slowly comes to a lull, and before he can stop you, you are darting out of his grasp and heading towards the balcony.
He sees your mother attempt to follow you but he stops her with the raise of his hand. He shadows you, keeping his eyes trained on the floral pattern of your gown.
He stops when you saunter out, slamming the doors shut behind you as you lean over the railing to catch your breath. He observes you silently, watching as you sigh and run your fingers through your hair, taking it out of its neat updo.
He waits a little before joining you in the open space.
“I did not realize I would become such a burden for you,” he whispers as you stand side by side.
You scowl at him. “How did you think I would react? Did you think I would jump into your arms and you would carry me off into the sunset?”
“You hate all of the gentlemen in the ton. You have to concede to this fact. And I understand I am not better than the rest of them, but you know me. I would never bend your will or coerce you into submission. You will be free to do as you please, I will not prevent you from your happiness.”
“But you are preventing me! Does this not register with you? I do not want to marry you. You must feel the same way, do you not?”
He hesitates, and the brief second seems to confirm your answer. You exhale and your hands tighten their grip on the railing.
“How long?” You ask in a small voice.
He swallows. “I do not know.”
“I cannot marry you, Jaehyun.”
“I shall inform my mother of your decision tonight. I apologize for causing you grief.”
You spin and saunter back into the ballroom, leaving Jaehyun’s heart crumpled into a mess on the floor.
—
Jaehyun plans to escape his troubles by embarking on a year-long vacation.
Perhaps it is enough time to move on from you, to stop worrying about you all the time and wondering who you might be with. His announcement to the staff about ending your engagement before it has even come to life has his mother in tears. They were instructed to halt all preparations for your wing of the estate and to eat whatever stock of food they had purchased for you.
He’s barely holding himself together as he packs up his things, intent on leaving and not coming back until he is ready to face high society again.
“Lord Jeong, you have a visitor at the door.”
“I am fairly occupied,” he says without missing a beat, grabbing any article of clothing he can find and throwing it into his suitcase.
But then they tell him that you are the one waiting by the door, and that has his feet moving swiftly.
You are fidgeting in the foyer, squirming as members of his household staff walk around you, carrying pieces of the decor that was meant for your bedroom.
“Lord Jeong,” you say with a curtsy, and his eyebrows furrow from the contrast of your behavior last night to today.
“How may I help you?” He asks coldly, desperately wanting to distance himself from you. You never make any task easy for him.
“I wanted to continue our conversation.”
“I did not think there was much more to say. You made your feelings very clear.”
“May we speak in private?”
He guides you into his office, leaving the door open an inch in an effort not to compromise you. You clear your throat once you are alone.
“I have thought it over and have decided to accept your proposal.”
He narrows his eyes. “You have decided to accept? Forgive me, but the last time we spoke, you distinctly voiced your opposition to marrying me. What has changed?”
You look away, your mouth twisting in the way it does when you are particularly peeved by him.
“You are right,” you admit begrudgingly. “I do not like any of the gentlemen in the ton, and I fear I never will. At least with you, I shall still have my freedom and get my mother off my back. I cannot stand another season of this — the balls, the dresses, the constant dancing. I am tired and I just want to live.”
The tension in his shoulders starts to fade. It is not exactly what he wants to hear, but he will take your acceptance if it means he does not have to leave for a year just to forget you.
“So we are carrying through with this?”
You purse your lips. “I cannot fall in love with you. Not in the way you want me to.”
He nods. “T-That is perfectly fine. I was not expecting you to.”
“And we will forgo childbearing until it is absolutely necessary.”
“That sounds plausible.”
“And Yerim is allowed to come over whenever it suits her.”
“Of course.”
You chew on your bottom lip and he resists the urge to take it in between his teeth.
“Where is my ring?”
He blinks twice. “Forgive me?”
“My ring. You must have one picked out.”
He pats his pockets but blanches when he realizes he’s not carrying his mother’s ring with him.
“Can you wait here for a second?”
He sprints upstairs to his mother’s room, startling her handmaidens when he pounds on her door. She opens it with wide eyes.
“Jaehyun, what-”
“Where is your ring?” He asks breathlessly. “The one that father gave you?”
“In my jewelry box. Why?”
“May I have it? Now? Please?”
She fumbles around to look for it, and Jaehyun bounces on the balls of his feet while he waits, fearful that if he does not get that ring on your finger, you shall disappear through the front door and he will never see you again. As soon as his mother hands him the band, he runs back down to his office, relieved when he sees you still standing by the window.
He drops to one knee in front of you and you stare back at him, unamused. He decides to skip the speech in case you change your mind, slipping the ring on your finger as you admire the diamond sparkling in the light.
“It is beautiful,” you murmur, and he thanks the heavens for your approval. You lower your hand as you state, “I shall not attend another lousy ball just for show. We shall wed as soon as we can and negotiate the details after.”
Like a puppy chasing after its tail, he submits to your every request, dreaming of you and him under one roof.
—
The next week is chaos in the Jeong household.
Members of the staff rush left and right, preparing themselves for a wedding they thought had been called off. The favorite gossip of the ton have been surrounding your wedding, pertaining to why you were getting married this quickly, how you went from despising one another to falling in love, and if tying the knot would finally promote Jaehyun from being a rake to a proper lord.
Jaehyun is keen to sit back and watch it all unfold. He has barely seen you as you have been wrapped up in dress fittings and moving your belongings into his home.
It is only the night before your wedding that you rush to his office in a panicked state.
He is startled when the door swings open and you stand there in nothing but your nightgown. You hold a candle in your hand as you scurry to his side.
“What-” he starts, wondering what could be troubling you.
“My mother has divulged to me what a husband is meant to do to his wife on the night of their wedding. I shall inform you that I do not approve of such indiscretions, if that was not made clear before.”
His cheeks flush red when it dawns on him what you must be referring to. Yes, he has conjured up many fantasies late at night, but he never assumed you would willingly lie with him on your first night together as husband and wife.
“Y-Yes, that is understood.”
“Furthermore, I shall not become the wife who sits idly by while you run to a brothel to satisfy your needs. You shall only lie with me, when I feel I am prepared and ready to accept you.”
He leans back in his seat, one eyebrow raised. “Do you think so low of me that I would disrespect you in such a public fashion?”
You huff. “Jaehyun, I am astonished that you have not done so already.”
He narrows his eyes. Before he can retort, the door bursts wide open again and your handmaiden comes rushing in.
“I apologize profusely, Lord Jeong!” She cries. “We were not made aware of her destination. You are not meant to see her like this-”
“You do not need to apologize to him, Seulgi,” you interject with a sigh. “And he shall learn to see all sides of me soon enough.”
Your handmaiden stutters for a response but you poke your finger at Jaehyun with a stern gaze.
“Do not dare forget what I said.”
“How can I when you come traipsing through here in the middle of the night, disturbing me before the biggest day of our lives?”
You exit with a dramatic flair, slamming the doors behind you as your handmaiden follows after. He slumps in his chair, exhausted and wondering how far he has to go to earn your trust.
His mother wakes him the next morning bright and early, chirping happily for the marriage she has waited years for. He readies himself on his own, pulling on his stuffy suit and tie. He thinks about how you must be faring with the glitz and glamour.
His mother and yours had invited almost the entire population of the city to the wedding. People that Jaehyun has never met in his life greet him at the chapel, congratulating him for the momentous occasion. He thanks them with a nervous smile, worried if you will actually show up at the end of the aisle.
Thankfully, when the music plays and the doors open, you step out, dressed in a long, satin white gown. He loses his breath when he looks at you, the picture perfect beauty of a bride. You hesitate under the scrutiny of the ton’s gazes, tightening your grip around your father’s arm.
Jaehyun inhales and exhales slowly. His heart is beating so hard that he can hear the thumping echo in his ears. He can hardly believe this day has come, and even more so that you agreed to marry him.
You must be running through the same thought process, for when your father hands you over to Jaehyun, you stare at him wide eyed. He takes your hand in his, soothing you by running his thumb over the back of your wrist. It unwinds you a little when you stand in front of the priest.
The priest drones on and on about eternal love and the sacred vow between husband and wife. Jaehyun keeps his eyes trained on you, watching you from the corner of his eye to ensure you are faring well.
When you turn to him to seal your lips in a kiss, his heart stops beating.
“Breathe,” he whispers just before his mouth touches yours. He can feel you trembling in his hold.
“Why do they have to keep looking at us?” You murmur.
“Because you are too pretty for them to look away.”
“You are full of it, Lord Jeong.”
His tongue traces over your bottom lip before he can stop himself. A couple’s first kiss at their wedding should be a light peck, something God would approve of.
Jaehyun does not give a damn what God thinks.
There is a small gasp in the audience when his tongue slips into your mouth. You arch into him, calm for the first time in hours.
When you break away, you blink up at him, and his curiosity flares up. Did it feel good for you too?
The crowd erupts in applause and you step away from him, smiling shyly at them. Jaehyun kicks into autopilot, walking you back down the aisle as you laugh with the people surrounding you.
When you are escorted into the gardens for your reception, he swallows.
“Well, it is over.”
You purse your lips. “Y-Yes. That kiss was-”
Your mother comes around the corner, crying as she envelops you in a hug. You pat her back awkwardly as she sobs.
“Oh, darling, I am so happy for you! So, so happy!”
Then Jaehyun’s mother mobs him, cooing about how handsome he looks. You find yourselves on opposite ends of the large space, controlling the flock of people who demand to know the next steps of your marriage.
Jaehyun fields questions left and right that are clearly an invasion of his privacy.
“How many children do you two want to have?”
“I think the best time to start making babies is right after the wedding. It’s when your hormones are at their peak. Do you not agree, Lord Jeong?”
“My theory is that you should lock yourselves away for at least two months so the seed will sprout and grow. Does that not sound wonderful?”
By the time he finds his way back to you, you both are worse for wear.
“Lord Jeong, Lady Jeong!”
You grab Jaehyun’s hand and sprint into the hedge maze. He tries not to trip over your skirt as you weave through the walls of the garden, catching your breath once you find yourselves trapped in the middle.
“They are incessant vultures!” You hiss, ripping the veil from your hair and tossing it to the side. “I mean, honestly. Who granted them the authority to decide when and how I should have a child?”
“Lady Baek almost gave me advice on how her husband gets it up! As if I need to hear such disturbing counsel regarding a man about to turn seventy!” He grunts.
You shudder. “We shall camp out here until they have all grown too tired to stick around. What was my mother thinking when she invited that many people?”
You collapse on the ground together, paying no mind to the grass stains covering your dress or the dirt coating the bottom of his pants. You listen to the steady sound of each other’s breathing, grateful to be away from the incessant noise.
He clears his throat. “What were you saying earlier? About the kiss?”
You cough. “Oh, um, nothing. It was merely surprising, that is all.”
“Sorry if I did not live up to your expectations.”
“That was not what I meant,” you mumble, fiddling with the fabric of your dress. “I hardly expected you to kiss me so… passionately. In all of the weddings I have attended, the groom never devours his bride like that.”
“I did not devour you,” he corrects, flustered by your accusation.
A moment passes before you burst into a fit of laughter. He should be mad with you, but when he glances over to see you giggling into your palm, he finds the corners of his lips lifting upwards.
You settle into your harmonious laughter for a few minutes, riding on the blissful cloud of your new marriage. He did not think it had become such a huge burden on his shoulders, but he is relieved he no longer has to deal with mingling in crowded ballrooms, debating on whether he should ask you to dance or leave entirely.
The recollection has him springing to his feet. You stare up at him in confusion when he holds out his hand.
“Join me.”
“You cannot be serious, Jaehyun.”
He clicks his tongue. “I obliged to all of your rules. Come here and dance with me.”
You grumble as he helps pull you up. Once you are in his arms, he wraps a hand around your waist, holding you steady as you rest your hand on his shoulder.
The moonlight dances over your features and he swears he has never seen a sight more beautiful.
“Yerim was telling me something the other day that I found interesting,” you say.
He quirks up an eyebrow. “What did she say?”
“That you only attend balls when I am present. And that you will speak about me to anyone who will listen.”
“Do not let it go to your head,” he teases weakly.
You do not allow him to escape that easily because evidently, you love to embarrass him at any given chance.
“How long, Jaehyun?”
He thinks about the night out on the balcony when you were asking him this question with the intention to break his heart and never return.
“A long time,” he confesses. “Likely when we first met.”
You shake your head. “Why? Why me? Out of all the women in the ton-”
“The rest of the women in the ton could never hold a candle to you,” he swears, looking deep into your eyes, hoping you memorize every word. “I know you think of me as a reckless rake who will insert myself into any woman’s bed, but you must know how devoted I am to you. You are the only person I find myself laughing with, the only person who can keep up with me and drive me insane all at once. I dream of you. I understand this marriage is all a means to an end to you, but you are the only lady I have ever wanted.”
He nearly chokes when you pounce on him, smashing your lips together until he’s stumbling back into the hedges. His hands rest on your hips as you chase after him.
Your tongues fight for dominance and he realizes just how hungry he is. He has been holding himself back to preserve your dignity, but with God as his witness, you are now his wife and he gets to make you writhe in pleasure if it is his sole desire.
He bunches up your skirt, slipping his hand underneath the mountains of fabric. He growls when your corset gets in the way of the prize he really wants.
“Get this off,” he hisses, tugging at the tight strands that hug your bodice.
“Our mothers will come looking for us,” is all you can reply with.
“I do not care,” he says. “I need you.”
But a gasp interrupts your fervent entanglement. You jump apart to see his mother standing in front of you, appalled by the sight of you two.
“Jeong Jaehyun, I raised you to be a gentleman!” She scolds, approaching you and helping you look presentable again. You avoid her glare. “You both need a lesson in understanding what is acceptable for you to do in public. Just because you are married does not give you the right to behave like animals!”
She tugs you away with a huff, and Jaehyun’s head crashes against the hedge, his cock aching to be stuffed inside you.
—
You are avoiding your husband.
You do not know what has gotten into you. At first, you were loathing the creature you were forced to marry, hoping one day he would magically incinerate and you could avoid having to call him your husband. But then he was confessing to you, telling you everything a lady has always wanted to hear.
It is the first time you have ever experienced the spark of attraction to a gentleman. It is the first time you became content in getting married. It is the first time you felt… desire.
But you are not supposed to let Jeong Jaehyun get the best of you. You hide away in the daytime at Yerim’s home, brushing off her probing questions.
“It’s your honeymoon. Should you not be at home?”
You smile tightly at her. “And miss spending time with you? Of course not. Now, tell me all about Na Jaemin.”
You do not return back to the Jeong estate until supper, where you have a tense gathering with your husband across the dining table. True to his word, Jaehyun refuses to touch you until you initiate it first, which is driving you both mad with insatiable lust.
“How was your day with Yerim?” He asks stiffly, spooning soup into his mouth.
“G-Good. Sir Na has taken a liking to her. He lives in the countryside, however, and I selfishly do not want her to move away if they are to be betrothed.”
“Yes, it might be quite terrible if you were left alone in the presence of your husband with nowhere to flee.”
You narrow your eyes. “If you are insinuating something, Jaehyun, then please do not subject me to your mind games. I would rather you speak the truth.”
He smiles devilishly. “You first.”
You keep your mouth sealed shut for the rest of the meal. Even when you prepare yourselves to climb into bed together, your bedroom is filled with such unspeakable tension that you could cut with a knife.
You occupy yourself by opening a book, observing from the corner of your eye as Jaehyun turns on his side and blows his candle out. You tap your nails against the hardcover, blurting out your next statement before you can stop yourself.
“You never told me about your day.”
He muses over how to reply before he states, “I was lonely, craving a wife who wants nothing to do with me.”
You pout like a child. “I told you I am not going to fall in love with you.”
“I remember.”
It’s summer when Yerim and Jaemin get engaged. Yerim’s mother is so thrilled that she hosts a celebration party, where you and Jaehyun attend arm-in-arm, pretending to be civil with one another. You are bombarded with an onslaught of questions pertaining to how your marriage is faring, and if the ton can expect a new baby boy or girl to arrive any day now.
You stick with the excuse of, “We are trying,” to get them to go away.
Yerim pulls you aside to her bedchamber later that night, smiling widely. The joy in her expression has not left her face all night, and it comforts you to know she will be taken care of in the countryside, despite being so far from you.
“What a night!” She exclaims, falling on her mattress in glee. “I have never been this happy before, I swear it to you.”
“I can tell,” you laugh, patting her knee. “It satisfies me to know Jaemin has you this giddy.”
She chews her lip when she sits up, and she has the expression on her face that screams she has a secret.
“Can I tell you something? In the confidence of our friendship?”
“Of course,” you say, sitting next to her on the bed.
She twiddles her thumbs, clearly thrumming with nervousness. “The other day, Jaemin and I were alone.”
You gasp. “Yerim! You are not supposed to be with him unchaperoned until after you are wed!”
Her cheeks bloom a bright shade of red. “We did a lot of things we are supposed to do after we are wed.”
Your curiosity gets the better of you, and the prompt scolding you are about to give her dies down in your throat.
“W-What did he do?”
“Amazing things,” she exhales dreamily. “Do you know how good it feels when they put their mouth… down there?”
“Yerim!” You say, scandalized.
She giggles. “So you and Jaehyun still have not-”
“No,” you confirm with the shake of your head. “No, we have not. And we will not until we absolutely need to.”
She nudges your shoulder. “He is your husband now, you know. Not a rake who is looking to bed you just because he can.”
You clear your throat and rise from your spot on the bed. “We should head back downstairs. People might be searching for you.”
She’s slightly downcast by your quick dismissal but follows you without protest. You are warm from the brief discussion, imagining what Jaehyun would look like nestled in between your thighs, staring up at you with unadulterated hunger.
The vision abruptly leaves your mind once you land on the last step, spotting your husband being flanked by Sooyoung, a girl he used to be very friendly with. She is giggling at him, her hand caressing his bicep as she hangs off his every word.
You freeze, your throat growing dry at your husband openly flirting with another lady in front of you. In Jaehyun’s defense, he does not seem to be paying any attention to her, his eyes fluttering around the room.
When he finds you, you dart towards the exit, ignoring both Yerim and Jaehyun’s cries of your name. As you request for your carriage to be brought forward, a hand wraps around your wrist.
“You have made assumptions.”
You tear your hand away from Jaehyun with a glare. “I hardly care who you speak to. I am going home, the party’s over.”
He growls your name and the staff lingering nearby pretend to look disinterested.
“Do not behave like this.”
Once your carriage rolls up, you climb in, refusing Jaehyun’s help. You try to close the door behind you but your husband pushes his way inside, preventing you from making your dramatic escape.
“I do not possess any feelings for Sooyoung,” he sighs. “I never have.”
“I do not care! I am merely humiliated by the fact that you would display your affection for her in front of everyone! I know those people, Jaehyun, and I strictly told you before we were married that I would not become the wife who would stand idly by while her husband is wrapped up in an affair!”
“I am not in an affair!” You are both screaming too loud to hide your troubles from the outside. “I have never had an affair. I am devoted to you! I dream of you! How many times must I say this to you? Sooyoung approached me, asking me how I have been. I told her I was not interested in her folly and I was waiting for your return. What took you so long with Yerim anyways?”
You are riled up with anger and frustration. “She was educating me about how a proper husband takes care of his wife. Tell me, did you ever get on your knees for Sooyoung? Did you press your mouth in between her thighs?”
His eyebrows raise to his hairline, clearly not expecting you to quip back with that. You fold your arms across your chest, pouting and refusing to look at him.
You gasp when his hands suddenly pull up your dress and he sinks to his knees. You back yourself up against the wall of the carriage.
“Jaehyun, what are you doing?” You hiss.
“If you wanted to know what it feels like, you could have just asked.”
You glance around worriedly but the carriage still moves on, and the drapery covering the windows protects anyone from the outside to witness your husband wiggling his way underneath your dress.
You do not stop him, interested in how determined he is to prove himself to you. Your fingertips dart out to hold the sides of the carriage when his lips graze over your core.
You cup a hand over your mouth to keep your moans at bay. You have never dared to touch yourself in your most sensitive area. It’s unseemly for a lady of your status, and you feel as if you shall be damned to hell if you ever crossed that line.
But Jaehyun is your husband, so this must be allowed in heaven, right?
You lurch forward when his tongue runs over your folds. You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as he starts to lick at your dripping cunt. He laps at you as if you are his next meal and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You are entirely too sensitive that you could cry, your body shuddering as Jaehyun buries himself deeper into your pussy.
The carriage comes to a halt as you sob, your hands tangling into his hair as your peak washes over you. When he pops his head back up, he’s grinning with your slick covering his chin.
“How was it, my dear wife?”
“Get inside the house.”
The staff are flustered when you scramble past them. Jaehyun’s hands dig into the flesh of your waist as he leads you inside, dismissing the staff by hoisting you up on the singular table in the foyer, knocking down his mother’s favorite vase.
You bring his mouth to yours as the spark inside you bursts into flames. Months of tension finally unravel as he pushes your thighs apart, slotting himself in until he’s rolling down into your core.
“Jaehyun,” you whine. “Please.”
“Did Yerim tell you what men can do with their fingers?” He asks, his bottom lip dragging over your jawline.
“N-No.”
You squeak when he unlaces your corset, practically ripping it in half in his efforts to peel it off of you. His mouth is drawn to the swell of your breasts, taking your exposed nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the bud.
A maid comes from around the corner at the sound of the broken glass from the vase, but she chokes when she sees her employers dangling off a tiny table, enraptured in one another.
When he slips a finger inside you, you’re driven wild with lust. None of the noble lords and ladies would recognize you if they saw you now, encouraging your husband to use his teeth while sucking at your breasts and begging him to stuff more fingers inside your cunt.
“Dear God,” you sob when his thumb circles at your clit.
You have never felt pleasure like this in your entire life. Is this why women get married? Is this why they subject themselves to uncomfortable corsets and boring dances?
“You like it, do you not?” He questions in a mocking tone, hovering over you with a darkened gaze. “Imagine how we could have had this months ago if you had only swallowed your pride. Falling in love with me does not sound so horrifying anymore, does it?”
His teeth sink into the juncture of your neck as you chant his name. You cum when he inserts another digit inside your wet hole, curling his fingers forward, causing you to feel boneless in his grasp.
“I will not have our first time be like this,” he says, licking his fingers clean and carrying you in his arms.
“The bedroom is too far,” you reply, wanting to jump his bones immediately.
He chuckles. “You made me wait months. I think you can handle a few minutes.”
The room is spotless when you walk in, making you feel slightly guilty for ruining the staff’s hard work. But then Jaehyun drops you on the mattress and unlaces his breeches, and your focus hones in on his lower half. Your vision grows heavy when he reveals himself.
You never quite understood what gentlemen were packing down there, but you surely never would have guessed this. His member is long, thick, and veiny, startling you when he wraps a hand around his base.
“W-What are you planning to do with that?”
He laughs. “My wife, this is meant to go inside you.”
Your brain stops working for a second. He senses your hesitance, smiling playfully as he leans over you, kissing you gently.
“I shall take it slow. It shall feel good once you get used to the stretch.”
“Do you promise?” You say timidly.
He nods. “It helps that you are already so wet.” You scoff when he swipes his fingers over the wetness coating your thighs. He kisses every inch of exposed skin he can find, helping you loosen up to take his massive cock. “It is going to hurt the first time, but I swear it will get easier.”
“Who said we would be doing this again?” You inquire.
His chuckle vibrates against the shell of your ear. “Trust me. We shall definitely do this again.”
He lines himself up to your entrance, distracting you with a kiss. You never believed kissing could be worthwhile, but you find that you do not mind the act at all when it comes to your husband.
But Christ, is he trying to split you in half?
“Hurts,” you whimper as he gradually pushes in.
He stops immediately. “Do you want me to pull out?”
You shake your head. “No, no. Just… make it feel better.”
“You like it when I touch you here,” he says, returning his thumb to your clit, rubbing the nub in slow circles.
You close your eyes, powering through the overwhelming pain with the small windows of pleasure. Jaehyun does not appear to be experiencing the same issues, gritting his teeth when he bottoms out.
“You are squeezing me too tightly,” he groans. “Ease up a little, wife. I am going to finish before we have truly started.”
“I cannot! You are intent in destroying me!” You retort.
“Fuck,” he curses, dropping his head to rest between your neck and shoulder. “Tell me when I should start moving.”
“Moving?” You pale. “Is this not the entire thing?”
“I thought your mother explained this to you the night before our wedding?”
“She never discussed the specifics!”
His hands cup your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. You blink back the tears threatening to spill and he smiles at you, assuring you that everything is going to be okay.
“Do you trust me? You must trust me a little at this point.”
“A little,” you grumble. “Don’t push your luck.”
He moves to sit on his knees, throwing your legs over his shoulders and holding them in place while he thrusts into you. Initially, he’s apologizing for the pain, but you slowly adjust to his size and your wetness begins to emit a thwacking sound against the flesh of his thighs.
Moans spill out of your mouth before you can stop them.
“That is it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
You would not think that Jaehyun’s praise would have such an effect upon you. You are whining for him as his cock batters into your pussy, staining the sheets with the mix of your wetness.
“I shall not last,” he says through bated breaths. “You are squeezing me too tightly.”
Moments later, he spills into you, filling you with the warmth of his cum. He withdraws himself to replace his length with his fingers, swirling them inside your cunt until you are falling over the edge of your third climax.
He collapses next to you, his chest rising up and down. You gaze at him shyly.
“So when shall the baby come?”
He smiles at you. “It normally does not take the first time. We have to keep trying until you feel the babe start to grow.”
You narrow your eyes. “You are surely making that up.”
He winks. “Trust me. We shall practice until you acquire a taste for it.”
—
You and Jaehyun apologize profusely to the staff the next day for your behavior, but they simply smile and tell you to work hard in your baby making efforts.
You are both startled when you approach the breakfast table to see his mother sitting there, sipping on her morning cup of tea.
“M-Mother?” Jaehyun stutters. “What are you doing here? I thought you were away handling matters of the estate.”
She smiles knowingly at you, and you slink behind your husband’s back, feeling like a child who has been scolded for eating too many treats.
“I wanted to check in on you. I arrived last night.”
“Last night?” You and Jaehyun both question in shock.
You recall his messy display of fingering you in the foyer for everyone to witness. Did his mother see her son ravaging you? Did she watch you fall apart under his touch?
Her grin seems to convey your answer. She gestures to the chairs beside her.
“Come and sit. I want to hear all about my future grandchild.”
You return to your bedchamber after breakfast feeling mortified. Jaehyun tries to soothe your worries with a gentle hand at your back.
“It is very normal for a husband and wife to be intimate.”
“Not for a lady to expose herself in front of her mother-in-law and the staff!”
He winces. “I am certain that they found the scene to be arousing, if anything.”
You dig your head into the pillows, pouting. “You fail at lifting up my spirits.”
You feel him peppering kisses over your shoulder, his hands wandering where they should not be. You try to swat them away but he whines in your ear.
“She already knows about us anyway. Let me have a little fun.”
You turn on your side to face him, grazing your fingers over his cheek. You hate that Yerim was right — your husband is very handsome.
“When I said I would never fall in love-”
“It is fine. I understand.”
“No, no,” you correct, tracing his jawline. “I was going to say that I think I could. If you give me enough time and if you do not act like an insufferable rake, I could see myself loving you.”
He smirks. “I am quite flattered.”
You roll your eyes. “Can you do that thing with your mouth again?”
“Happy to oblige, wife.”
this fic was posted for early access to the $5 tier on my patreon, which you can access here!
❯ summary: You didn’t spend forty five minutes perfecting your eyeliner and squeezing yourself into a skirt that could double as a belt for nothing. You came to the club with a purpose. Get under someone new so you can forget the someone old. And the hottie with pouty lips has taken your itty bitty, teeny tiny, slutty little bait.
❯ pairings: jaemin x fem!reader
❯ genre: smut, hook up, stangers
❯ words: 1.5k
❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, fingering, toxic ex, smut, use of the word slut a lot, public sex, exhibitionism, protected sex, quickie, basically just fucking a stanger in a club
You’re getting finger fucked in the back of the club, bass thundering through the walls and straight into your spine, and you feel absolutely zero shame about it.
In fact? This was the plan.
You didn’t spend forty-five minutes perfecting your eyeliner and squeezing yourself into a skirt that could double as a belt for nothing. You came here with a purpose. Get under someone new so you can forget about the someone old.
And the hottie with pouty lips, silver rings on his fingers, and a black jacket stretched distractingly across his shoulders walked right into your trap.
Hook, line, and sinful little sinker.
It all started earlier tonight when you found the skirt. The itty bitty, teeny tiny, little slutty skirt. You think it’s from your freshman year of college but you can’t remember exactly when you stopped wearing it—only that your ex hated it. And you can’t blame them. When you bend over, it becomes more of a suggestion than an article of clothing.
“Can you see my ass when I bend over?” you asked Giselle, twisting in front of the mirror and pretending not to admire the way the thin fabric hugged your curves.
Giselle didn’t even look up at first, still crouched on the floor applying her mascara. “Babe,” she deadpanned, finally glancing over. “I think I can see your pussy.”
You straightened slowly. “Yeah?”
She blinked. “Yes.”
You leaned closer to the mirror, turned, checked the side profile. “Okay, good.”
Giselle barked out a laugh. “God, I forgot how much of a slut you used to be before that ex of yours had you on house arrest.”
“I was not on house arrest,” you said, shoving your tits up in your bra and glossing your lips. “You make me sound like one of those girls who lets their partner dictate their life.”
She just stared at you.
Blankly.
“Babe,” she said gently. “I love you. But you were.”
Okay.
Maybe.
You did cancel girls’ nights sometimes because they “didn’t like the club scene.” You did stop wearing half your closet because it was “too much.” You did stay home most weekends because the sex was too good and the drama of breaking up felt exhausting.
But that was before.
Before the fight. Before the breakup. Before you realised good sex isn’t worth shrinking yourself.
So tonight? Tonight you’re expanding.
You’re looking for someone hung. Someone new. Someone who’ll fuck you in a grimy club bathroom because apparently good sex in the city is cheaper than therapy and way more effective after a breakup.
Which is how you’ve ended up pressed into the back of the club, half-hidden by a shadow of bodies with the bass pounding so hard it rattles your teeth. The hottie’s palm is flat against your stomach holding you steady while his other hand slides between your thighs. His fingers dip under your microscopic excuse for a skirt, no hesitation, no asking. He nudges your panties aside and—
“You’re not wearing much under here,” he murmurs into your ear, breath hot, teeth grazing your skin.
“That’s the point,” you shoot back.
He groans when he finds how wet you are. Then his fingers push inside you. Slow at first until he’s curling them. Your head tips back against him as the music swallows your moan whole. The crowd is thick enough to hide you—sweaty bodies, flashing lights, everyone too drunk, too distracted to notice the way you’re grinding back against his hand like a bitch in heat.
“You always meet guys and let them fuck you in clubs?” he asks, thrusting his fingers deeper now, thumb brushing your clit in lazy, infuriating circles.
You laugh breathlessly. “No.”
He arches a brow against your temple. “No?”
“Just tonight.”
His grip tightens at your hip. “Lucky me.”
Right on cue with the beat dropping, he ruthlessly drives his fingers knuckle-deep into your pussy. Thank God the music is loud. Thank God you’re buried in the back of the crowd. Thank God everyone’s too busy losing their minds to notice you losing yours. Because the only one who hears you curse God’s name is the man massaging your g-spot.
“No, baby,” he says, low and smug. “I already told you—my name’s Jaemin. That’s the only thing I wanna hear out of those pretty lips when I put my cock inside this slutty little pussy.”
You mewl into his shoulder. “Your cock isn’t in my pussy.”
“Not yet.”
Fuck.
The press of bodies brushing past you makes you shiver, heat crawling up your spine as his fingers keep working. People bump your shoulder and graze your arm—so oblivious, so uninterested, like they don’t know exactly what’s happening right here in the shadows.
You do.
And God—you love that.
“You like this,” Jaemin murmurs, mouth right at your ear now, voice swallowed by bass and sweat and sin. “Being right here. Where anyone could see.”
Your breath stutters when his thumb presses just right, when his grip tightens like he’s daring you to lose it.
“Don’t,” you whisper, even though your hips chase his hand.
He laughs softly. “Don’t what?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. The music surges, lights flashing overhead, your body wound taut with the thrill of it—of being caught, of being watched, of being wanted this badly in the middle of a packed dance floor.
Your knees threaten to buckle, but he catches it.
“Bathroom,” he says, sudden and decisive, already hooking two fingers into your waistband. “Now.”
He drags you through the crowd without looking back, your hand clutched in his like property as he guides you. The bathroom door slams shut behind you with the lock clicking into place as your back meets cool tile.
“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m gonna share this orgasm with a crowd of people,” he growls into your skin as he flips your skirt up in one sharp, efficient motion. “You might not be my girl—but I worked for this orgasm. It’s mine.”
Why is that so hot?
Cool air kisses your bare thighs as your itty-bitty skirt stays bunched at your waist. He unbuckles his belt, and you feel your pussy pool at the thought of his cock inside you. When he spins you around, palms flattening against the tiles, you let him.
You think you hear the soft tear of foil, and it makes sense because you’re already needy, already waiting to be filled. He takes his time after that, dragging his covered cock through your slick, nudging your clit with the tip just enough to make you shiver and make your breath hitch. He does it again. And again. Like he’s testing how much you can take.
“Easy,” he hisses when he pushes inside and your walls tightens around him.
The sensation steals the air from your lungs. You’ve had good sex before—really good—but this is different. This is big. This is full. This is absolutely going to make your head go blank. And he’s only just started.
When he bottoms out, your body reacts before you can stop it. Your eyes roll back with a broken whimper tearing from your throat. Behind you, he lets out a low chuckle and it’s so damn sexy you swear it might be enough to push you over all on its own. He’s already stolen one orgasm from you, and the way he sounds now tells you he knows it.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice right at your ear. “Should’ve known you’d be such a good little slut the second I saw this little fucking skirt.”
You bite your lip, a groan slipping out anyway, your hands pressing harder into the tile. “Then hurry up,” you breathe. “Fuck me like the pretty little slut you think I am.”
He kisses his teeth at that, then moves. Harder. Faster. Like he doesn’t appreciate being goaded, like he plans on making you pay for every word.
His hips snap back and forth, rough and relentless. It’s brutal in the best way because your thoughts turn fuzzy. You’d take this punishment happily—over and over and over again—just to hear the sounds he makes when he loses control and pounds.
No wonder your ex hated this skirt.
If this is what it does to men—makes them pant and groan and crowd your space like they can’t get close enough, breath hot and heaving against your ear while they drive into you again and again—then yeah.
You feel his thrusts growing sloppier as his control slips through his fingers. Your legs are just as weak, trembling beneath you. Every thrust is maddening, hard enough that your face presses into the white tile, his name muffled as your body finally gives in, tightening around him as you cum around his cock.
“Good fucking girl,” he coos, voice low and wrecked.
His grip tightens on your flipped-up skirt, knuckles digging into the fabric to keep you steady. You feel him clutch it harder when his own body shudders, one last brutal drive into your hips. He stays there for a moment afterwards, unmoving, as he spills inside the condom. It’s filthy. Dirty. Utterly slutty.
And it’s exactly what you needed—something raw enough with a stranger to slap a temporary bandage over your heart that’s still broken.
I love the mating press position. It’s by far the most dominant position. You trapped under my entire body weight. My hips slamming into your spread pussy. Going deeper with each thrust. Try, even if you wanted to, you can’t escape. I’m too big and strong, but why would you want to escape? You know why you’re here. It’s so we can flood that fertile womb with my potent seed. You feel your pussy starting to clench as I get closer. Then your subconsciously wrap your legs around me and….sweet release. I fill you as I pin my body against yours. You’re going to look amazing carrying our child.
I love the mating press position. It’s by far the most dominant position. You trapped under my entire body weight. My hips slamming into your spread pussy. Going deeper with each thrust. Try, even if you wanted to, you can’t escape. I’m too big and strong, but why would you want to escape? You know why you’re here. It’s so we can flood that fertile womb with my potent seed. You feel your pussy starting to clench as I get closer. Then your subconsciously wrap your legs around me and….sweet release. I fill you as I pin my body against yours. You’re going to look amazing carrying our child.
pairing: brother's best friend!haechan x fem. reader
genre: smut, bit of crack
wc: 7k
summary: you send a spicy photo to the wrong lee and suddenly your brother's best friend is at your door with mulled wine and a space heater talking about "keeping you warm"
content warnings: christmas/holidays setting, explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption, accidental sexting, mild language/profanity, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, lingerie kink, references to bruising/scratches from sex, banter & relentless teasing, mild reference to soreness/discomfort, hae is actually a simp and down bad, reader is a bit of a tsundere lowk, the bells stayed ON during sex
a/n: merry xmas besties !! accept this last min gift from me because i honestly don’t know how to thank you enough for all the love this year. ngl this was definitely a bit rushed bc i wanted to post it on time for xmas so it is pretty fast paced. also, if you spot any mistakes lmk i will fix them eventually hehe. anyways enjoy!! ps: take a shot for every time you see the words "jingle bells" lol
There is a strange calm that comes over the city on Christmas Eve. Fewer cars line the roads, lights go out behind shop windows, and it seems as though all the apartments in your street have the same deep orange glow, as if the city has put a blanket around itself and turned on a reading light.
Your place is a different story altogether.
The heater has given up on you yet another winter, and you exist in thick socks and oversized sweaters for the duration, fogging the air with your breath as if you’re holidaying in a downbeat ski lodge rather than your zone 2 apartment.
Your mother has already called three times, each a frantic ninety-second sprint through holiday plans: Will you bring the extra chairs? Are you still pescatarian, or just being difficult about red meat? Can you pick up the right cranberry sauce, you know the one in the glass jar, not the jellied monstrosity from the tin?
You agree to everything, phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, trying to sound composed while your teeth threaten to chatter. You’re still perched on your bed, half-naked except for the red lace and those absurd little bells. Your thighs and shoulders ache with cold, and you’re painfully aware of every square inch of exposed skin.
Not ten minutes ago, you’d spent the better part of an hour contorting into increasingly improbable angles in red lace and utterly humiliating jingle bells, all in the name of looking effortless for Jeno, of course.
Jeno: there’s a name your pulse seems to know better than your own. Three months of teasing pictures from him post-workout, with nothing but a towel slung over his hips so his abs take center stage. The subtext has never been subtle. Tonight you’d planned to stop being subtle in return.
Now, while your mom lists off a litany of tasks, you’re scrolling through chats ready to finally send the photo that’s taken nearly an hour (and a year’s worth of courage) to create. The cold had made the whole thing an endurance exercise, goosebumps rippling over your arms as you tried to ignore how the bells jingled with every movement. The best photo sits ready on your screen, the last thing you snapped before your mom’s ringtone interrupted.
She’s still talking about napkin colors, whether the buses are still running, and remindng you to bring nice pajamas for the inevitable Christmas morning photos. You’re only half listening as you thumb out a quick “Merry Christmas x”, attach the photo, and press send, so practiced in the gesture you don’t bother double checking.
There’s a satisfying whoosh.
Then your blood runs cold when you read the name at the top of the chat.
Lee Haechan.
Not Lee Jeno.
Not the man with gym selfies who’s been circling your DMs like a hawk.
No. You’ve just sent a very curated, very intimate, very jingling photo of yourself to Lee fucking Haechan—your brother’s best friend. Eternal nuisance. Long-time gremlin. The boy who once told your crush that you still slept with a stuffed animal named Mr. Toast when you were fifteen.
The phone buzzes in your hand.
Haechan: holy. shit.
Haechan: is this what you’re wearing to dinner tomorrow or…?
Your mother's voice becomes white noise as you watch those messages appear. The phone nearly slips from your suddenly nerveless fingers.
"—and don't forget the wine, the Pinot Grigio not the Sauvignon Blanc, you know how your father gets about—"
"Mom, I have to go," you interrupt, voice strangled and hysterical. "Emergency."
"What emergency, dear—"
You hang up. She'll forgive you eventually, probably after three glasses of the wrong wine, but right now you have bigger problems. Catastrophically bigger problems.
You: THAT WASN'T FOR YOU
You: DELETE IT
You: DELETE IT RIGHT NOW
You: HAECHAN I SWEAR TO GOD
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Haechan: you know, when you said you were bringing dessert tomorrow
Haechan: i assumed you meant cookies or something
You're going to die. Actually, physically die. In your freezing apartment, still wearing the stupid lingerie.
You: it was meant for someone else
You: obviously
You: please just delete it and we never speak of this again
Haechan: someone else???
Haechan: so you’re just spreading holiday cheer randomly
Haechan: i'm devastated
Your apartment feels even colder now, or maybe that's just the mortification freezing you from the inside out. You scramble for your oversized sweater, yanking it over your head while trying to type one-handed.
You: this isn't funny
Haechan: it's a little funny
Haechan: do i say thank you? is this a secret santa thing?
You: how much
Haechan: ?
You: how much money to pretend this never happened
You: name your price
You can practically see him in his apartment, probably sprawled on his sofa in those ratty joggers he refuses to throw away, grinning at his phone in glory.
Haechan: bold of you to assume i can be bought
Haechan: but also
Haechan: 50 dollars
You: done
Haechan: per day
You: WHAT
Haechan: do you want my silence or not
Haechan: this is premium blackmail material
Haechan: i could dine out on this story for years
You pull the sweater down properly, the wool scratching against your skin where the lace still sits underneath. He's literally coming to your parents' house tomorrow for Christmas. You'll have to sit across from him at dinner, pass him the potatoes, pretend everything's normal while he knows exactly what you look like under your ugly sweater.
Haechan: although i'm curious
Haechan: who's the lucky recipient supposed to be
Haechan: anyone i know?
You: none of your business
Haechan: it literally became my business
Haechan: when you made it my business
Your phone starts ringing. His contact photo fills the screen with that stupid selfie he'd taken with your phone on Mark’s birthday last year, mouth full of roast potato, eyes crossed. You'd never bothered to change it.
You decline the call.
He rings again immediately.
"What," you answer through gritted teeth, pulling your knees up to your chest, trying to conserve what little body heat you have left.
"You sound cold," is the first thing he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice.
"My heating's broken."
"Again? Y/N, it's literally freezing."
"Yes, well, I've had other concerns tonight."
He laughs and you can tell he’s delighted by the sounds of it. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all year."
"I'm so glad my humiliation brings you joy."
"I wouldn’t call it humiliation," he says. "More like... revelation."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that I didn't know you owned anything that wasn't either stolen from your brother or three sizes too big."
You pull the sweater over your knees. "I contain multitudes."
"Clearly." There's a rustling on his end, like he's shifting position. "So who's the guy?"
"I told you it's none of your business."
"Come on, I'm going to find out anyway. Your mom tells me everything."
He's right, which is infuriating. Your mother treats Haechan like the son she never had, even though she literally has two sons already.
"It's just someone from class," you mumble.
"That Jino guy? The one who looks like he irons his underwear?"
"No." You lie. Another con from knowing Haechan for that long is that he knows most of your situationships.
"Thank god. I was concerned about your taste."
"My taste is fine."
"Debatable, considering you just sent me—"
"That was an accident!"
"A fortunate one," he says.
You're about to respond when your phone buzzes with another message. For one horrible moment you think it's Jeno, somehow cosmically aware of your failure, but it's worse.
Mum: Did you hang up on me?
Mum: Haechan says he'll pick you up tomorrow since the buses aren't running
Mum: So helpful, that boy
"Did you just text my mother?" you accuse.
"She texted me first. Apparently you're being difficult about the wine."
"I hung up because I was having a crisis!"
"Past tense? Crisis over?"
You look down at yourself in the giant sweater, exposed legs slowly turning blue, hair probably resembling something from a horror film. "No, it's very much ongoing."
"Want me to come over?"
The question catches you off guard. "What?"
"Your heating's broken, it's Christmas Eve, and you sound pathetic. I'll bring mulled wine."
"Absolutely not."
"I'll even delete the photo."
You pause. "Really?"
"I don’t know, but you can try to convince me."
"I hate you." You groan.
"I know," he says, and you can hear keys jingling on his end. "See you in twenty."
"Haechan, no—"
He hangs up.
You gape at your phone in disbelief. This night has already careened so far off the rails that him showing up feels almost inevitable.
You look around your freezing apartment, at the poorly decorated tree leaning precariously in the corner, at the mountain of unwrapped presents for tomorrow, at yourself in your ridiculous combination of grandma sweater and inadvertent festive lingerie.
Your phone buzzes once more.
Haechan: might want to put on some pants before i get there
You pad to your bedroom, feet freezing on the hardwood floors, and catch sight of yourself in the mirror. The sweater hits mid-thigh, the red lace barely visible underneath, and your face has a flush that comes from both the cold and mortification.
The bells jingle mockingly as you search for pants.
You manage to find a pair of shorts and yank them on just as your doorbell rings. The man has never been on time for anything in his life except, apparently, your personal disasters.
You check the peephole and immediately groan. He’s standing there in a perfectly tailored coat, scarf knotted at his throat, holding what looks like two bottles of wine and a carrier bag, looking infuriatingly put-together for someone who just invited himself over at half nine on Christmas Eve. There’s a glint in his eye that you recognize all too well. He’s about to make your life miserable.
“I can see your shadow under the door,” he calls. “Just let me in before your neighbors think I’m casing the place.”
You open the door, and he breezes past you, bringing a swirl of cold air and the scent of cinnamon and clove. He sets everything on your counter, shakes snow from his hair and surveys your living room.
“Christ, it’s colder in here than outside,” he says, setting down the wine. “How are you not dead?”
“Layers,” you mutter, though the truth is you’ve barely stopped shivering since your little photo shoot. He starts unpacking his bag: two bottles of red, a battered thermos emanating the smell of mulled wine, a packet of mince pies, and—
“Is that a space heater?”
“Borrowed it from my next door neighbor.” He’s already crouched by the outlet, plugging it in and aiming it at the sofa. “He has his girlfriend over, so he won’t need this.”
You roll your eyes at his suggestive tone.
“Plus he felt bad when I told him about your situation.”
“You told him?”
“Relax, I meant your heating situation. Not your…” He glances at you, eyes skimming a bit too long over your form, “…other situation.”
You tug your sweater lower, warmth prickling up your chest for a different reason now. “Stop saying situation.”
“Would you prefer predicament? Circumstance? Mistake?”
“I’d prefer you forget it ever happened.”
He fiddles with the heater settings, then stands and looks at you.
“Bit difficult, that,” he says.
“Why?”
He turns away, busying himself with the wine. “Because in all the years I’ve known you, that’s the first time you’ve ever texted me something that wasn’t a complaint or a threat.”
“That’s not—” You cut yourself off, frowning. “... True.”
He grins, handing you a mug which you take with a scowl.
“Come on. You’re shivering over there.” He sits, patting the spot beside him.
You hesitate, but the heater and the wine conspire against your self-control, and you find yourself sitting next to him, careful to keep a gap. You wrap your hands around the mug, breathing in the spiced steam as the heat seeps into your frozen fingers.
“So,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Want to see something funny?”
“If it’s the photo—”
“No.” He scrolls. “It’s Jino—”
“Jeno”
“—whatever. His Instagram.” He tilts the screen your way. Row after row of gym selfies, every caption worse than the last.
“‘Grind never stops,’” you read, making a face. “‘Discipline is my love language.’ Oh my god.”
“That’s who you were sending nu—” he gestures, one eyebrow raised.
“Festive greetings. Shut up.”
He grins, holding the phone just out of reach when you lunge. “‘Muscles are built in the kitchen’? Come on, Y/N.”
“He’s nice!”
“He refers to himself as an alpha unironically.”
“How do you even—” You scramble closer, grabbing for the phone, nearly spilling your wine. The movement makes the bells under your sweater jingle faintly, and you freeze, feeling a flush creep up your neck.
“You're still wearing it?” His voice drops half an octave.
You freeze, caught like a goddamn rabbit under a hawk’s shadow. “I forgot it was there,” you lie.
He lets out a soft laugh. Not his usual smug, shit-eating grin. Darker.
“Yeah?” he says. “You forgot you’re sitting next to me in fucking lingerie?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. There was nothing to say.
He says nothing either, elbow on the back of the sofa, wine in one hand, and staring intently. His eyes drag across your face, your flushed cheeks, down to where your sweater bunches at your thighs, as if he could see the garter strap underneath. Like he remembered exactly what was in that photo, and now he was imagining it all over again—except this time, two feet away.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair and looking away.
You want to make a joke, deflect, do anything besides sit there.
“Stop,” you say quietly, when he tilts his head and opens his mouth again. “Don’t make this into something.”
“Make what into something?” he asks, far too innocent.
“This. The... situation.”
His smile is sharp. “You mean the one you told me to stop saying out loud?”
You put your mug down before your hands could betray how hard they were shaking. “Yes.”
He glances at your knees. Then at your fucking sweater again, and the way you were pulling it lower, as if it could somehow shield you from how naked the air between you had become.
“Okay,” he says, sitting up, setting his own wine down. “Let’s not make it into something. Let’s just sit here, like we’re normal people, sharing some warm wine by a borrowed space heater. Let’s not talk about the fact that you’re wearing lingerie underneath that. Let’s pretend I didn’t spend the entire ride here wondering what the fuck I was walking into.”
You swallow. “You came over to make sure I didn’t embarrass myself further.”
He smiles.
“No,” he says. “I came over because I couldn’t stop picturing it. Because every time I blinked, it was just you, in that red fucking lace.”
A silent gasp leaves your parted lips. What’s with the sudden tension? Why is he saying these things?
“And then I get here,” he continues, “and you open the door like nothing and you’ve got this little sweater on, acting all flustered and innocent. Meanwhile—” his eyes drop again, “—you’re jingling every time you move. Teasing me.”
“Stop,” you say. Your voice doesn’t sound like your own.
“Why?” he asks, leaning forward now, elbows on knees. “You don’t want to talk about it? Fine. But I’m losing my goddamn mind, and you're pretending this is some kind of accident.”
“It was.”
“You didn’t take that picture by accident. You didn’t pick out that set by accident. You didn’t forget to change.”
Haechan's gaze sharpens, pinning you in place as he leans back against the cushions. His eyes flick downward, catching the subtle movement under your sweater, and a smirk curled his lips.
The wine buzzes in your head, turning his words from mortifying to... intriguing. You feel a spark of defiance ignite, the alcohol stripping away your usual hesitation. Instead of shrinking, you meet his stare, tilting your chin up just a fraction. “What if I didn't forget,” you say, your voice steadier than you expected. You uncross your legs, letting the bells chime once more. You watch as his smirk falters for a split second, his pupils dilating.
Before you realize, he’s shifting closer until his knee presses against yours, the heat of his body radiates through his jeans. “Oh yeah?” Haechan's tone dips lower, teasing, turning predatory as his fingers brush the hem of your sweater, tracing the edge where it meets your thigh.
“So you sent me that photo on purpose, so I could what? Imagine peeling it off you all night?” His thumb grazed the skin just above your knee, circling slowly, sending sparks up your leg.
Emboldened by the alcohol’s warmth spreading through you, you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean in a little, your hand resting on his thigh, fingers pressing into the firm muscle there.
“Maybe” you whisper, the alcohol making your inhibitions dissolve like sugar in hot liquid. You can feel the dampness building between your folds, the thong growing slick as his words paint vivid pictures in your mind.
Haechan's eyes darken, his free hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering at the nape of your neck.
“Then you're playing a dangerous game.” His breath is warm against your skin as he leans closer. He tugs gently at the collar of your sweater, exposing the strap of your bra, the lace edge peeking out.
The heater drones, the bells jingle, and for a suspended, ridiculous instant you register every outrageous detail at once: Haechan’s palm splayed hot over your ribcage, the hiss of his breath against your sternum, him moving to kneel between your legs.
“Wanna play Monopoly instead then?” you blurt, because your default coping mechanism is apparently panicked jokes while half-naked.
He huffs a laugh against your skin, mouth still hovering indecent inches from your bra. “Pretty sure you I’d bankrupt you in ten moves.” His thumbs stroke slow circles over the lace, coaxing goose-bumps you feel all the way down to your calves. “And I’m more of a chess man anyway. I like long games.”
Long games. Wonderful.
You plant a shaky hand on his shoulder and manage a breathy, “You’re terrible at chess. You always forget the knights move in L-shapes.”
“Correction.” He kisses the edge of the bra, voice muffled. “I know exactly how the knights move. I just prefer a—” another kiss, lower, “—more aggressive opening.”
God. “Aggressive openings are u-unnecessary.”
“I can be patient.” He nips your sternum lightly, then leans back just far enough that cool air hits the damp spot his mouth left behind. “Though my patience has limits.”
You intend to reply but the sight of him kneeling between your knees steals the alphabet from your tongue. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown, but there’s wicked amusement still glinting at the edges.
He runs a fingertip down the center of your stomach, like marking squares on a board. “Here’s the thing… Every time these bells go off”—he flicks one, soft chime echoing—“I’m picturing exactly how you looked in that photo. Except now you’re warm under my hands”
“That’s… not helping,” you manage, hips tipping forward of their own accord. The bell rings again and he hums approval deep in his chest, as if the sound feeds him.
“Wasn’t trying to.” He nudges your knees wider, the gesture almost gentlemanly, except for the promise simmering beneath. “But since you’re so invested in fair play—”
He slips his free hand behind his neck, drags his scarf loose, then shrugs the coat off with theatrical slowness. Button by button, layer by layer, until the sofa swallows the fabric and he’s stripped to a black T-shirt that clings to lean muscle. You swallow. Hard.
“Your move,” he murmurs. “Want me to stop?”
It’s a genuine offer, a clear exit, but you can’t drag your gaze from the vein flexing in his forearm, can’t ignore the ache blooming low every time your garter shifts.
Instead of answering, you hook your fingers under the hem of your sweater and tug. Cool air kisses your ribcage, then warmer air, then Haechan’s stare, molten and adoring all at once. His lips part on a silent expletive.
“Shit—” He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Definitely a dangerous game.”
He stares at the red lace hugging your breasts, squishing them together so deliciously they seem about ready to burst from the confinement. The sight is a million times better than in the picture.
He leans in again, one palm settling on your knee, sliding upward with delicious inevitability.
“I thought you were a skilled player, show me then.” You breathe, and if he was restraining himself before, the words shred the leash.
He’s on you in a second, mouth reclaiming your lips, tongue tracing the seam until you open willingly, hungrily. His other hand skates up your spine, pushing you closer to him.
When he pulls back, both of you are gasping. “You realize,” he says, thumb brushing your kiss-swollen bottom lip, “there’s no walking this back.”
You catch the thumb with your teeth, bite just hard enough to watch his eyes flare. “Then let’s walk it forward.”
His laugh is low, reverent, almost incredulous. “Forward it is.”
He coaxes you onto your back, clothes discarded beside the lingerie, bells chiming faint approval.
“These bells,” he murmurs, thumb dragging against your skin, “are ridiculous.”
Your hand slides up his thigh, brushing the growing bulge in his jeans. “Don’t act like you don’t like them now.”
He inhales sharply, and his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek like he’s fighting a smile.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growls, voice rough with desire. “Keep that up, and I won't be able to stop at just teasing.” He hooks a finger under the garter, snapping it lightly against your skin.
You press your palm flat against his erection, feeling it twitch under the denim. “Who said I want you to stop?” you shoot back, your words slurring just a touch from the alcohol, but laced with intent.
The bells jingle as you move closer, your free hand tugging at his shirt to pull him toward you.
Haechan's control cracks then. He captures your mouth in a fierce kiss again, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours, tasting of spiced wine.
His hand delves under your sweater, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then up to cup your breast through the lace bra, thumb rolling over your hardening nipple.
You moan into his mouth, arching into his touch. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your neck and nips at the sensitive skin while his other hand plays with the garter belt and the bells that dangle teasingly.
“These are fucking distracting,” he murmurs against your collarbone, his fingers plucking at one bell, making it ring out as he kisses lower, his mouth hovering over the swell of your breast. He tugs the bra cup down, latching onto your nipple with a wet suck that draws a sharp cry from you.
Your hands fumble with his belt. Boldness surges as you pop the button on his jeans and slide your hand inside to wrap around his thickening cock. He feels hot and hard in your grip, the veins pulsing under your fingers. You stroke him slowly, matching the rhythm of his mouth on your breast.
“Shit, yes,” Haechan groans, his hips bucking into your hand. He releases your nipple with a pop, his eyes locking on yours, wild and intense. “You're full of surprises tonight. That wine’s turning my good girl into a tease.”
He pushes you back against the sofa cushions, his body covering yours as he kisses you again, deeper this time, his fingers slipping between your thighs. They brush the edge of your thong, finding the soaked lace clinging to your core.
“So fucking wet already,” he teases, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the fabric. You grind against his hand, feeling bolder still, your free hand tangling in his hair to pull him closer.
“More,” you demand breathily, the wine stripping away any shyness. Haechan chuckles darkly, slipping the thong aside to trace your slick folds with two fingers, spreading your wetness without entering you yet.
He teases your entrance, while his thumb presses firmly on your clit, building the pressure until your thighs quiver. The bells ring out in a frantic melody as you writhe, your strokes on his cock growing faster.
He captures your wrist gently, pulling your hand away just enough to shed his shirt, revealing the lean muscles of his chest. Then he kneels between your legs again, hooking his fingers on the edges of the thong and pulling it properly to the side.
“Let's hear those bells one more time,” he says with a wicked grin, positioning you so your legs drape over his shoulders. His mouth descends, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit in long strokes, while his hands grip your ass, thumbs parting your cheeks slightly for better access.
You cry out, nails digging into the sofa, feeling every wet slide of his tongue, every suck that makes you clench around him. He delves lower, tongue thrusting into your entrance, fucking you with it shallowly as his nose bumps your clit. The tension coils tighter, your boldness shining through as you rock against his face.
“Haechan… don’t stop,” you gasp, one hand reaching down to tangle in his hair.
He growls in approval, the vibration sending jolts through you. Rising up, he frees his cock fully, stroking it once as he lines up with your dripping pussy. “You want this? All of me?” he asks, rubbing the head along your folds, coating himself in your arousal, prolonging the tease.
“Yes, please!” you urge, guiding him in with your hips.
He thrusts forward slowly at first, inch by inch, stretching you until he bottoms out, both of you groaning at the fullness. He pauses there, his hips flush against yours, letting you adjust to the thick length.
His eyes lock on yours, dark and intense, as he rolls his hips in a slow circle, grinding against your inner walls and brushing your clit with his pubic bone.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he murmurs, voice rough, before pulling back almost all the way out, the drag of his cock against your sensitive spots making you whimper.
He slams back in with a sharp thrust, the impact jolting the sofa and setting the bells to a sharp chime. You arch up, meeting him, your hands clutching his shoulders as he finds a steady rhythm of deep, measured strokes that have him withdrawing to the tip before plunging back in.
The pace builds gradually, his hands sliding under your ass to lift you slightly, changing the angle so he hits that spot deeper inside you with every push. You moan loudly, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, urging him deeper. Sweat beads on his chest, glistening under the Christmas lights, and you can’t resist leaning up to lick a stripe across his collarbone, tasting the salt of him. He groans in response and speeds up, his thrusts turning harder, more insistent.
“Like that? Fuck, you take my cock so well,” he pants, one hand moving to pinch your nipple, rolling it between his fingers as he fucks into you relentlessly.
The coil in your belly tightens, pleasure sparking with each grind, but it still isn’t enough. You need more, the edge hovering just out of reach. You buck your hips up to meet his, clenching around him deliberately, drawing a hiss from his lips.
“God, yes—keep doing that,” he demands, shifting his weight to hook one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider. This new position lets him drive even deeper, his cock stretching you to the limit with every brutal snap of his hips.
The sofa creaks beneath you, the bells a constant, erotic soundtrack, and you feel the pressure building, layer by layer, as he alternates between fast, shallow pumps that tease your entrance and long, slow drags that fill you utterly.
Your breaths come in gasps, bodies slick and sliding together, the room filling with the obscene sounds of your coupling, the squelch of your pussy gripping him, his grunts mingling with your cries. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as he swallows your moans. Breaking away, he nips at your jaw, your neck, marking you with light bites while his free hand slips between your bodies to rub firm circles on your clit.
The dual sensation pushes you closer, your walls fluttering around his pistoning cock. “Haechan, I’m—fuck,” you whine, nails raking down his back and leaving red trails that make him thrust even harder in response.
He is close too—you can tell from the way his rhythm falters, his cock twitching inside you—but he is holding back, drawing it out, wanting to shatter you first.
“Come on, baby, let go for me,” he urges, voice strained, his fingers working your clit faster now, matching the relentless pace of his hips.
The bells chime wildly as your body tenses, the orgasm cresting slowly at first, then exploding in a rush that has you screaming his name. Your cunt clamps down hard, spasming in rhythmic pulses that milk his cock. Waves of ecstasy rip through you, making your vision blur and toes curl.
He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a final, deep thrust, his release flooding you in hot spurts. “Shit—yes,” he groans, body shuddering as he pumps through it, prolonging both your highs until he has nothing left.
Only then does he collapse beside you, both of you panting, chests heaving. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your thigh, and the bells are finally quiet.
You wake up to several immediate regrets:
1. Your muscles are screaming in an everything-hurts-and-I-know-exactly-why kind of way.
2. Haechan is humming "All I Want for Christmas Is You" in your kitchen way too cheerfully for someone responsible for your inability to sit cross-legged ever again.
3. The bells are still on your floor, glinting like mocking little ghosts of choices past.
"Stop that," you croak from the sofa, your voice demolished. Wrecked. A casualty of making sounds you didn't know you were capable of.
He appears in the doorway holding two mugs, wearing your "Grinch Don't Kill My Vibe" pajama pants that sit criminally low on his hips. "Morning, jingles."
"Do not."
"Bells."
"Haechan—"
"My little Christmas miracle." He's grinning now. "My festive angel. My—"
"I will throw this pillow at you."
"Didn't get enough violence last night?" He sets the mug down, dramatically rubbing his shoulder. "I think you bit me at one point."
You take a shirt from the floor (his shirt, you notice) and put it on, trying to look like someone who isn’t sore in muscles they didn't know existed. "I can't go to dinner. I'll die. I'll burst into flames at the door. My mother will take one look at me and know."
"Know what?"
"That I—that we—" You gesture helplessly between you.
"Had athletic, boundary-destroying sex that made you reconsider your stance on atheism?"
"I hate you."
"You really don't." He sips his coffee. "Your neighbors might, though. Pretty sure Mrs. Chen heard you calling me—"
You slap a hand over his mouth. He licks it. You shriek and wipe it on his chest.
"Also," he adds cheerfully, "I texted your mom. Told her we'd be late because you had a 'wardrobe emergency.'"
"A what?"
"Well, I couldn't say 'your daughter can't walk properly because I rearranged her spine,' could I?" He flops next to you on the sofa, bouncing once to make you wince. "Though technically, the emergency is that you're not wearing much of a wardrobe."
"HAECHAN."
Half an hour later, you’re sitting in his car, gripping the door handle like you're about to jump out at a red light. He's connected his phone to Bluetooth and is purposely playing "Jingle Bell Rock" at low volume.
"I will end you," you mutter.
"You already did. My back looks like I fought a tiger." He shows you a glimpse of the scratches behind his shoulder, looking far too proud. "How do I explain these? 'Oh, these? Y/N just really loves Christmas?'"
"Tell them you fell."
"Into what? A wood chipper?”
You didn’t dignify his attempt at a joke with a response, already feeling less than willing to express any kind of positive emotion in this supposed jolly day.
Truthfully, you were not upset at Haechan. You were upset with yourself for letting things get to this point, and even more for actually enjoying it to the point where you keep replaying every moment of it in your head.
Suddenly you’re pulling up at your parent’s driveway and Haechan is turning to you with dancing eyes. "Here we are! Ready?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” He leans closer. “Try not to make that face when your mother asks how we slept.”
"LALALA CAN'T HEAR YOU." You scramble out of the car.
Your mother opens the door before you reach it, and Haechan immediately transforms into the perfect guest.
"Mrs. Y/L/N! You look radiant! Is that a new apron?"
"Oh, Haechan, you charmer!" She's beaming, completely taken in. "Come in, come in!"
He follows you in, and as you pass, he whispers, "You're walking like a baby giraffe."
"And you're about to die," you hiss back.
Haechan has positioned himself directly across from you at the table, which was a mistake because now he's making eyes at you over the roast potatoes.
"So Haechan," your father starts, "how's work going?"
“Great, sir.” He keeps his voice spotless while rolling a green bean in gravy in the filthiest way imaginable. “Just got promoted.”
Your mother claps. “Y/N, did you know Haechan was promoted?”
“No,” you say flatly. “We don’t update each other on our lives. That would require me speaking to him voluntarily.”
"I don't like to brag," Haechan interrupts smoothly. "Y/N's been very supportive though. Very... hands-on with her support."
You kick him under the table. He catches your foot between his legs and holds it there.
"That's nice," your mother says. "You two have been getting along better lately."
Mark snorts into his wine. "Since when?"
"Oh, we're getting along great," Haechan agrees, running his thumb over your ankle. "Really found our rhythm, haven't we, Y/N?"
You're trying to pull your foot back but he's holding it hostage. "R--right. Yes."
"In fact," Haechan continues, now massaging your foot under the table while maintaining perfect eye contact with your father, the absolute sociopath, "just last night we were discussing how well we work together."
"You were?" Mark asks suspiciously.
"Yes," Haechan continues cheerfully, now eating mashed potatoes in a way that brings back vivid sense memories of his tongue doing things to you, "we had a very thorough discussion. Covered all the angles. Really got into it. Deep into it."
Your wine glass shakes as you set it down.
"Multiple positions," he adds thoughtfully. " I mean on the subject, different positions on the subject."
"What subject?" your father asks, bless his oblivious heart.
"Life," Haechan says philosophically. "Passion. The importance of... tension and release."
You stand so abruptly your chair screeches. "BATHROOM."
You’re standing by your mother’s frost-covered roses, pressing your cold fingers to your burning cheeks, trying to make sense of the last eighteen hours. The marks on your neck throb faintly. Your thighs still ache. And somewhere between last night and this morning, Lee Haechan has completely rewired your brain chemistry.
This is the same boy who put green food coloring in your shampoo and called you “Grinchey” two Christmases ago. Same one you’ve spent years cultivating a careful, sustained annoyance toward, like tending to a particularly bitter garden.
So why can’t you stop thinking about him?
“Plotting your escape?”
You jump. He’s standing there with two pieces of Christmas pudding, looking unfairly good in his stupid Christmas sweater, the one your mom bought him two years ago that he actually kept. You’d made fun of him for it then.
“Plotting your murder, actually.”
“Aw.” He holds out a plate. “Peace offering?”
You take it, careful not to let your fingers touch his. Can’t trust yourself anymore, apparently.
“What was all that ‘we found our rhythm’ crap?”
"We did, though." He takes a bite of pudding, considering. "We should try more next time."
You turn to glare at him, but he’s not looking at you with his usual teasing smirk. Instead, there’s something softer in his eyes that makes your stomach drop in a way that has nothing to do with last night’s activities.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing. Just…” He sets down his plate, runs a hand through his hair. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?”
“Have sex on my broken sofa? Weird kink, but okay.”
“Y/N.” The way he says your name makes you look back. “I’m being serious.”
“Since when are you serious?”
“Since you walked into your parents’ house freshman year wearing that ridiculous reindeer onesie and told me my haircut looked like a hedgehog had died on my head.”
You blink. “That was ages ago.”
“Four years, three months, and roughly two weeks.” He’s studying the frozen roses now, purposefully not looking at you. “But who’s counting.”
“Why… why do you even remember that?”
He tilts his head, looking faintly amused at your confusion. “Why do you think?”
“…You’ve liked me since then…”
“Liked is a generous word for what I felt when you were being a pain in my ass.” He finally looks at you, and that vulnerability is back, the one that makes him look younger.
“But— but the girls you’ve dated are so different. I mean I’m not your type at all.”
“God you are so blind.” He chuckles incredulously.
Suddenly, you’re thinking about all the moments you’d dismissed. How he always brought your favorite snacks. How he remembered how you take your coffee and always made it better than anyone else. How he terrorized every guy you dated but played it off as "brotherly" concern.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “You’re in love with me.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, trying for casual but failing entirely. “Surprise?”
“You’re in love with me and you let me send you that photo—”
“I mean it was an accident.”
“—and you came over and you brought wine and you fixed my heating—”
“Technically, I didn’t fix your heating—”
“—and then you fucked me on my sofa knowing you’ve been in love with me for FOUR YEARS?”
He winces. “When you put it like that, it sounds weird.”
“It sounds insane!” You’re pacing now, the pudding forgotten. “Who does that? Who just… sits on feelings for four years?”
“Someone whose best friend would murder them for touching his sister?” He catches your hand, stops your pacing. “Someone who was terrified of ruining the only excuse he had to see you? Someone who was willing to take whatever he could get, even if it was just annoying you at Christmas dinners?”
You stare at him. Past the jokes and the smugness and the playful torture. There’s Haechan, who drove over at 9 PM on Christmas Eve because your heating was broken. Who made sure you were warm and safe and… oh.
“I think I have feelings for you too,” you say, and it comes out accusatory. “Which is frankly inconvenient.”
His whole face changes. “Yeah?”
“I mean, I hated you twelve hours ago.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I strongly disliked you.”
“I don’t even think you believe that.”
“I…” You think about last night, how easy it was to let him in, how right it felt when he kissed you, how you’d wanted him to stay even after the sex. “You’re annoying and insufferable and you eat all my good snacks and—”
He kisses you, cutting off your spiral. Which you were secretly glad for because you were starting to miss his lips when they weren’t on yours. What the hell was happening?
“And?” he prompts against your lips.
“And I can’t stop thinking about you,” you admit. “Last night was… but even before that, you were everywhere. In my head. Under my skin. It’s extremely annoying.”
“Oh no,” he grins, “are you admitting you love me back?”
“I’m admitting you’re less horrible than anticipated.”
“Practically a declaration of love from you.” He pulls you closer, and you realize you’re not cold anymore. Haven’t been since he came outside.
"By the way, I still have your underwear in my bag."
"WHAT—"
He pulls back just enough to see your face. "Mark asked if I had a cat toy in there because of all the jingling."
"I'm taking everything I said back. And moving to Antarctica. I’m gonna be a penguin scientist."
"Penguins mate for life, you know."
"Not the kind I'll study. Mine will be commitment-phobic penguins."
He laughs softly and kisses you again. Soft and sure and nothing like last night's desperate heat. This is a promise kiss. A Sunday morning kiss. A forty-years-from-now kiss.
"Your family's taking bets," he murmurs against your lips, "on how long before we admit we're together. Your dad has Valentine's Day. Your mom's betting on New Year's. Mark, pessimistically, has next Christmas."
"And you?"
He grins, that playful grin that started this whole mess. "Oh, I already won."
"How?"
"Bet on Christmas Eve." He kisses you again softly. "I always had good timing."
From inside, Mark's voice carries: "ARE THEY KISSING?"
Your mother's response: "Leave them alone, they're having a moment!"
"WE'RE NOT HAVING A MOMENT," you shout back.
"Speak for yourself, jingles" He says loudly, "WE'RE HAVING A VERY EMOTIONAL MOMENT!"
"I swear to god—"
"Come on." He tugs you toward the house, fingers laced with yours. "Let's go inside before you freeze. Can't have you catching cold before our New Year's plans."
"We don't have New Year's plans."
"We do now. You, me, and the bells."
"I'm burning those bells."
"Please don't. They're sentimental to me now."
You let him pull you back into the warmth, where your family is pretending very badly not to stare, where Mark looks like he needs several shots of whiskey, where your mother is already planning what is clearly a wedding in her head.
You understand with perfect clarity that you're completely fucked. You're going to fall stupidly in love with Lee Haechan. Probably already have.
thank you for reading! any feedback is greatly appreciated! <3
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: in the snowbound kingdom of esclavia, you’re forced forced into a political engagement while your heart belongs to your sworn bodyguard, sir park sunghoon. as winter deepens and court intrigue thickens, your forbidden love grows in the palace’s shadows. when the solstice feast arrives, you must choose between duty and the knight willing to burn the world for you.
𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: oral (f receiving, m receiving), rough sex, public risk, power play, bodyguard/princess dynamic, deep creampie, begging, possession/ownership kink, hand over mouth, choking, spit, thigh riding, face-sitting, dirty talk, nipple play, dom/sub undertones, marking/biting, manhandling, rough handling of clothes/gowns, sex in carriages/against palace walls/in bed, unprotected sex, breeding kink, cumplay, overstimulation, praise, mild degradation, orgasm control, cockwarming, begging/crying, explicit language, praise kink, sexual worship, mild pain play, biting/bruising, size kink, aftercare, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy, references to children/family, possessiveness, explicit body worship, exhibitionism (carriage sex), strong consent/communication, heavy winter/seasonal metaphors, emotionally charged smut, canon-typical violence references, themes of power and protection.
The Kingdom of Esclavia sits nestled on the edge of the world, hemmed in by ancient, pine-choked mountains and the glittering braid of the Lysande River. Its capital, Olyth, rises from the banks like a secret kept too long: slate rooftops dusted with frost, winding stone lanes looping toward the heart of the city, and at its center, the royal palace, high-walled, pale as bone, with turrets piercing the steely winter sky. The court of House Valestria has ruled these lands for centuries, each monarch marked by blood, sacrifice, and duty to the crown. Now, as the days shorten and the world hushes beneath new snow, the castle thrums with anticipation for the Feast of the Solstice, the year’s most lavish and dangerous celebration.
Within these ramparts, your inheritance is drawn with ink and blade. As Princess Y/N Valestria, eldest daughter and jewel of the realm, you bear the burden of a kingdom’s expectations as heavily as the velvet and pearls stitched into your ceremonial gown. You are promised, body, heart, and future, to Prince Heeseung of Arsteyn, a distant sovereign you have never met. Around you, the air shimmers with political machination: vassals jockey for position, advisors whisper in cold alcoves, and your mother, the Queen, presses tradition like a knife against your throat. Yet beneath the pageantry, rumor festers, affairs, betrayals, and the quiet, desperate rebellion of those trapped by their own names.
The palace is a place of secrets, all gilt edges and hidden doors. Between the feast halls and the shadowed chapel, behind snow-banked terraces and gallery windows lit by beeswax tapers, a hundred stories spin through the corridors, tales of clandestine lovers, vanished handmaidens, royal indiscretions paid for in silence or blood. The order of the Solstice demands spectacle, but beneath each ritual lingers the threat of ruin. For every guest in the great hall, another lurks behind screens or tapestries, hungry for a slip, a secret, a hint of weakness in the gilded chain.
Winter rules here, not merely as a season but as an inheritance: a presence stamped into every flagstone, every page of scripture, every brittle breath beneath the crown’s weight. Frost silvers the rose gardens until each petal shatters at a touch. Snow presses against the leaded glass, muffling the distant bells. In Esclavia, Christmas is not merely holy, it’s a reckoning. The royal family leads midnight vigils and gifts bread to the poor, but behind closed doors, you make offerings to older gods, lighting candles for protection, for passion, for survival through the darkest night. Each solstice, the palace dresses itself in green and gold, but the shadows beneath the garlands grow longer, as if the darkness, once welcomed, never truly leaves.
The palace is alive with the low hum of anticipation, the hush before a storm. Candlelight glimmers off silvered mirrors as your ladies lace you into a gown the color of dusk, every ribbon drawn tight across your ribs until your breath comes shallow and practiced. Your mother is there, a constant presence in the periphery, correcting a slip in your posture, smoothing the sleeves at your wrists. “Keep your chin up, Y/N. A lowered gaze is weakness. The court will sense it.” She stands behind you as you face the glass, her eyes searching your reflection for flaws that cannot be seen, only imagined, every hesitation a risk, every gesture a cipher to be read by a hundred watching eyes. She tucks a stray lock behind your ear, her hands cold but careful, the weight of the Valestria sapphires settling at your throat. “You are your father’s daughter,” she says, almost wistful, “and tonight you must show them how our line endures.”
You glance away from your reflection, heart pounding beneath the corseted bodice, and let the question spill out, low and bitter as wine gone sour. “Is it true, then? That he will be here tonight, Prince Heeseung of Arsteyn?”
Your mother’s hands still for a heartbeat before resuming their steady ministrations. “He arrived this morning with his retinue,” she replies, the words shaped by duty rather than hope. “He will watch you from the dais, and every noble in this hall will be measuring your worth against his. His father demands strength in his future queen. Show him only what you choose to give.” There is a pause where your voices hover between accusation and comfort, the air thick with the unspoken grief of mothers and daughters who have never been permitted to dream. “He is not a cruel man, Y/N. Nor, I think, an easy one. But kingdoms do not marry for kindness.”
You meet her eyes in the glass, searching for a crack in her composure, some trace of the girl she once was beneath the steel and velvet. “What if I fail him? What if I fail you?”
Your mother shakes her head, fingertips brushing your cheek, her gaze unexpectedly soft. “You will not fail. You will endure, as Valestrias always have.” She draws a breath, letting it out in a cloud that ghosts between you. “You may never love him, nor he you. But you will have power, if you are clever. Even a queen can keep secrets, if she learns to listen before she speaks.” A hush falls as the chamber doors open beyond the wardrobe, a maid beckoning you to the candlelit corridors. “Tonight is only the beginning, my heart. Remember who you are when you stand before him.” As you leave your mother’s side, the echo of her words rings in your bones, hope and warning braided together, urging you onward into the heart of winter.
The press of your gown is at once suffocating and electrifying, corseted velvet pulled tight at your waist and ribs, every breath measured and precious. Sapphires as blue as midnight rest at the hollow of your throat, heavy and cold, linked by silver filigree so fine it leaves a faint impression on your skin. Your sleeves are embroidered with frost-pale silk thread, curling over your wrists like frozen vines, while pearls cluster at your elbows, glimmering with every move. The perfumed warmth of the room is dense and heady; candles flare in every sconce, painting the air gold and melting the sharp scent of pine and wax into something tender, like the memory of a safer season. Outside, the world is ice and wind, but here, in your private chambers, winter cannot touch you.
You sit before your mirror as the palace stirs to life, footsteps echoing on distant marble, the laughter of maids and the clatter of serving trays beneath your window. There’s a hush of anticipation threaded through it all, a collective holding of breath as musicians in the distant galleries begin to tune their instruments. The low hum of strings and the faint call of a horn drift up through the corridors, growing more insistent as the hour draws near. It’s the sound of a kingdom preparing to watch you, your debut not as a child of the palace, but as a future queen, your destiny sealed beneath a thousand scrutinizing eyes.
Behind you, your siblings tumble in, a burst of warmth and color and irrepressible life. Your younger sister, Haneul, wraps herself around your arm, her hair in wild plaits and her dress askew, always laughing, forever conspiratorial. “You look like the Ice Queen herself,” she teases, pinching your cheek, but her voice is reverent, eyes wide with admiration. Beside her, your brother Minjae is solemn and scholarly even at twelve, his spectacles askew, hands clasped behind his back as he lists every royal protocol you’re sure to forget, his nervousness disguised as helpfulness. The youngest, little Soobin, toddles across the carpet clutching your old wooden horse, cheeks pink from sleep, a dimpled grin lighting his face as you scoop him onto your lap, careful not to muss your dress. In these small moments, you’re not the kingdom’s offering, but their beloved sister, adored for the way you sneak honey cakes after midnight and hide in the gardens when lessons grow too dull.
The staff adore you for this, too. Your laughter carries through the corridors like a promise, and there’s not a maid or page who doesn’t smile to see you. Eunji, the chief maid, tucks a flower behind your ear when no one is looking, whispering, “For luck, Your Highness.” The old cook, Mr. Han, winks as he passes, flour dusting his sleeves, always saving the sugared walnuts just for you. Even the palace guards nod with quiet pride, sharing stories of your childhood bravery, your habit of tending scraped knees and lost kittens as if they were treasures. The palace is built on rituals and rules, but within its walls, you’re loved, not simply for your title, but for the brightness you bring to each dark winter.
Among the nobility, you’re a curiosity and a favorite, cherished for your wit, your refusal to let court etiquette dull your kindness. Countesses petition for your presence at tea, old dukes grumble good-naturedly when you outsmart them at chess. Even visiting dignitaries speak of your charm, marveling at your ability to make every guest feel welcome, even as you study them in return, sharp as any court strategist. In the grand tapestry of royalty, you are the unexpected golden thread, a little unruly, perhaps, but undeniably beloved.
Yet as the hour strikes, the chamber doors swing open and you step into the corridor, a hush falling over the gathered household staff as you pass. Your heart pounds beneath layers of silk and lace, your painted reflection fading behind you, replaced by the awed faces of those who have known you since birth. There is a new weight on your shoulders now—the crown’s shadow, heavy and cold—and for a heartbeat, you wish you could freeze this moment, held by the warmth of your home and the laughter of your siblings, before the night can claim you.
And then, through the press of courtiers and the parade of jewels, your gaze is caught and anchored by a single, unwavering presence. Sir Park Sunghoon, your personal bodyguard, Commander of the Royal Guard, knighted for valor at an age when most are still learning to wield a sword, stands just beyond the archway, utterly still. His uniform is impeccable: deep navy velvet edged in black fox fur, the silver insignia of the Valestria crest blazing at his breast, sword buckled at his side, dark gloves folded behind his back. Tall and broad-shouldered, his posture radiates strength and alertness, the lamplight catching on his sharp jaw and the raven sweep of his hair. Even in a sea of finery, he’s unmistakable: not only for his bearing, but for the way he looks at you, as if there’s nothing else in the world worth guarding.
Your breath falters when your eyes meet, a spark leaping in the silence between you. Sunghoon’s gaze lingers, dark and unyielding, mouth set in that inscrutable line you have grown to recognize as both warning and promise. He bows his head, barely, a gesture meant for you alone, and your pulse hammers with the forbidden thrill of being truly seen. You remember, suddenly, every lesson about composure, every warning about the danger of being watched too closely, not by enemies, but by those sworn to protect you. Tonight, Sunghoon is not just your shadow, not just a sword at your side. Tonight, as the candles burn and the palace draws its first breath of winter, he’s the only one who dares to look at you not as a princess, but as something more, something no crown could ever possess.
Winter is never gentle in Esclavia. It comes early and stays late, a sovereign presence that reshapes the land and the people who survive it. Each snowfall is both a hardship and a hymn, a reminder that endurance is the oldest Esclavian virtue, that beauty can exist even in scarcity. The streets fill with drifts that grow chest-high, ice cracks across the river, and every roof in Olyth gleams beneath a crust of white. Yet with each storm, the city answers back: doors thrown open to neighbors, bonfires kindled in every square, and laughter echoing from behind shuttered windows. Christmas here is not just holy, it’s defiance, a promise that light returns even after the longest dark.
The season draws every citizen into ritual. On solstice eve, ancient bonfires roar in the city squares, their sparks leaping like omens into the velvet sky. Children sing carols with cracked, pink faces while elders pass mugs of spiced milk, recalling tales of winters survived and loves lost and found again. At midnight, the royal family leads a candlelit procession to the old chapel, hands joined, feet crunching through snow. Gifts are gathered all month for the poorest in the city: shoes, scarves, loaves of sweet bread. There it’s superstition whispered in every household that on the night when the sun is weakest, the oldest magic walks among them, blessings and curses riding the wind, destinies rewritten for those brave or desperate enough to ask. In these rituals, memory and hope are woven together, and each year’s Christmas feels at once new and impossibly old.
For the House of Valestria, winter is a stage where power must be performed, not merely felt. Every garland, every feast, every act of generosity is watched by the court and by envoys from distant lands. Alliances hinge on the palace’s ability to project stability and grace, on the Queen’s composure, on the princess’s charm, on the strength and unity displayed before guests who may one day be allies or rivals. Christmas in the palace is all silk and silver, toasts and treaties, with every smile and bow rehearsed until it becomes second nature. Yet beneath the polished veneer, everyone knows that one poorly chosen word or gesture could ripple out into war or ruin. The world is watching, and every flicker of candlelight feels like a spotlight.
For you, the season is tinged with bittersweet longing. You remember when Christmas was magic, a warm hush in the nursery, oranges in your stockings, your father lifting you high to hang the last golden apple on the tree. Now, as your name is whispered through ballrooms and your face appears on holiday medallions, the holiday feels both larger and lonelier. You see your reflection in the grand mirrors and think of the girl you were, wide-eyed, dreaming, unburdened by duty. Yet you hold fiercely to the things that keep your heart soft. You do more than attend ceremonies or smile from gilded balconies. On the mornings when snow buries the palace gates, you ride out wrapped in furs and visit the city’s orphanages, kneeling among the smallest children to hand out warm pastries and carved toys. You spend long afternoons in hospital wards, bringing violets to feverish children and reading stories to the elderly whose families have stopped visiting. On Christmas Eve, you move quietly through the poor districts, leaving baskets of coal, candles, and dried fruit at doors marked by hardship. You make sure every prison cell receives a letter of hope, every widow a basket of bread, every lonely soul a token to remind them they have not been forgotten.
You don’t choose only the young or the picturesque; you remember the forgotten men in the workhouses, the old seamstress who has outlived her children, the silent girls who watch celebrations through frost-bitten glass. On your instructions, the palace kitchens triple their bread-making, and you personally oversee the parceling of gifts, never letting your attendants rush you, always asking each recipient’s name, always listening to their stories. In these moments, with wind stinging your cheeks and strangers pressing your hands in gratitude, you reclaim a small piece of childhood wonder. You cannot choose your fate, nor the marriage that will shape your future, but you can choose how your kingdom remembers you, open-hearted, unafraid, determined to make the coldest season a little warmer for those most likely to be forgotten.
“Miss, your carriage is ready,” Sunghoon announces, his voice low and steady as velvet, slicing through the whirlwind of your thoughts with a clarity that pulls you back to the present. The world narrows to the space between you, his outstretched gloved hand an invitation and a command all at once. When you lift your gaze to meet him, the candlelight catches in his eyes, dark, fathomless, holding secrets you’re desperate to understand and warnings you don’t dare ignore. The sound of the crowd outside fades; there’s only the quickening beat of your own heart, the dizzying rush of anticipation, the cold edge of uncertainty threading through your veins. For a moment, nothing else matters, not the music drifting down the halls, not the weight of your gown or the crush of expectation, not even the promise of a prince waiting inside the ballroom. It’s just Sunghoon’s eyes on you, fierce and unwavering, and the thrill that maybe, in all this ceremony and chaos, someone truly sees you.
You settle into the velvet-lined carriage, the chill from the palace stones lingering in your bones despite the thick furs wrapped around your shoulders. Your hand finds Soobin’s, his fingers clumsy in their tiny gloves as he swings his legs excitedly, boots barely grazing the carriage floor. The city waits beyond the glass, all glittering torches and the shimmer of falling snow, and you catch your own reflection, flushed and wide-eyed, heart stuttering as the horses stamp impatiently. Soobin squeezes your hand, voice bright. “Look, the people are out for us!” he chirps, pressing his nose to the window, his laughter bubbling up so loud you’re certain the whole royal guard can hear.
You lean closer, brushing his hair with gentle fingers. “They’re out to see you, you know. I think you’re the real star tonight.”
Soobin grins, cheeks apple-red. “No way, everyone’s talking about you and the prince.” He waggles his brows, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Mama says you might get a kiss under the mistletoe.”
You stifle a smile, pinching his knee until he squirms. “Don’t listen to Mama’s stories. I’m here for the cakes and the music, just like you.” Soobin beams, unbothered by grandeur or duty, waving enthusiastically as the carriage passes crowds of bundled townsfolk, their cheers muffled by snow and distance.
Across from you, Sunghoon sits impossibly still, posture ramrod-straight in the flickering candlelight. The uniform hugs his frame, broad shoulders, chest rising and falling slow and steady, the silver crest at his breast catching every glow. His face is half-shadowed, chiseled and severe, a study in restraint. Only his eyes move, flicking from the snow-whitened streets to you and Soobin, the line of his jaw hard as stone. One gloved hand rests on the hilt of his sword, thumb tracing a familiar groove in the leather. There’s a steadiness to him, a gravity that settles over the whole carriage, like nothing could touch you while he’s near.
He speaks only when necessary, voice pitched low and respectful, never letting emotion crack through. “Is the carriage warm enough for you, Miss?” he asks, gaze darting to your lap, where Soobin now sits curled against your side.
You nod, biting back a thousand things you’ll never say in front of your brother, in front of the city, in front of the night. “It’s perfect, thank you, Sir Jeong.” Sunghoon’s lips twitch—almost a smile, but not quite—and you feel the heat rise beneath your skin.
Soobin watches this exchange with theatrical suspicion, whispering too loudly, “Why’s he so serious all the time? Do you think he ever smiles when you’re not looking?”
You laugh, ruffling Soobin’s hair, glancing at Sunghoon with a challenge you hope he reads. “He smiles when he thinks no one can see. Dragons don’t show their teeth unless they mean it.”
Sunghoon’s jaw tenses, but you see a flicker of something in his eyes, a silent promise, a secret offered in the hush of velvet and fur. For a heartbeat, you imagine what it would be to lean forward, close that space, press your palm to his cheek and feel him soften just for you. But the city is rolling past in a blur of light and sound, and the spell breaks before it can become anything more than wishful thinking.
The carriage rattles over cobblestones, the world outside turning soft and golden, torches flickering as townsfolk lift their lanterns and call out blessings. Inside, the air grows thick with expectation. Soobin babbles about the feast, demanding to know if there will be candied walnuts, if he can sneak extra slices of cake, if he’ll be allowed to stay up past midnight. You answer every question, voice gentle, even as your thoughts drift elsewhere, toward the ballroom, the prince, the marriage, and the weight of a kingdom pressed onto your shoulders. Through it all, Sunghoon sits silent, eyes unblinking, every muscle coiled as if waiting for some unseen danger to emerge.
You risk one last look at him before the carriage draws to a halt, the palace looming above you in a blaze of light. Sunghoon’s gaze is already there, steady, unwavering, a fortress built just for you. In that moment, with your brother’s laughter still ringing in your ears and the whole world watching, you understand what it means to be protected by someone who would burn the world for your safety. And as the carriage door opens and Sunghoon steps out first, every inch the untouchable guardian, you know tonight’s promises are only just beginning.
It’s impossible to look away from Sunghoon, the way his shoulders fill out the black velvet of his uniform, every line of muscle shaped by years of training, by nights spent in the bitter cold or the palace’s dim-lit halls. His jaw is hard and uncompromising, his mouth a line cut from steel, but there’s a wildness in his eyes that sends heat crawling up your neck. He stands between you and the rest of the world, as if he alone could shield you from everything hungry and sharp that waits beyond the torches. In the lamplight, he’s all edges and shadow, a living promise of violence, his body built for battle and restraint both. Your gaze catches on the veins in his forearms as his fingers flex against the hilt of his sword, a silent reminder of just how much force he holds back.
You know what the court whispers, how the nobles call him the palace dragon, half in jest and half in warning. They don’t know the truth: how he’s taken blades meant for you, bled in your stead, how his scars are old vows etched into flesh. There’s a legend in Esclavia that dragons guard the purest treasure, burning down entire kingdoms for what’s theirs, and sometimes you think Sunghoon is the last of them—coiled, lethal, unwilling to let anything touch what he claims as his own. You’ve seen him snap commands that bring grown men to heel, break a would-be assassin’s wrist with a flick of his hand, stand silent and unblinking when threats arrive dressed as suitors or smiling diplomats. He’s stoic, untouchable, a wall of muscle and will, but when his gaze lands on you, it feels like the world narrows to a single burning line.
There’s a thrill in knowing what lengths he’d go to, how he never sleeps when you’re ill, how he rides beside your carriage even through sleet and thunder, how he’s refused every honor that would take him further from your side. Tonight, his restraint is a knife’s edge; you sense it in the way he watches you, in the flicker of something raw and possessive every time your eyes meet. The candlelight sets his features ablaze, gold on the strong cut of his throat, shadow across the hollow where his collarbone disappears beneath stiff, immaculate cloth. You wonder if anyone else sees it, the way he burns, the way he belongs to you in every way that matters. For a heartbeat, the ballroom vanishes, the crowds and the crown and the palace with all its watchful eyes. There’s just you, your trembling breath, and the dragon who would raze the world before letting anyone else lay claim to your name.
For a fleeting moment, you wonder if Prince Heeseung is watching you even now, somewhere beyond the ballroom’s golden doors. You hope—desperately, foolishly—that your future husband will carry the same softness you’ve fought so hard to protect in yourself. You want him to believe in giving for the sake of it, to understand why you wake before dawn to bring bread to orphans, why you kneel in snow beside a stranger’s bedside, why you never let a Christmas pass without finding some small way to heal what the world leaves broken. You hope he’ll want a queen whose worth is measured not by her dowry or her smile but by how she spends her power, how fiercely she loves the forgotten. You hope, when the vows are spoken, he’ll see the shape of your heart in every act of mercy, every hand you reach for in the darkness of winter.
But in this room, under Sunghoon’s unflinching gaze, you feel the danger and longing tangled together, knowing he’s seen every secret kindness, every small rebellion, every moment you tried to soften the palace’s hard edges. There’s a yearning in you that wants more than alliance or treaty; you want to be chosen for who you are, not just what you can provide. For one reckless, aching second, you imagine a future where the man at your side is the one who understands the shape of your soul, someone as fierce in his devotion as he is gentle with the vulnerable, someone who would set the world alight to defend your kindness. You can’t let yourself hope for that, not with the kingdom’s eyes on you and duty drawing tighter with every breath, but tonight, beneath the palace’s watchful chandeliers, you can’t help but wish.
The palace’s grand entrance is awash with golden light, every torch and candelabra burning against the winter night as the carriage draws up to the steps. The cold slaps your cheeks when the door opens, but it’s quickly swallowed by the electric warmth of a hundred watching eyes. The hush that falls over the crowd is almost physical; your velvet gown is a river of blue and silver spilling down the steps, every crystal and sapphire shimmering like ice under the torchlight. Courtiers stand shoulder to shoulder, their silks rustling, jewels winking from the galleries above, and you can feel the weight of expectation pinning you in place. This is what you were trained for, shoulders back, chin high, the practiced smile but nothing ever prepares you for the moment the doors swing wide and the entire kingdom seems to inhale, waiting to see if you’ll rise or falter.
Your little brother squeezes your hand before he’s whisked away by a nursemaid, his parting grin lingering like a blessing. You take a careful breath, feeling every pair of eyes in the room slide over you: some full of hunger, some hope, others envy or calculation. Your gown feels impossibly heavy, trailing frost and promise behind you, the sapphires at your throat cold against your skin. Music trembles through the hall, strings and bells, something old and grand and you step forward, every move measured, every heartbeat echoing with the memory of Sunghoon’s unwavering gaze. Behind you, you can sense him, always present, always a fortress in the crowd.
It isn’t long before you’re surrounded: lords and ladies bow, countesses titter behind their fans, and the king’s advisor offers you a toast. Yet the room shifts as Prince Heeseung enters, announced with a fanfare and a sweep of velvet so dark it seems to swallow the candlelight. He moves through the crowd like a figure carved from legend, tall and immaculate, diamonds glittering at his cuffs, his crown subtle but impossible to ignore. The courtiers part for him; all conversation dies as he approaches. His eyes are cool, almost assessing, but his smile is sharp, a predator’s smile, used to being adored, used to getting what he wants.
He bows with precision, then takes your gloved hand in his own, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before leading you to the center of the floor. “You’re even more radiant than the portraits promised, Princess,” he says, voice smooth as cream but edged with calculation. The first chords of the waltz fill the room, and he draws you into the dance, every movement perfectly executed, every gesture a display meant for the watching world. “You must be aware of what this night means. Our families have planned this union for years. I trust you’ll find Arsteyn… accommodating.” His hand tightens ever so slightly at your waist, a claim, not an invitation.
You let the dance carry you, searching his eyes for softness, for curiosity, for anything beyond ambition and old money. Instead, you find a glittering emptiness, a hunger for acquisition. Heeseung speaks in the language of commerce and conquest: the size of his estates, the yield of his harvests, the influence of his treasury. He asks about your dowry, the strength of Esclavia’s alliances, how many balls you’ve attended, how well you ride and play the courtly games. When you try to steer the conversation toward your work with orphans or the winter rituals that mean so much to your people, he hums dismissively, barely disguising his boredom.
“I believe it’s best to leave charity to the clergy,” he says, voice polite but cool. “A queen’s duty is to secure lineage, strengthen the crown, and keep the palace bright. Sentiment is admirable, but it can’t fill the coffers or fortify the borders. You’ll have all the luxury you could wish for in Arsteyn. My court expects nothing less from a future queen.” The words land heavy, the implication clear: your heart, your hopes, the softness you hold as sacred are nothing more than decoration, easily replaced by gold and rule.
Your steps falter, just slightly, just enough for him to notice. His eyes narrow, his lips curve into the suggestion of a smile, but there’s nothing tender in it. “I see you have a mind for these things,” he murmurs, “but I assure you, the world is not changed by sentiment. It’s changed by power, and those who understand how to wield it.” The waltz spins you beneath the chandeliers, the faces of the court blurring at the edges, and for the first time you feel the true weight of what’s being asked of you: not just to stand beside him, but to become invisible within his world, to turn your soul into another trophy for his collection.
A strange chill threads through you, sharper than the winter wind outside. You think of the old stories, of queens who vanished behind their husbands’ crowns, of princesses who surrendered their names and dreams for the promise of safety. You think of Sunghoon watching from the shadows, fierce and steadfast, the only person in the room whose gaze holds any warmth, any real understanding of who you are. Prince Heeseung twirls you, a perfect display for the watching world, but your mind is already elsewhere, tracing every escape route, every remembered kindness, every lesson about the danger of being truly seen. For the first time all night, you wish the dance would end.
The waltz ends in a wash of applause and glittering smiles, the sound ringing too loud in your ears. Prince Heeseung releases you with a bow that feels rehearsed down to the angle of his spine, but his hand doesn’t leave your waist immediately. His fingers press through silk, deliberate, proprietary, as if testing how firmly you’re meant to stand beside him. When he looks at you now, there’s something sharper beneath the polish, a flicker of entitlement that makes your stomach tighten. “You dance well,” he says quietly, his voice pitched low so only you can hear, “which is fortunate. My court values elegance. Control.” His gaze drifts, not lewd, not overt, but assessing, measuring you the way one might assess land or livestock. “We’ll speak again tonight. I’d prefer privacy next time.” The words are smooth, almost courteous, but they leave a chill crawling under your skin.
Your breath catches, pulse skipping. You manage a smile because you were raised to, because the court is watching, because every second you hesitate becomes something to gossip over. “Of course,” you reply softly, though your throat feels tight, your palms damp beneath your gloves. He inclines his head, satisfied, already turning as if the matter is settled. The crowd presses in again, murmuring approval, but the air feels wrong now, too close, too warm. You excuse yourself with a hand to your temple, murmuring something about needing air, and before anyone can stop you, you slip through the edge of the ballroom, past towering columns and into the dimmer arteries of the palace.
The corridor beyond is colder, quieter, lined with pale stone and tall windows rimmed with frost. You brace one hand against the marble wall, the chill biting into your palm as you drag in a shaky breath. The music bleeds through the walls in a softened echo, distant laughter and clinking glasses reminding you that the world hasn’t paused just because something inside you has cracked. Your hands tremble now that no one’s watching. Anger coils low in your chest, tangled with disappointment, with a hollow ache you weren’t prepared for. You’d hoped, foolishly, maybe, that Prince Heeseung might understand the things that matter to you. The giving. The people. The quiet acts of kindness that feel heavier than gold. Instead, his words replay in your head like a verdict: Control. Elegance. Value. As if you’re something to be displayed, not felt.
You don’t hear footsteps at first. You sense him before you see him, the shift in the air, the way the corridor seems to settle. Sunghoon stands at the far end, half in shadow, posture unmistakable even in the low light. He hasn’t rushed you, hasn’t drawn attention, just appeared, like he always does, exactly when you need him. “Miss,” he says gently, formally, as if the word itself might steady you. “Are you unwell?” His voice is controlled, respectful, but his eyes are anything but distant. They track the tightness in your shoulders, the way you’re holding yourself together by sheer will.
You turn to face him, and something in you breaks just enough to let the truth show. “I’m fine,” you say, and then exhale sharply, the lie dissolving. “I’m not.” The words spill out softer than you mean them to. “He doesn’t see me. He sees what I represent. What I can give him.” Your laugh is quiet, brittle. “He spoke about me like I was already his. Like my thoughts, my work, my heart, none of it mattered.”
Sunghoon steps closer without thinking, stopping himself only when he’s a respectful distance away, fists clenched at his sides. His jaw tightens, something dark flickering behind his eyes. “That’s not how he should’ve spoken to you,” he says, carefully, because everything he says is with restraint, said with obedience. “You deserve more regard than that.”
The silence between you thickens, charged. Candlelight from a nearby sconce paints his face in gold and shadow, carving out the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the firm line of his mouth. He looks carved from stone like this, broad shoulders straining against the cut of his uniform, every inch of him disciplined, restrained, dangerous. You realize how close he is now, how the warmth of him bleeds into the cold air, how your breathing has synced to the steady rise and fall of his chest. “I should fetch the Queen,” he says quietly, duty asserting itself like a reflex. “She should know—”
“No,” you interrupt, turning toward him fully. “Please. Don’t.” Your voice wavers, vulnerable in a way you never allow yourself to be. “Just stay. I don’t want anyone else right now.” His breath stutters. For the first time, you see him hesitate, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants to too much.
“If I stay,” he murmurs, lowering his voice, “I won’t be able to pretend I feel nothing.” His eyes drop briefly to your mouth, then lift again, as if chastising himself. “And that isn’t my place.”
You step closer, the hem of your gown brushing his boots, your fingers hovering near his wrist. “I don’t need you to pretend,” you say softly. “I need you to be here.”
When your fingertips finally touch him, it’s barely there—a brush of skin against leather—but the reaction is immediate. His hand opens instinctively, fingers curling around yours, grounding, possessive, restrained only by will. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your knuckles, reverent. “I won’t let him make you feel small. Not tonight. Not ever.” The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, protective, intimate in a way no vow spoken aloud ever could.
You stand there together, bodies close enough to feel the heat, the pulse, the promise of something forbidden pressing in from all sides. His forehead dips closer to yours, breath warm against your cheek. For one dangerous moment, the palace fades, the crown, the court, the prince. There’s just this narrow corridor, the echo of your heart, the dragon standing between you and everything that would claim you without love. Then voices rise somewhere nearby, footsteps approaching, and reality crashes back in. Sunghoon straightens first, hand falling away with visible effort, control snapping back into place. You catch his wrist before he can retreat. “Stay with me,” you whisper. “Don’t leave me alone tonight.”
He holds your gaze for a long, aching second, then nods once. “As long as you need me, Miss,” he replies. And you know it’s the truest promise you’ve heard all evening.
You don’t look away from him, not for a second. Your breath catches, and you feel the hush of the winter night pressing in close around your private world, soft and fragile. “Lock the door,” you say, your voice steady and low, no room for hesitation. The air between you hums with new electricity, sharper and sweeter than before.
He blinks, his mouth parting in surprise, eyes wide and dark. “What, Miss?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe you’ve spoken the command out loud, as if the intimacy of the moment could possibly deepen.
You tilt your chin up, hand still pressed to his thigh, gaze never faltering. “I said, lock the door. You must listen to me now, Sunghoon.” The words settle over the space like velvet, soft and absolute.
He draws a slow, shaky breath, and something in his posture shifts, the quiet surrender of a knight laying down his sword at his lady’s feet. “Yes, Miss,” he answers, voice rough with longing and devotion. He stands and crosses the room, his footsteps silent on the carpet, the fire painting gold across his shoulders. You watch the strong line of his back, the tension in his hands as he slides the bolt home, the metallic click sealing you away from the world and the expectations that have pressed against you both all evening.
When he turns, the look in his eyes is only for you—hungry, reverent, and waiting for your next command, as if he knows the shape of every dream you’ve ever had. For the first time, you realize just how much power you hold in this room. And just how ready he is to give himself to you, to obey not as a servant, but as the man who has always watched, always wanted, always protected. The hush is absolute, the promise between you sharp as new ice, as inevitable as midnight snowfall outside your window.
The fire has burned low by the time the room settles into that tender, cloistered quiet, the kind that only comes when two people have stripped each other bare in every way that matters. Sunghoon sits close, his knee angled toward yours, forearm resting along the back of the settee, a barrier and an invitation all at once. Outside, the ton continues its endless, glossy swirl, all whispered judgments and polished masks, but here his attention never wavers from you. “They expect you to shine and bend at the same time,” he says quietly, voice steady and knowing. “To be beautiful, agreeable, untouchable. It’s a cruel game, Miss.”
You laugh softly, bitter and fond all at once, nodding because he’s right, because he’s always seen it so clearly. “They want women ornamental,” you reply, your fingers absently tracing the seam of his glove, “but obedient. Generous, but silent. Charitable, but never powerful.” His gaze sharpens with something like pride, like recognition of a secret you both share. There’s a warmth in his eyes that feels like shelter.
He shifts closer, so close now that his thigh presses into yours, grounding, deliberate, protective. “That’s why I watch,” he says simply. “The ton doesn’t get to take what it hasn’t earned.” There’s no bravado in it, no empty gallantry, just a quiet, unwavering certainty that makes your chest tighten. You find yourself telling him about Christmas mornings, about how you’ve always believed that giving should sting a little, that charity is only real when it costs you, when it’s anonymous. “Kindness loses its meaning when it’s performed for applause,” you say, voice low. His mouth curves, soft and real. “My mother used to say the same,” he murmurs. “If no one knows it was you, then it was pure.”
The conversation drifts easily, your values lining up like pieces of a puzzle. You talk about protecting the vulnerable, about how power should always lean downward, never press from above. He tells you he chose this life not for glory, but for proximity, close enough to intervene, close enough to shield. “I don’t believe in spectacle,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “I believe in standing between.” The words settle deep, intimate, and you feel a heat coil in your belly, a different kind of arousal, one born from safety and certainty.
You mention the whispers, the way the ton watches you too closely, measuring your worth by who stands beside you. His jaw tightens, just a fraction, his hand flexing. “Let them look,” he says quietly. “They’ll never see what’s mine to guard.” The possessiveness is soft but unmistakable, threaded with respect rather than ownership, and it makes your pulse stutter.
You lean in, your shoulder brushing his chest, the warmth of him bleeding through layers of fabric. “You never try to change me,” you say softly. “You only make sure I get to stay myself.” His hand tightens on the cushion, restrained, controlled, and you know that discipline is a choice, not a lack of desire.
The fire pops, sending sparks briefly upward, and in that flicker you see him so clearly, every night he’s walked half a step behind you, every room he’s scanned before you entered, every glance that asked permission rather than claimed it. “It’s never been about orders,” he replies, voice thick with something you recognize instantly. “It’s about trust.” The word lands between you, intimate as a touch. Your breath grows shallow, awareness blooming, your body remembering how his mouth felt earlier, how his voice sounds when it breaks just for you. You shift closer, letting your knee brush against his, and feel his attention sharpen, heat responding to heat.
You talk about legacy, about wanting to leave the world gentler than you found it, about believing that real goodness is quiet, not performative. He nods, earnest, unwavering. “Then I’ll make sure you get the chance,” he promises. “That nothing stops you, not even the world itself.” There’s reverence in it, something fiercely devoted. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, grounding yourself before the emotion tips into something dangerous. The ton, the expectations, the noise, all of it feels impossibly distant compared to the man before you, who has always chosen protection over possession.
It hits you then—sudden, overwhelming—the truth of it: every boundary he’s held, every watchful silence, every restrained touch has been an act of devotion. Your breath hitches, a soft, traitorous sound slipping from your throat before you can stop it, half gasp, half moan, thick with realization. His eyes darken instantly, fixing on your mouth, your flushed cheeks, the way your body betrays you. “Are you all right?” he asks, voice low, careful, but there’s tension in it now, coiled and waiting, like the moment before a storm breaks.
You swallow, then let a slow, wicked smile curl your lips. You lean in, lips brushing just shy of his ear, your hand sliding slowly up his thigh. “I’ve just realized something,” you whisper, your voice dropping, forward and hot. “The true guard of my heart has been standing right in front of me all along.” His breath stutters against your skin, control fraying. You press closer, letting your teeth graze the shell of his ear, and murmur, “My knight. My bodyguard. My shining prince in armor.” This time, the moan that escapes you isn’t restrained at all, and neither is the way his hand finally finds your waist, the promise between you shifting, hungry and real.
You let your eyes meet his, unguarded, letting him see every ounce of want. “Sunghoon,” you whisper, voice trembling with certainty and heat, “I want you—now. I want all of you. I want you to fuck me like I’m yours, because I always have been.” His answering look is nothing short of worship. The world outside is winter, bitter and unyielding, but here, in this moment, you realize he has always been the one who kept out the cold—the only guard your heart has ever needed, your knight shining beneath the weight of a thousand quiet promises, the warmth and strength of your forever.
He barely waits for the hallway to clear before he has you pressed back against the cold marble, the shock of it stealing the air from your lungs, making your gasp bloom into a moan. Sunghoon’s hands are on you, big and rough, velvet and leather and need, all restraint burned away. He hauls you up with a force that leaves your slippers dangling above the floor, mouth crashing down on yours, hungry and messy and starved. His tongue pushes deep, tasting, claiming, spitting into your mouth as you arch into him, greedy for every ounce of his attention. “Been waiting to ruin you,” he growls, breath hot against your jaw, voice shaking with how much he’s held back. “Don’t want you gentle tonight. Want you filthy, want you loud for me. You understand?”
You’re already nodding, too lost in the wet slide of his lips over yours, the way he bites down, bruises blooming on your lower lip, dragging you closer, his palm sliding up your throat. His grip tightens, thumb pressed under your jaw, just enough to make your vision blur, your next moan coming out broken and high. “Let them hear you, princess,” he rasps, grinding his hips into yours until you can feel the length of him, hard and hot, pressing into the silk at your core. He grins when you gasp, teeth flashing as he mouths at your neck, sucking bruises into the skin just above your collar. “Want you marked. Want them to know who you belong to tonight.”
His fingers work fast, hiking your skirts up around your hips, baring your thighs to the cold and the dark, slipping between your legs with greedy intent. You shudder when he finds you slick, two fingers rubbing over your soaked panties, then pulling them to the side, the tip of his finger teasing at your entrance before sliding in. “So fucking wet for me already,” he murmurs, dark and triumphant, spitting into his palm before driving his fingers deeper, curling up inside you until your hips buck. He bites at your throat, licking the bruises he’s left, his free hand pinning your wrists above your head, his grip unyielding as he fucks you on his fingers, each thrust rough and hungry.
The air is thick with the wet sounds of his hand working you open, your breath ragged, every gasp and cry bouncing off the stone walls. You rut against him, grinding down on his palm, desperate for more, for anything, choking on your own need. “Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice guttural, hot breath flooding your ear. “Want me to ruin this pretty dress? Want me to fuck you so hard you can’t walk back into that ballroom?” His teeth drag down your throat, leaving a line of spit and bruises, and you sob his name, the sound filthy and desperate.
He spits in your mouth again, thumb pushing it down over your tongue, groaning when you swallow it without shame. “Look at you, princess. You were made for this. So needy, so fucking good for me.” His fingers never slow, working deeper, faster, until you’re keening for him, grinding yourself against his thigh. His hand leaves your throat to cup your jaw, thumb forcing your mouth open, tongue tangling with yours in another sloppy, spit-slick kiss. He breaks away only to whisper against your lips, “You want to cum for me right here? Let me feel you pulse on my hand while the whole palace listens?”
Your legs tremble, muscles tight with pleasure, his body holding you up when you might collapse. He lets go of your wrists, both hands now on your waist as he lifts you up higher, grinding his cock against your core, barely separated by ruined silk and lace. “Beg for it,” he hisses, rutting against you, every motion desperate, dirty, the heat between you searing. “Beg me to make you mine. Beg me to keep you.” His forehead drops to yours, sweat and spit and need mingling, his mouth claiming yours again in a kiss that’s more violence than tenderness.
He slides two fingers into your mouth, forcing them deep, making you gag and drool as you suck them, your own slick and his spit coating your tongue. “Good girl,” he praises, voice breaking, cock grinding into you harder, deeper, the friction making you see stars. His teeth sink into your shoulder, his other hand slipping between your thighs again, thumb circling your clit, his movements ruthless, relentless, until you’re crying out, shaking in his grip. He groans against your neck, biting harder, marking you with every inch of himself, not stopping until you’re shattered in his hands, all thought burned away by how fiercely he’s claimed you.
And when you finally break for him, your whole body wracked with pleasure, he catches you, pulls you into his chest, breathing you in like a man starved. “Mine,” he whispers against your ear, voice wrecked. “No one else gets this. No one else ever will.”
Sunghoon doesn’t bother undressing you all the way, he wants you desperate, helpless, still half-swallowed by silk and velvet. He grabs your wrists and spins you toward the heavy wooden table in the shadows, forcing your chest down, ass arching up for him, your dress bunched high around your hips. The heat of his body crowds behind you, his thighs hard as marble, cock already leaking against the curve of your ass. His hand slides up your spine, possessive and rough, before he yanks your panties aside and lines himself up, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. “Keep your mouth shut, princess,” he growls, voice thick with need. “Unless you want the whole fucking palace to hear how wrecked you are for me.” You choke on a gasp as he thrusts in all at once, his palm clamping over your mouth, smothering your moans as he fills you to the hilt.
The stretch is brutal, your walls fluttering around him, every inch of him hot and thick, dragging a filthy cry from your throat that he catches in his hand. “You like this, don’t you?” he whispers, breath hot against your ear as he fucks into you, slow and deep at first, his hips grinding into your ass, the slap of flesh obscene in the echoing dark. Your fingers claw at the table, legs shaking, desperate for friction, for more. Sunghoon’s other hand snakes under you, palm flattening against your belly, holding you in place as he slams into you, pace relentless. “Look at you,” he taunts, biting at the shell of your ear. “Bent over like you’re made for me. So fucking perfect, so needy, so loud, can you feel how deep I am? You’re going to take it, princess. Every single inch.”
His hand leaves your mouth for a second, just enough for your voice to spill out—choked moans, curses, pleas. “Fuck, Sunghoon—” you gasp, and he shoves two fingers between your lips, forcing your mouth open. “Say my name again. Tell me how good I make you feel.” He never lets up, pounding into you, hips flush with your ass, his cock hitting that spot that makes your vision go white. You’re drooling around his fingers, begging for more, for anything, for him to never stop. “You feel that?” he says, teeth scraping along your neck. “How tight you are? You’re so fucking wet for me. This pussy was made for my cock. I want you ruined, so every step you take tomorrow reminds you you’re mine.”
You can barely speak, voice breaking around his fingers. “Yours, I’m yours, fuck—don’t stop, Sunghoon, please—” His grip tightens, body shuddering behind you, sweat dripping down his temple, his muscles bulging as he drives into you harder. “You’re going to remember this, aren’t you?” he spits, filthy and low. “Every time that pathetic little prince looks at you, you’ll remember how I split you open, how you begged me for it, how I make you cum.”
You cry out, walls clenching, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure up your spine, mind gone with the stretch and the sound of him breaking you apart. “Say it,” he demands, “say you love being fucked like this.”
And you do, breathless and shameless, “I fucking love it, Sunghoon—don’t stop, don’t ever fucking stop—”
He drags you up by the hair, chest flush to your back, his arm snaking around your throat. His thumb finds the hollow under your jaw, pressing just enough to make your head spin, make your pulse thunder. “Look at me,” he snarls, forcing your gaze to the window’s reflection, where you can see his eyes gone black with lust, your face wild, lips parted, flushed and teary. “You see what you do to me?” His cock pulses inside you, every thrust making you gasp for air, every squeeze of his hand sending lightning through your nerves. “You like being choked, don’t you? My perfect little slut, so pretty when you’re desperate for breath.”
Your hands fly up to his wrist, not to push him away but to hold him tighter, your body arching into the choke. He leans down, voice pure filth against your cheek, “Breathe for me, darling. Take what I give you. Take everything.” He keeps you pinned, his hips snapping up, forcing you to take him deep, your eyes meeting his in the glass, nothing but raw want and need reflected back. “Look at you—ruined and perfect. You’ll cum just from this, won’t you? From the way I own you. Say it.”
You gasp, words trembling on the edge of a sob, “I want it, Sunghoon, I want you to choke me, want you to fuck me, I want all of you—” And he rewards you with another brutal thrust, eyes never leaving yours as you fall apart.
He pulls out suddenly, spinning you to face him, both of you panting, sweat sticking your dress to your skin. Sunghoon grips your chin, forcing your mouth open, and spits right onto your tongue, eyes burning. “Swallow it,” he commands, and you do without hesitation, moaning as his spit slides down your throat. “Good fucking girl,” he says, voice thick with pride and need. “Open your legs for me.” You obey, shameless and hungry, hiking your skirts, and he drops to his knees, grabbing your thighs, spreading you wide.
He spits again, this time right onto your pussy, his fingers gathering it and your slick, rubbing rough circles into your clit. “Look how messy you are for me. I want you ruined, want you dripping down your thighs when you walk back in there.” He laps at you, tongue greedy, teeth scraping your inner thigh, sucking marks that’ll last for days. You grind down onto his face, desperate, fingers tugging his hair. “That’s it, princess—fuck my mouth. Let them see you limp tomorrow. Let them see who fucked you open.” You cry out, shameless, begging him for more, and he eats you like he’s starved.
He stands abruptly, lifting you with brute force, pressing you against the wall, one leg hiked over his hip. The length of him rubs along your soaked folds, every grind making your nerves sing. His hand wraps around your thigh, squeezing hard, fingers digging into soft flesh, bruising you. “You feel that?” he pants, cock sliding through your slick, bumping your clit with every rough thrust. “You’re fucking mine, say it—” He punctuates his words with a sharp slap to your ass, the sound echoing, the sting making you arch into him, shameless.
You wrap your arms around his neck, nails digging in, rocking your hips into him, greedy for friction, for fullness, for the burn. “I’m yours, Sunghoon, yours—fuck me, please, harder—” He grins, wild and dark, and slaps your thigh, then your ass again, making you yelp, his voice pure command.
“You want it filthy, don’t you? Want everyone to see these marks, want everyone to know who made you scream.” He ruts into you, cock thick and heavy, bodies slamming together, your moans broken and raw, every inch of you on fire for him.
You’re nothing but need now, grinding down onto his cock, his thigh, his hands—whatever he’ll give you, you take. “Sunghoon, please,” you whine, voice rough, desperate, “I need it, need you inside me, need to cum for you. Please, I want to feel you fill me up, want you to ruin me.”
He hisses, grip tightening, eyes blown black with hunger. “Beg for it, princess. Let me hear you say how much you want to cum on my cock. Tell me you want me to cum inside you, fill you up so deep you’ll never forget it.”
“Fuck, Sunghoon, please—fill me, fill me up, I want it so bad, want your cum dripping out of me, want everyone to see I’m yours. Please, please—” Your voice cracks, body shaking, teetering on the edge.
He thrusts up into you, relentless, feral, his mouth finding your nipple, sucking, biting, leaving teeth marks that make you keen, your walls fluttering around him. “You’re gonna take every drop,” he snarls, “gonna milk my cock until there’s nothing left, then you’re going to thank me for making you mine.” You sob, overwhelmed, pleasure building, desperate for the moment you fall apart for him, for the world to fall away until there’s only Sunghoon, only you, only this.
He’s holding you down, your back arched off the table, legs forced wide by the strength in his arms. His cock is buried so deep it feels like he’s in your stomach, your cunt stretched around him, sticky and obscene, the table beneath you creaking with every brutal thrust. Sweat drips down his neck, glistening on his chest, every thick vein on his cock bulging as he fucks you open. You’re a mess for him, drooling onto your own tits, tears streaking your cheeks as you stare up at him, mouth slack, tongue out, begging for it, needing more. “Daddy, fuck, you’re so big, it hurts—keep going, don’t stop, please, fuck me harder,” you gasp, clutching his arms, nails digging in, clawing at his skin. He spits in your mouth, then across your tits, smearing it down between your breasts, biting at your nipple until you sob, his hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing, choking off your cries so you’re forced to feel everything, every inch of him slamming inside you.
He grins, dark and feral, his eyes so black it’s like he’s not even human, just hunger and heat and power, cock throbbing inside you. “Fucking slut,” he growls, slapping your cheek, making you moan, your cunt spasming around him, “You love getting used, don’t you? You love Daddy’s cock ruining your tight little pussy, stretching you out until you can’t take it.” You whimper, grinding up to meet his thrusts, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room, your own filth soaking down your thighs. “Yes—yes, please, Daddy, fuck me, ruin me, make me yours. I want it so bad, want you to cum in me, want everyone to see your cum dripping out of me, want to feel you leaking down my legs all night.” The sound of you begging makes him snarl, the force of his hips doubling, cock punching into you, your body shuddering as he leans down, teeth scraping over your lips, then your throat, biting, marking you up. “Say you’re Daddy’s whore. Say you’ll take every drop,” he spits, one hand on your throat, the other digging into your thigh, spreading you open, holding you exactly where he wants you.
You can barely breathe, everything raw and stretched and perfect, every thrust driving you closer to the edge. “I’m yours, Daddy, I’m your whore, your cumdump, fill me up, I want it, need it, please, please—fuck, fuck—” You’re babbling, broken, cock-drunk and wild, grabbing at his hair, dragging him into your mouth, biting his lip, smearing spit and sweat and tears together. He spits in your mouth again, slow and filthy, tongue pushing it past your lips, making you swallow, then grins down at you, savage, proud, twisting your nipple between his fingers until you scream. “Look at you—already cockdumb, already ruined for anyone else. You know nobody will ever fuck you like this, nobody will ever fill you like I do,” he pants, the veins in his arms straining, his body shuddering over you, his cock swollen and angry, throbbing inside you with every desperate pulse.
He drags you up, throws you over his thigh, making you straddle him, his cock slapping wet and heavy against your clit, your slick running down his leg, smearing everywhere. “Ride Daddy’s thigh, slut. Show me how bad you want it,” he commands, voice low and rough. You obey instantly, grinding down hard, your clit catching on the hard muscle, the sweat-slick skin, every movement raw and electric. You’re so wet you can hear it, the filthiest, wettest sounds filling the air, your moans turning into cries, your whole body shuddering as you chase it, desperate for friction, for that sharp, wicked release. “Oh my God, Sunghoon, Daddy, I can’t—I’m gonna cum, please, I’m gonna soak you, please—” He just laughs, sharp and cruel, his hands gripping your hips, rocking you faster, making sure you rub your swollen cunt over every inch of his thigh, dragging it out, making you earn it.
He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, mouth hot on your ear, teeth scraping over your neck, biting until you squeal, until you go limp for him, utterly owned. “Good fucking girl,” he whispers, words dripping into your ear like poison, “Look at the mess you’re making. Soaking my thigh, drooling, begging for my cock—fucking insatiable.” You nod, wild, needy, grinding and grinding, chasing the edge, riding his thigh like you’ll die if you stop, your cunt clenching on nothing, desperate to be full again. “Please, Daddy, please, I need your cock, I need you to fill me up, I need you to cum inside me, please, fuck me, fuck me now—” You’re crying for it, hands slipping on his sweaty skin, trying to force yourself back onto his cock, greedy and shameless and needy.
He lifts you like nothing, throws you face-down over the table, yanks your ass up, spreads you open, spits on your pussy, then slams into you so deep you see stars. “Take it, take every fucking inch, you filthy little bitch,” he snarls, his cock splitting you open, driving into you with animal ferocity. “You’re gonna cum for me, gonna cum on my cock, milk me dry, then you’re gonna say thank you while I fill you up.” Every thrust is brutal, overwhelming, the table rattling, your tits bouncing, his balls smacking against your swollen, aching cunt. You sob, arching back, desperate, “Yes, yes, thank you, Daddy, thank you, I want your cum, I want to be stuffed, please—” He slaps your ass, hard, the sting making you yelp, his other hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, pinning you, forcing you to take every inch, every brutal stroke.
You feel his cock swell inside you, every vein, every twitch, his cum boiling in his balls, ready to explode. “You ready, slut? Ready for Daddy to fill you up, ready for me to fuck my cum so deep inside you that you’ll be leaking for days? Gonna fuck it back into you every time you drip, gonna make you wear it, smell like me, look like you belong to me.” You can only scream for him, broken, teetering on the edge, every nerve set on fire. “Please, Daddy, please cum in me, please breed me, please fuck me full, want to feel it dripping out, want to taste it, want to be your mess—” Your whole body locks up, walls clamping down, and you cum with a scream, a blinding, brutal orgasm that rips through you, makes you claw at the table, legs shaking, cunt spasming around him, milking his cock for everything.
He doesn’t stop, not for a second, fucking you through it, fucking his cum deep, filling you over and over as his cock pulses and unloads, thick and hot and endless, dripping out around his cock, painting your thighs, running in hot, sticky streams down your legs. “That’s it, fucking take it, take all of Daddy’s cum, you little cumdump, you greedy slut. I’m not stopping until I’m empty, until you’re overflowing for me,” he snarls, grinding his cock inside you, making sure you feel every spurt, every filthy, ruined drop. You’re sobbing, out of your mind, ruined and shaking, still grinding back on him, wanting more, never satisfied, your body insatiable, always hungry for him.
He flips you again, makes you sit on his cock, facing him, his cum leaking out, pooling on the floor. He kisses you filthy, tongue down your throat, spit and cum smeared everywhere, then leans back, his hands in your hair, forcing you to look him in the eyes as he fucks up into you, using you, body slamming against his, sweat and slick and heat building again. “You think you can handle more?” he taunts, voice mocking and sweet, “You think you can take Daddy’s cock again, even when you’re fucked out, dripping, ruined? I want to see you beg. I want to see how much you’ll take for me.”
You do—you beg, shameless, desperate, words tumbling out between sobs and moans, “Please, Daddy, use me, break me, fill me again, I want it, I’ll take anything for you, please, I’m yours, only yours—” You grab his hand, shove his fingers into your mouth, sucking them deep, drooling, whimpering around them, eyes glazed, pupils blown, completely undone for him. He fucks you harder, cock thick and swollen, somehow still hard, his cum leaking out with every thrust, your cunt so full it aches, so sensitive every drag of his cock makes you see stars, tears streaking down your face as you take it, want it, beg for it.
He’s got you in his lap now, thighs spread wide, holding you open with one big hand, the other around your throat, squeezing, choking you out just enough to make your world narrow to him, his cock, the filthy, obscene pressure building again. “Look at you,” he grunts, sweat dripping onto your chest, “Fucking perfect. Made for this. Made for my cock, my cum, my mess.” You shudder, moaning, “Yes, Daddy, I’m made for you, only you, please, keep fucking me, don’t stop, don’t ever stop—” He just laughs, dark and hungry, and starts again, cock slamming up, forcing another orgasm out of you, and another, your body wrecked, shaking, ruined, and you love every filthy, fucked-out second of it.
He shoves you forward, your body folding over the table’s edge, ass high, pussy exposed, slick and leaking with the mess of his cum. His hands clamp around your hips, strong enough to leave bruises, fingers digging in as he lines himself up, notching the swollen head of his cock right against your still-throbbing entrance. He doesn’t ease in—he drives forward in one savage thrust, splitting you open all over again, your cunt spasming, struggling to accommodate his size, the stretch a delicious, burning ache. “Fuck, look at you,” he spits, voice ragged, one hand slipping up your back, pressing you down until your cheek’s flush to the cold surface, ass tipped high. “Such a filthy girl—so hungry for my cock you’re still dripping, begging for more even after I’ve ruined you. You hear that? That’s how wet you are. That’s Daddy’s cum inside you, and you’re still greedy for more.” Each word lands with a sharp smack of his palm against your ass, the sting making you cry out, thighs trembling, the noise obscene, echoing in the small space, skin-on-skin and the wet, shameless slap of your bodies coming together.
You moan, wrecked and needy, every thrust making your whole body rock forward, his cock dragging deep, hitting spots inside you that make your toes curl, your mouth open and drooling on the table. “Please, please, Daddy, don’t stop, want to feel you split me open, want to feel your cum running down my thighs, want to be used, want you to fuck me stupid—” You’re babbling, broken, crying out as his hand comes down again, this time gripping the back of your neck, forcing you to take it, holding you exactly where he wants you. His free hand slides between your legs, fingers rubbing your clit, rubbing his own cum back inside you, your body trembling, back arching, every nerve ending white-hot, desperate for the next release. “You feel that?” he growls, fucking you harder, rougher, sweat dripping from his chest onto your spine. “You’re so fucking tight, squeezing me, milking me—such a good little slut, always ready for Daddy’s cock, always begging to be filled. You love being fucked like this, don’t you? Face down, ass up, taking every inch.” He bends down, teeth scraping your shoulder, biting hard enough to leave a mark, groaning into your skin as he pistons into you, relentless, animal, cock driving so deep it punches the air from your lungs.
Your legs go weak, eyes rolling back, drool slick on your lips as he chokes you, voice broken and desperate. “Yes, Daddy—fuck, yes, I love it, I need it, I’ll take anything for you, anything, want you to fill me, want to be your good girl, your little whore, your everything—please, fuck me harder, harder—” You’re sobbing, high on pain and pleasure, clenching around him, milking his cock, wanting every filthy drop, every brutal thrust. He fucks you through it, slapping your ass, spreading you wider, shoving his thumb in your mouth, making you suck it while his cock ruins you from behind. “Take it, take it all, show me how much you love being Daddy’s perfect little cumdump.” You choke around his thumb, spit spilling down your chin, gasping out filthy thanks, your body a puppet on his cock, helpless to anything but his pace, his hunger, his need to see you broken and begging.
He doesn’t slow down, if anything he’s rougher, harder, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, the ache building again, overwhelming, the pressure mounting in your gut. He drags you upright, pulls you flush against his chest, your back slick with sweat against him. His hand slides to your throat, squeezing as he fucks up into you, your cries growing louder, higher, echoing with every slam of his hips. “You gonna cum for me, princess? Gonna make a mess for Daddy, show me how much you love it?” He pounds into you, relentless, your walls fluttering, whole body seized up as you cum again, the orgasm wringing every last bit of sanity from you, your cunt clenching, spasming, milking him for more, desperate for every last drop of his cum.
He groans, cock swelling, and cums inside you again, another thick, endless torrent, hips jerking as he fills you to overflowing, cum oozing out with every thrust. You’re limp, boneless, every muscle trembling, but he isn’t done—not even close. He pulls out slow, watching his cum drool out of your ruined hole, then grabs you by the waist, hauls you onto the bed, tossing you onto your back, eyes burning with hunger. “On top,” he commands, voice hoarse, “Show Daddy how you ride cock. Make me cum again. Make me regret ever letting you off my dick.”
You scramble into his lap, legs spread wide, grabbing his thick, messy cock, guiding it back inside you, sinking down until you’re full to the hilt, the stretch making you gasp, moan, claw at his chest. Your hands press to his shoulders, nails raking down his skin as you start to bounce, slow and filthy, grinding your hips, rolling your clit against his pelvis, the mess of cum slicking your thighs, dripping down, making it easier, dirtier. “Fuck, Daddy, you feel so good—so big, so fucking thick, stretching me open, making me yours,” you gasp, bouncing harder, tits bouncing, sweat slick, body rolling with every movement. “You love this, don’t you? Love watching me fuck myself on your cock, love how needy I am for you—” Your words spill out, shameless, hungry, eyes locked on his as you ride him, every bounce sending him deeper, every grind making you both shudder, desperate for more.
His hands are everywhere—on your ass, your waist, your tits, grabbing, squeezing, guiding your hips as you fuck yourself down onto him, over and over, filthy and wild. He licks a stripe up your chest, bites your nipple, groaning into your skin. “That’s my girl—look at you, riding Daddy’s cock, making a fucking mess. You gonna milk me dry? You gonna make me cum again, fill you so much you’ll be leaking for days?” You whimper, grinding harder, chasing that edge, the friction of his cock dragging against your g-spot, his thumb on your clit, your whole body strung tight, ready to break. “Yes, Daddy, yes, I want it, want your cum, want to feel you everywhere—please, please, please—” Your begging is shameless, filthy, words breaking apart as you cum again, harder than before, your cunt spasming, squirting, soaking his cock and thighs.
He curses, grabbing your hips, thrusting up into you, making you ride it out, making you take every brutal, aching inch. “That’s it, good fucking girl—don’t stop, keep riding, make me cum again, you’re so fucking tight, can’t get enough of you, never gonna get enough—” His cock throbs inside you, already hardening again, your body too spent to care, needing more, always more, the two of you tangled in sweat and spit and cum, fucking until your voices are raw and the world disappears, until all that’s left is the filthy, beautiful mess you’ve made together, and the hunger that never, ever dies.
The palace lights flash by through the carriage window, but you don’t see any of it—you’re straddling Sunghoon’s lap, knees pressed to the velvet seat, your ruined cunt still raw and open, dripping with his cum. The carriage jolts, bouncing with every turn, and you’re already moaning, the motion forcing his thick cock deeper, every bounce making your tits jiggle, sweat-slick skin sticking to his chest. His mouth finds yours, all teeth and tongue, his hands tangled in your hair, pulling you down to devour him, swallowing your cries, both of you breathless, drunk on each other. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” you’re sobbing it, desperate, your forehead pressed to his, hips working, your clit dragging over his pelvis, your body writhing in his lap, every thrust making you see stars. “Fuck, you feel so good—can’t stop, can’t get enough, need you, need you, I love you—”
He grabs your ass, squeezing hard, grinding you down, letting the motion of the carriage slam your bodies together, his cock filling you, every inch claimed, every sound filthy and obscene. “Say it again,” he pants, voice wrecked, lips wet and swollen, eyes dark with need, “Say you love me, say you’ll take all my cum, say you’ll never stop fucking me, even if they hear us.” You moan, head thrown back, sweat dripping down your spine, your pussy squeezing him tight as you bounce and bounce, carriage wheels rattling beneath you, bodies sliding together in the dark, his cum leaking out with every roll of your hips. “I’ll never stop, I’ll never stop, I love you so much, Sunghoon, I’m yours, always—fill me, fuck me, please, make me yours again—”
He kisses you filthy, tongue in your mouth, moaning into each other, the whole world fading except for the frantic, desperate movement of your bodies. He fucks up into you, meeting every bounce with a brutal thrust, hands tangled in your hair, the carriage rocking, the slap of your skin echoing off the gilded walls. You ride him harder, cunt milking him, slick and obscene, crying out, “I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you—” until you’re sobbing into his mouth, grinding down, greedy for every drop, every thrust, every promise. The city passes in a blur, the carriage a confessional, a temple, a battlefield of heat and sweat and surrender—nothing else in the world but his cock inside you and the words “I love you” pouring out, over and over, sealing you together, forever filthy, forever his.
The carriage lurches over the cobblestone streets, every bump making his cock bounce inside you, thick and swollen, sliding against your walls, each jolt forcing you to gasp, your breasts bouncing, sweat pearling at your hairline. The plush velvet seats are slick with your bodies—his hands gripping your ass, spreading you wide as you ride him, your thighs splayed, skirt bunched around your hips, the warm air thick with the scent of sex. Sunghoon’s mouth is on your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing sensitive skin, tongue swirling, saliva trailing down to your ribcage. The carriage rocks violently with a turn, and you nearly lose your balance, falling against him, his cock slamming deeper, the tip kissing your cervix, making you wail, clutching at his shoulders. “Look at you, so fucking perfect, riding Daddy’s cock in his own carriage, tits in my mouth, dripping for me,” he groans, mouth full of your nipple, his hips grinding up to meet every drop, every desperate bounce.
You can feel the wheels under you—every rut in the road, every sharp turn, the whole vehicle shuddering and pitching, shaking your body, making your cunt clamp down on him, the friction unrelenting. Your knees are bruising against the velvet, slick with sweat, your clit grinding into his pelvis every time the carriage jumps, your moans echoing off the gilded paneling and mirrored windows. “Fuck—Sunghoon, you feel so good—so thick—every time this carriage bounces, you fuck me deeper, you’re hitting everywhere, oh my god—” You’re whining, words tumbling from your mouth, desperate and wild, your voice cracking as you ride him, rolling your hips, cock grinding against every swollen spot inside you. His hand moves to your throat, squeezing lightly, forcing you to meet his gaze, and he snarls, “Keep bouncing, princess, let them all hear you—let the whole palace know you belong to me.” The words make you bounce harder, chasing every thrust, cunt slick, his cock dragging out with every lift of your hips then slamming home as the carriage jostles beneath you.
He leans in, mouth latching to your other nipple, sucking so hard you cry out, arching into him, feeding him your breast as you grind on his cock, feeling every vein, every throb. The rhythm is relentless, the carriage creaking, rocking on its springs, the world outside nothing but a blur of city lights, the two of you lit only by the dim golden lanterns swaying overhead. The velvet curtains shiver, nearly falling from the force of your bodies, his hands everywhere—squeezing your ass, pulling you down hard, rolling his hips up to meet you, cock pressing so deep you see stars. “That’s it, fuck—ride it, take it, you look so fucking pretty with my cock bouncing inside you, dripping on my lap, tits in my mouth—nobody’s ever going to fuck you like this.”
You’re close to breaking, desperate for more, whining as you drag yourself off him, making a filthy, wet sound, cum spilling down your thighs. He grabs your wrist, hauls you forward, pressing your back to the velvet cushions, and you straddle his face, knees digging into the soft seat, pussy glistening and ruined right over his mouth. “Sit on my face, make a mess,” he growls, breath hot, tongue flicking out, licking you in broad, hungry strokes, nose pressed to your clit, his hands locking around your thighs, pinning you down as the carriage rocks again, nearly throwing you off balance. You grab the curtain for support, legs shaking as he devours you, sucking, moaning into your cunt, the vibration sending shockwaves up your spine, every lick harder, sloppier, wetter. You grind down, hips rolling, rutting against his mouth, the movement of the carriage matching his tongue, bouncing you on his face, your juices slicking his chin, dripping down his throat.
You’re babbling now, filthy and lost, “Daddy, oh fuck—don’t stop, eat me, want to cum all over your face, want to ride your tongue until I can’t breathe—” He answers with a growl, tongue lashing your clit, then two thick fingers pushing into your cunt, fucking you open, curling up, his lips sucking your clit as the carriage jolts again, your entire body shuddering, thighs trembling, desperate to cum. You grind harder, the velvet soaked, your hips riding his face shamelessly, bouncing on his mouth every time the wheels hit another stone. “I love you, I love you, I love you—” you sob, words broken, pouring out as he sucks you through it, your orgasm crashing over you, legs locking around his head, hips shaking, cumming for him, for the whole palace to hear, your cries swallowed by his tongue.
When you collapse, ruined and weak, he pulls you down, throws you onto your back, and sinks his cock into you again, the carriage still moving, the city rushing by, his body on top of you, your mouths fusing in a desperate, hungry kiss—“I love you, I love you, I love you—” said with every thrust, every bounce, every filthy, worshipful stroke, until the carriage finally rolls up to the palace gates, and neither of you ever want to stop.
It’s deep winter outside, frost lacing the windowpanes in silver filigree, the world gone quiet and blue, but your room is a cocoon of heat and shadow, all honeyed lamplight and the weight of Sunghoon’s hands gliding over your skin. You’re straddling him, sheets rucked around your waist, thighs parted over his hips, your cunt pressed down on his cock, slow, languid, taking him inch by inch until you’re completely full, utterly open, and there’s nowhere else for him to be but inside you. The bed creaks softly with every roll of your hips, the rhythm unhurried—just you rocking above him, your hair falling in soft waves, the curve of your body gilded by the lamplight. His hands slide from your knees to your waist, tracing the lines he’s learned by heart, then up, palms cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble, sensitive and aching.
He rises up just enough to take your breast into his mouth, warm and wet, tongue swirling, lips sucking slow, savoring the taste of your skin. His other hand cups the small of your back, pulling you closer, pressing his mouth harder to your nipple, moaning softly as you grind down onto him, your bodies slick with sweat and the remnants of earlier pleasure. You cradle his head, fingers threaded through his hair, tilting his face up so you can kiss him, tongues meeting, breaths mingling, your body rolling over his, every movement a worship, a promise, a vow. “You feel so good,” you whisper, voice low and trembling, hips rocking, his cock dragging against your walls, deep and perfect, slow enough to make you ache for more, for everything. “You’re mine, Sunghoon. I’m gonna fucking marry you. You know that, right? You’ve always belonged to me.”
He shudders, his mouth leaving your breast only to press wet, reverent kisses along your collarbone, then up your neck, his breath hot against your ear. “I know, I know—I’ve always been yours,” he groans, his voice thick with feeling, head buried in your neck as you ride him, your bodies locked together, chests pressed close. His arms wind around your waist, holding you so tight you can barely breathe, his cock throbbing inside you, every inch of him surrendered. “You’re my heaven,” he says, muffled against your skin, lips finding your jaw, your cheek, his hair fanned over your chest. “I could die here. Don’t stop, don’t ever stop. I want to feel you forever.” You rock harder, thighs shaking, slick pooling around the base of his cock, your hands cradling his face, guiding him back to your chest, letting him suck your nipple again, the intimacy almost too much to bear, your heart aching with how much you love him.
You kiss his forehead, his eyelids, every tender place, letting your nails trace patterns down his back, your hips never stopping, slow and deep, clenching around him, taking him in until you’re trembling with the sweetness, the pleasure, the promise of it all. You feel his breath catch, his voice going soft and shattered, “I love you—I love you—please, never let me go.” You lean down, pressing your lips to his, and in the hush of your bedroom, in the warmth of your bed, you give him everything—your body, your soul, your forever.
Outside, the snow is falling in slow, silent sheets, cloaking the city in white. But inside, Sunghoon is the winter guard of your heart, the one who keeps the cold out, who watches the windows and holds the warmth for you alone. With every thrust, every soft gasp, every kiss against your skin, he lays down his devotion like a blanket, and you know, with every deep, slow roll of your hips, that he will always be the shield at your gate, the heat in your winter, the only heaven you’ll ever need.
The city spends January under a hush of snowfall, rooftops scalloped in white, lamp-posts wearing soft crowns of ice. You and Sunghoon are married in that brief blue light before dusk, vows spoken beneath crystal chandeliers that glitter like frost on pine needles. He stands in his formal uniform, your knight in winter armor, yet his eyes never leave yours, devotion burning hot enough to turn the cold air to steam. When the final blessing echoes through the nave, he bows his head to brush your knuckles with his lips, sealing a promise you both already feel beating in your joined palms: as long as you need me, Miss.
The honeymoon months pass in rooms warmed by roaring fires and thick quilts, your new rings clinking gently every time you lace your fingers together. He carries you across every threshold, muscle flexing, voice a low rasp in your ear: “Mine to keep warm.” Outside, drifts pile against the mullioned windows, but inside he builds the world with his body, hands mapping skin, mouth grazing your throat, each kiss a hot breath thawing you from the inside out.
Nights find you stretched beneath him, snow-light filtering through the curtains in silver bands. He sinks deep, slow, savoring the way you open around him, claiming space that only ever feels right when he fills it. Your thighs bracket his hips; his palm spreads possessively over the swell of your lower belly, territory he has marked twice already with life. “My brave girl,” he murmurs, dragging in a shaky breath as heat floods between you. “Carrying our little legacies.” You arch, chest brushing his uniform shirt still half-buttoned, and whisper back, “Our future came wrapped in winter. Keep me burning.”
He fucks you with the measured strength of a swordsman, thrust after patient thrust, each stroke a pledge. Sweat beads at his temple despite the chill beyond the walls. Every roll of his hips draws a soft cry from your throat, and he answers by sealing his mouth over yours, swallowing the sound, feeding you his sighs in return. Embers throw copper sparks across his shoulders; in their glow he looks like bronze warmed by flame.
When passion climbs higher, he sits back on his heels and cups your breasts, thumbs circling nipples that peak in the cool air. The sight of you, hair fanned across white linen, stomach firm from bearing his children, makes his voice rough with awe. “Perfect,” he murmurs. “Made to be worshiped, made to be loved.” He surges forward, cock gliding through slick heat, and you meet him eagerly, ankles locking at the small of his back. Outside, wind rattles the windows, but the bed groans louder with each collision, a steady rhythm of devotion and want.
Pleasure sharpens to a bright, glacial edge. You tumble over first, clenching around him, breathless as flakes whirl past the glass. He pushes deeper, jaw tight, until the world narrows to the heat between you. “Give it to me,” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders. “Fill me, guard me, claim me again.” His control shatters—hips snapping, pulse roaring—until he spills hard and hot, groaning your name like a prayer.
Long minutes pass in haloed silence, his heartbeat steadying beneath your palm. He kisses your damp forehead, then trails lips to each eyelid as though grateful you are real. “Two bright stars already,” he whispers, thumb stroking the faint silver lines on your hip, badges of the lives you’ve carried. His hand slides lower, covering your womb, and a wicked spark glints in his winter-dark eyes. “But this body was forged to shelter one more. Let me melt in you tonight, let me keep the snow away until spring.”
You laugh, a soft, tremulous burst that fogs the chilled air, before guiding him back between your thighs, still slick, already eager. “Lock the door again, my love,” you command, voice husky with invitation. He obeys without hesitation, bolt clicking shut, commitment ringing as clearly as church bells in the snowy square. When he returns, you cup his face and breathe against his lips. “Then come back in. We’ve babies sleeping down the hall and another waiting to be wished into the world. Breed me once more, my knight, show winter it can never touch the warmth you keep for me.”
Snow drifts softly against the panes, but inside, heat blooms: fierce, unyielding, a hearth that never goes out. Sunghoon—the winter guard of your heart—bends again to his task, and the night stretches long with vows carried on ragged breaths, with love carved deeper into the marrow of your bones.
asks, comments, likes and reblogs appreciated 🖤. don’t be a silent reader as you guys suck and you are the problem in the tumblr writing community.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: in the snowbound kingdom of esclavia, you’re forced forced into a political engagement while your heart belongs to your sworn bodyguard, sir park sunghoon. as winter deepens and court intrigue thickens, your forbidden love grows in the palace’s shadows. when the solstice feast arrives, you must choose between duty and the knight willing to burn the world for you.
𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: oral (f receiving, m receiving), rough sex, public risk, power play, bodyguard/princess dynamic, deep creampie, begging, possession/ownership kink, hand over mouth, choking, spit, thigh riding, face-sitting, dirty talk, nipple play, dom/sub undertones, marking/biting, manhandling, rough handling of clothes/gowns, sex in carriages/against palace walls/in bed, unprotected sex, breeding kink, cumplay, overstimulation, praise, mild degradation, orgasm control, cockwarming, begging/crying, explicit language, praise kink, sexual worship, mild pain play, biting/bruising, size kink, aftercare, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy, references to children/family, possessiveness, explicit body worship, exhibitionism (carriage sex), strong consent/communication, heavy winter/seasonal metaphors, emotionally charged smut, canon-typical violence references, themes of power and protection.
The Kingdom of Esclavia sits nestled on the edge of the world, hemmed in by ancient, pine-choked mountains and the glittering braid of the Lysande River. Its capital, Olyth, rises from the banks like a secret kept too long: slate rooftops dusted with frost, winding stone lanes looping toward the heart of the city, and at its center, the royal palace, high-walled, pale as bone, with turrets piercing the steely winter sky. The court of House Valestria has ruled these lands for centuries, each monarch marked by blood, sacrifice, and duty to the crown. Now, as the days shorten and the world hushes beneath new snow, the castle thrums with anticipation for the Feast of the Solstice, the year’s most lavish and dangerous celebration.
Within these ramparts, your inheritance is drawn with ink and blade. As Princess Y/N Valestria, eldest daughter and jewel of the realm, you bear the burden of a kingdom’s expectations as heavily as the velvet and pearls stitched into your ceremonial gown. You are promised, body, heart, and future, to Prince Heeseung of Arsteyn, a distant sovereign you have never met. Around you, the air shimmers with political machination: vassals jockey for position, advisors whisper in cold alcoves, and your mother, the Queen, presses tradition like a knife against your throat. Yet beneath the pageantry, rumor festers, affairs, betrayals, and the quiet, desperate rebellion of those trapped by their own names.
The palace is a place of secrets, all gilt edges and hidden doors. Between the feast halls and the shadowed chapel, behind snow-banked terraces and gallery windows lit by beeswax tapers, a hundred stories spin through the corridors, tales of clandestine lovers, vanished handmaidens, royal indiscretions paid for in silence or blood. The order of the Solstice demands spectacle, but beneath each ritual lingers the threat of ruin. For every guest in the great hall, another lurks behind screens or tapestries, hungry for a slip, a secret, a hint of weakness in the gilded chain.
Winter rules here, not merely as a season but as an inheritance: a presence stamped into every flagstone, every page of scripture, every brittle breath beneath the crown’s weight. Frost silvers the rose gardens until each petal shatters at a touch. Snow presses against the leaded glass, muffling the distant bells. In Esclavia, Christmas is not merely holy, it’s a reckoning. The royal family leads midnight vigils and gifts bread to the poor, but behind closed doors, you make offerings to older gods, lighting candles for protection, for passion, for survival through the darkest night. Each solstice, the palace dresses itself in green and gold, but the shadows beneath the garlands grow longer, as if the darkness, once welcomed, never truly leaves.
The palace is alive with the low hum of anticipation, the hush before a storm. Candlelight glimmers off silvered mirrors as your ladies lace you into a gown the color of dusk, every ribbon drawn tight across your ribs until your breath comes shallow and practiced. Your mother is there, a constant presence in the periphery, correcting a slip in your posture, smoothing the sleeves at your wrists. “Keep your chin up, Y/N. A lowered gaze is weakness. The court will sense it.” She stands behind you as you face the glass, her eyes searching your reflection for flaws that cannot be seen, only imagined, every hesitation a risk, every gesture a cipher to be read by a hundred watching eyes. She tucks a stray lock behind your ear, her hands cold but careful, the weight of the Valestria sapphires settling at your throat. “You are your father’s daughter,” she says, almost wistful, “and tonight you must show them how our line endures.”
You glance away from your reflection, heart pounding beneath the corseted bodice, and let the question spill out, low and bitter as wine gone sour. “Is it true, then? That he will be here tonight, Prince Heeseung of Arsteyn?”
Your mother’s hands still for a heartbeat before resuming their steady ministrations. “He arrived this morning with his retinue,” she replies, the words shaped by duty rather than hope. “He will watch you from the dais, and every noble in this hall will be measuring your worth against his. His father demands strength in his future queen. Show him only what you choose to give.” There is a pause where your voices hover between accusation and comfort, the air thick with the unspoken grief of mothers and daughters who have never been permitted to dream. “He is not a cruel man, Y/N. Nor, I think, an easy one. But kingdoms do not marry for kindness.”
You meet her eyes in the glass, searching for a crack in her composure, some trace of the girl she once was beneath the steel and velvet. “What if I fail him? What if I fail you?”
Your mother shakes her head, fingertips brushing your cheek, her gaze unexpectedly soft. “You will not fail. You will endure, as Valestrias always have.” She draws a breath, letting it out in a cloud that ghosts between you. “You may never love him, nor he you. But you will have power, if you are clever. Even a queen can keep secrets, if she learns to listen before she speaks.” A hush falls as the chamber doors open beyond the wardrobe, a maid beckoning you to the candlelit corridors. “Tonight is only the beginning, my heart. Remember who you are when you stand before him.” As you leave your mother’s side, the echo of her words rings in your bones, hope and warning braided together, urging you onward into the heart of winter.
The press of your gown is at once suffocating and electrifying, corseted velvet pulled tight at your waist and ribs, every breath measured and precious. Sapphires as blue as midnight rest at the hollow of your throat, heavy and cold, linked by silver filigree so fine it leaves a faint impression on your skin. Your sleeves are embroidered with frost-pale silk thread, curling over your wrists like frozen vines, while pearls cluster at your elbows, glimmering with every move. The perfumed warmth of the room is dense and heady; candles flare in every sconce, painting the air gold and melting the sharp scent of pine and wax into something tender, like the memory of a safer season. Outside, the world is ice and wind, but here, in your private chambers, winter cannot touch you.
You sit before your mirror as the palace stirs to life, footsteps echoing on distant marble, the laughter of maids and the clatter of serving trays beneath your window. There’s a hush of anticipation threaded through it all, a collective holding of breath as musicians in the distant galleries begin to tune their instruments. The low hum of strings and the faint call of a horn drift up through the corridors, growing more insistent as the hour draws near. It’s the sound of a kingdom preparing to watch you, your debut not as a child of the palace, but as a future queen, your destiny sealed beneath a thousand scrutinizing eyes.
Behind you, your siblings tumble in, a burst of warmth and color and irrepressible life. Your younger sister, Haneul, wraps herself around your arm, her hair in wild plaits and her dress askew, always laughing, forever conspiratorial. “You look like the Ice Queen herself,” she teases, pinching your cheek, but her voice is reverent, eyes wide with admiration. Beside her, your brother Minjae is solemn and scholarly even at twelve, his spectacles askew, hands clasped behind his back as he lists every royal protocol you’re sure to forget, his nervousness disguised as helpfulness. The youngest, little Soobin, toddles across the carpet clutching your old wooden horse, cheeks pink from sleep, a dimpled grin lighting his face as you scoop him onto your lap, careful not to muss your dress. In these small moments, you’re not the kingdom’s offering, but their beloved sister, adored for the way you sneak honey cakes after midnight and hide in the gardens when lessons grow too dull.
The staff adore you for this, too. Your laughter carries through the corridors like a promise, and there’s not a maid or page who doesn’t smile to see you. Eunji, the chief maid, tucks a flower behind your ear when no one is looking, whispering, “For luck, Your Highness.” The old cook, Mr. Han, winks as he passes, flour dusting his sleeves, always saving the sugared walnuts just for you. Even the palace guards nod with quiet pride, sharing stories of your childhood bravery, your habit of tending scraped knees and lost kittens as if they were treasures. The palace is built on rituals and rules, but within its walls, you’re loved, not simply for your title, but for the brightness you bring to each dark winter.
Among the nobility, you’re a curiosity and a favorite, cherished for your wit, your refusal to let court etiquette dull your kindness. Countesses petition for your presence at tea, old dukes grumble good-naturedly when you outsmart them at chess. Even visiting dignitaries speak of your charm, marveling at your ability to make every guest feel welcome, even as you study them in return, sharp as any court strategist. In the grand tapestry of royalty, you are the unexpected golden thread, a little unruly, perhaps, but undeniably beloved.
Yet as the hour strikes, the chamber doors swing open and you step into the corridor, a hush falling over the gathered household staff as you pass. Your heart pounds beneath layers of silk and lace, your painted reflection fading behind you, replaced by the awed faces of those who have known you since birth. There is a new weight on your shoulders now—the crown’s shadow, heavy and cold—and for a heartbeat, you wish you could freeze this moment, held by the warmth of your home and the laughter of your siblings, before the night can claim you.
And then, through the press of courtiers and the parade of jewels, your gaze is caught and anchored by a single, unwavering presence. Sir Park Sunghoon, your personal bodyguard, Commander of the Royal Guard, knighted for valor at an age when most are still learning to wield a sword, stands just beyond the archway, utterly still. His uniform is impeccable: deep navy velvet edged in black fox fur, the silver insignia of the Valestria crest blazing at his breast, sword buckled at his side, dark gloves folded behind his back. Tall and broad-shouldered, his posture radiates strength and alertness, the lamplight catching on his sharp jaw and the raven sweep of his hair. Even in a sea of finery, he’s unmistakable: not only for his bearing, but for the way he looks at you, as if there’s nothing else in the world worth guarding.
Your breath falters when your eyes meet, a spark leaping in the silence between you. Sunghoon’s gaze lingers, dark and unyielding, mouth set in that inscrutable line you have grown to recognize as both warning and promise. He bows his head, barely, a gesture meant for you alone, and your pulse hammers with the forbidden thrill of being truly seen. You remember, suddenly, every lesson about composure, every warning about the danger of being watched too closely, not by enemies, but by those sworn to protect you. Tonight, Sunghoon is not just your shadow, not just a sword at your side. Tonight, as the candles burn and the palace draws its first breath of winter, he’s the only one who dares to look at you not as a princess, but as something more, something no crown could ever possess.
Winter is never gentle in Esclavia. It comes early and stays late, a sovereign presence that reshapes the land and the people who survive it. Each snowfall is both a hardship and a hymn, a reminder that endurance is the oldest Esclavian virtue, that beauty can exist even in scarcity. The streets fill with drifts that grow chest-high, ice cracks across the river, and every roof in Olyth gleams beneath a crust of white. Yet with each storm, the city answers back: doors thrown open to neighbors, bonfires kindled in every square, and laughter echoing from behind shuttered windows. Christmas here is not just holy, it’s defiance, a promise that light returns even after the longest dark.
The season draws every citizen into ritual. On solstice eve, ancient bonfires roar in the city squares, their sparks leaping like omens into the velvet sky. Children sing carols with cracked, pink faces while elders pass mugs of spiced milk, recalling tales of winters survived and loves lost and found again. At midnight, the royal family leads a candlelit procession to the old chapel, hands joined, feet crunching through snow. Gifts are gathered all month for the poorest in the city: shoes, scarves, loaves of sweet bread. There it’s superstition whispered in every household that on the night when the sun is weakest, the oldest magic walks among them, blessings and curses riding the wind, destinies rewritten for those brave or desperate enough to ask. In these rituals, memory and hope are woven together, and each year’s Christmas feels at once new and impossibly old.
For the House of Valestria, winter is a stage where power must be performed, not merely felt. Every garland, every feast, every act of generosity is watched by the court and by envoys from distant lands. Alliances hinge on the palace’s ability to project stability and grace, on the Queen’s composure, on the princess’s charm, on the strength and unity displayed before guests who may one day be allies or rivals. Christmas in the palace is all silk and silver, toasts and treaties, with every smile and bow rehearsed until it becomes second nature. Yet beneath the polished veneer, everyone knows that one poorly chosen word or gesture could ripple out into war or ruin. The world is watching, and every flicker of candlelight feels like a spotlight.
For you, the season is tinged with bittersweet longing. You remember when Christmas was magic, a warm hush in the nursery, oranges in your stockings, your father lifting you high to hang the last golden apple on the tree. Now, as your name is whispered through ballrooms and your face appears on holiday medallions, the holiday feels both larger and lonelier. You see your reflection in the grand mirrors and think of the girl you were, wide-eyed, dreaming, unburdened by duty. Yet you hold fiercely to the things that keep your heart soft. You do more than attend ceremonies or smile from gilded balconies. On the mornings when snow buries the palace gates, you ride out wrapped in furs and visit the city’s orphanages, kneeling among the smallest children to hand out warm pastries and carved toys. You spend long afternoons in hospital wards, bringing violets to feverish children and reading stories to the elderly whose families have stopped visiting. On Christmas Eve, you move quietly through the poor districts, leaving baskets of coal, candles, and dried fruit at doors marked by hardship. You make sure every prison cell receives a letter of hope, every widow a basket of bread, every lonely soul a token to remind them they have not been forgotten.
You don’t choose only the young or the picturesque; you remember the forgotten men in the workhouses, the old seamstress who has outlived her children, the silent girls who watch celebrations through frost-bitten glass. On your instructions, the palace kitchens triple their bread-making, and you personally oversee the parceling of gifts, never letting your attendants rush you, always asking each recipient’s name, always listening to their stories. In these moments, with wind stinging your cheeks and strangers pressing your hands in gratitude, you reclaim a small piece of childhood wonder. You cannot choose your fate, nor the marriage that will shape your future, but you can choose how your kingdom remembers you, open-hearted, unafraid, determined to make the coldest season a little warmer for those most likely to be forgotten.
“Miss, your carriage is ready,” Sunghoon announces, his voice low and steady as velvet, slicing through the whirlwind of your thoughts with a clarity that pulls you back to the present. The world narrows to the space between you, his outstretched gloved hand an invitation and a command all at once. When you lift your gaze to meet him, the candlelight catches in his eyes, dark, fathomless, holding secrets you’re desperate to understand and warnings you don’t dare ignore. The sound of the crowd outside fades; there’s only the quickening beat of your own heart, the dizzying rush of anticipation, the cold edge of uncertainty threading through your veins. For a moment, nothing else matters, not the music drifting down the halls, not the weight of your gown or the crush of expectation, not even the promise of a prince waiting inside the ballroom. It’s just Sunghoon’s eyes on you, fierce and unwavering, and the thrill that maybe, in all this ceremony and chaos, someone truly sees you.
You settle into the velvet-lined carriage, the chill from the palace stones lingering in your bones despite the thick furs wrapped around your shoulders. Your hand finds Soobin’s, his fingers clumsy in their tiny gloves as he swings his legs excitedly, boots barely grazing the carriage floor. The city waits beyond the glass, all glittering torches and the shimmer of falling snow, and you catch your own reflection, flushed and wide-eyed, heart stuttering as the horses stamp impatiently. Soobin squeezes your hand, voice bright. “Look, the people are out for us!” he chirps, pressing his nose to the window, his laughter bubbling up so loud you’re certain the whole royal guard can hear.
You lean closer, brushing his hair with gentle fingers. “They’re out to see you, you know. I think you’re the real star tonight.”
Soobin grins, cheeks apple-red. “No way, everyone’s talking about you and the prince.” He waggles his brows, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Mama says you might get a kiss under the mistletoe.”
You stifle a smile, pinching his knee until he squirms. “Don’t listen to Mama’s stories. I’m here for the cakes and the music, just like you.” Soobin beams, unbothered by grandeur or duty, waving enthusiastically as the carriage passes crowds of bundled townsfolk, their cheers muffled by snow and distance.
Across from you, Sunghoon sits impossibly still, posture ramrod-straight in the flickering candlelight. The uniform hugs his frame, broad shoulders, chest rising and falling slow and steady, the silver crest at his breast catching every glow. His face is half-shadowed, chiseled and severe, a study in restraint. Only his eyes move, flicking from the snow-whitened streets to you and Soobin, the line of his jaw hard as stone. One gloved hand rests on the hilt of his sword, thumb tracing a familiar groove in the leather. There’s a steadiness to him, a gravity that settles over the whole carriage, like nothing could touch you while he’s near.
He speaks only when necessary, voice pitched low and respectful, never letting emotion crack through. “Is the carriage warm enough for you, Miss?” he asks, gaze darting to your lap, where Soobin now sits curled against your side.
You nod, biting back a thousand things you’ll never say in front of your brother, in front of the city, in front of the night. “It’s perfect, thank you, Sir Jeong.” Sunghoon’s lips twitch—almost a smile, but not quite—and you feel the heat rise beneath your skin.
Soobin watches this exchange with theatrical suspicion, whispering too loudly, “Why’s he so serious all the time? Do you think he ever smiles when you’re not looking?”
You laugh, ruffling Soobin’s hair, glancing at Sunghoon with a challenge you hope he reads. “He smiles when he thinks no one can see. Dragons don’t show their teeth unless they mean it.”
Sunghoon’s jaw tenses, but you see a flicker of something in his eyes, a silent promise, a secret offered in the hush of velvet and fur. For a heartbeat, you imagine what it would be to lean forward, close that space, press your palm to his cheek and feel him soften just for you. But the city is rolling past in a blur of light and sound, and the spell breaks before it can become anything more than wishful thinking.
The carriage rattles over cobblestones, the world outside turning soft and golden, torches flickering as townsfolk lift their lanterns and call out blessings. Inside, the air grows thick with expectation. Soobin babbles about the feast, demanding to know if there will be candied walnuts, if he can sneak extra slices of cake, if he’ll be allowed to stay up past midnight. You answer every question, voice gentle, even as your thoughts drift elsewhere, toward the ballroom, the prince, the marriage, and the weight of a kingdom pressed onto your shoulders. Through it all, Sunghoon sits silent, eyes unblinking, every muscle coiled as if waiting for some unseen danger to emerge.
You risk one last look at him before the carriage draws to a halt, the palace looming above you in a blaze of light. Sunghoon’s gaze is already there, steady, unwavering, a fortress built just for you. In that moment, with your brother’s laughter still ringing in your ears and the whole world watching, you understand what it means to be protected by someone who would burn the world for your safety. And as the carriage door opens and Sunghoon steps out first, every inch the untouchable guardian, you know tonight’s promises are only just beginning.
It’s impossible to look away from Sunghoon, the way his shoulders fill out the black velvet of his uniform, every line of muscle shaped by years of training, by nights spent in the bitter cold or the palace’s dim-lit halls. His jaw is hard and uncompromising, his mouth a line cut from steel, but there’s a wildness in his eyes that sends heat crawling up your neck. He stands between you and the rest of the world, as if he alone could shield you from everything hungry and sharp that waits beyond the torches. In the lamplight, he’s all edges and shadow, a living promise of violence, his body built for battle and restraint both. Your gaze catches on the veins in his forearms as his fingers flex against the hilt of his sword, a silent reminder of just how much force he holds back.
You know what the court whispers, how the nobles call him the palace dragon, half in jest and half in warning. They don’t know the truth: how he’s taken blades meant for you, bled in your stead, how his scars are old vows etched into flesh. There’s a legend in Esclavia that dragons guard the purest treasure, burning down entire kingdoms for what’s theirs, and sometimes you think Sunghoon is the last of them—coiled, lethal, unwilling to let anything touch what he claims as his own. You’ve seen him snap commands that bring grown men to heel, break a would-be assassin’s wrist with a flick of his hand, stand silent and unblinking when threats arrive dressed as suitors or smiling diplomats. He’s stoic, untouchable, a wall of muscle and will, but when his gaze lands on you, it feels like the world narrows to a single burning line.
There’s a thrill in knowing what lengths he’d go to, how he never sleeps when you’re ill, how he rides beside your carriage even through sleet and thunder, how he’s refused every honor that would take him further from your side. Tonight, his restraint is a knife’s edge; you sense it in the way he watches you, in the flicker of something raw and possessive every time your eyes meet. The candlelight sets his features ablaze, gold on the strong cut of his throat, shadow across the hollow where his collarbone disappears beneath stiff, immaculate cloth. You wonder if anyone else sees it, the way he burns, the way he belongs to you in every way that matters. For a heartbeat, the ballroom vanishes, the crowds and the crown and the palace with all its watchful eyes. There’s just you, your trembling breath, and the dragon who would raze the world before letting anyone else lay claim to your name.
For a fleeting moment, you wonder if Prince Heeseung is watching you even now, somewhere beyond the ballroom’s golden doors. You hope—desperately, foolishly—that your future husband will carry the same softness you’ve fought so hard to protect in yourself. You want him to believe in giving for the sake of it, to understand why you wake before dawn to bring bread to orphans, why you kneel in snow beside a stranger’s bedside, why you never let a Christmas pass without finding some small way to heal what the world leaves broken. You hope he’ll want a queen whose worth is measured not by her dowry or her smile but by how she spends her power, how fiercely she loves the forgotten. You hope, when the vows are spoken, he’ll see the shape of your heart in every act of mercy, every hand you reach for in the darkness of winter.
But in this room, under Sunghoon’s unflinching gaze, you feel the danger and longing tangled together, knowing he’s seen every secret kindness, every small rebellion, every moment you tried to soften the palace’s hard edges. There’s a yearning in you that wants more than alliance or treaty; you want to be chosen for who you are, not just what you can provide. For one reckless, aching second, you imagine a future where the man at your side is the one who understands the shape of your soul, someone as fierce in his devotion as he is gentle with the vulnerable, someone who would set the world alight to defend your kindness. You can’t let yourself hope for that, not with the kingdom’s eyes on you and duty drawing tighter with every breath, but tonight, beneath the palace’s watchful chandeliers, you can’t help but wish.
The palace’s grand entrance is awash with golden light, every torch and candelabra burning against the winter night as the carriage draws up to the steps. The cold slaps your cheeks when the door opens, but it’s quickly swallowed by the electric warmth of a hundred watching eyes. The hush that falls over the crowd is almost physical; your velvet gown is a river of blue and silver spilling down the steps, every crystal and sapphire shimmering like ice under the torchlight. Courtiers stand shoulder to shoulder, their silks rustling, jewels winking from the galleries above, and you can feel the weight of expectation pinning you in place. This is what you were trained for, shoulders back, chin high, the practiced smile but nothing ever prepares you for the moment the doors swing wide and the entire kingdom seems to inhale, waiting to see if you’ll rise or falter.
Your little brother squeezes your hand before he’s whisked away by a nursemaid, his parting grin lingering like a blessing. You take a careful breath, feeling every pair of eyes in the room slide over you: some full of hunger, some hope, others envy or calculation. Your gown feels impossibly heavy, trailing frost and promise behind you, the sapphires at your throat cold against your skin. Music trembles through the hall, strings and bells, something old and grand and you step forward, every move measured, every heartbeat echoing with the memory of Sunghoon’s unwavering gaze. Behind you, you can sense him, always present, always a fortress in the crowd.
It isn’t long before you’re surrounded: lords and ladies bow, countesses titter behind their fans, and the king’s advisor offers you a toast. Yet the room shifts as Prince Heeseung enters, announced with a fanfare and a sweep of velvet so dark it seems to swallow the candlelight. He moves through the crowd like a figure carved from legend, tall and immaculate, diamonds glittering at his cuffs, his crown subtle but impossible to ignore. The courtiers part for him; all conversation dies as he approaches. His eyes are cool, almost assessing, but his smile is sharp, a predator’s smile, used to being adored, used to getting what he wants.
He bows with precision, then takes your gloved hand in his own, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before leading you to the center of the floor. “You’re even more radiant than the portraits promised, Princess,” he says, voice smooth as cream but edged with calculation. The first chords of the waltz fill the room, and he draws you into the dance, every movement perfectly executed, every gesture a display meant for the watching world. “You must be aware of what this night means. Our families have planned this union for years. I trust you’ll find Arsteyn… accommodating.” His hand tightens ever so slightly at your waist, a claim, not an invitation.
You let the dance carry you, searching his eyes for softness, for curiosity, for anything beyond ambition and old money. Instead, you find a glittering emptiness, a hunger for acquisition. Heeseung speaks in the language of commerce and conquest: the size of his estates, the yield of his harvests, the influence of his treasury. He asks about your dowry, the strength of Esclavia’s alliances, how many balls you’ve attended, how well you ride and play the courtly games. When you try to steer the conversation toward your work with orphans or the winter rituals that mean so much to your people, he hums dismissively, barely disguising his boredom.
“I believe it’s best to leave charity to the clergy,” he says, voice polite but cool. “A queen’s duty is to secure lineage, strengthen the crown, and keep the palace bright. Sentiment is admirable, but it can’t fill the coffers or fortify the borders. You’ll have all the luxury you could wish for in Arsteyn. My court expects nothing less from a future queen.” The words land heavy, the implication clear: your heart, your hopes, the softness you hold as sacred are nothing more than decoration, easily replaced by gold and rule.
Your steps falter, just slightly, just enough for him to notice. His eyes narrow, his lips curve into the suggestion of a smile, but there’s nothing tender in it. “I see you have a mind for these things,” he murmurs, “but I assure you, the world is not changed by sentiment. It’s changed by power, and those who understand how to wield it.” The waltz spins you beneath the chandeliers, the faces of the court blurring at the edges, and for the first time you feel the true weight of what’s being asked of you: not just to stand beside him, but to become invisible within his world, to turn your soul into another trophy for his collection.
A strange chill threads through you, sharper than the winter wind outside. You think of the old stories, of queens who vanished behind their husbands’ crowns, of princesses who surrendered their names and dreams for the promise of safety. You think of Sunghoon watching from the shadows, fierce and steadfast, the only person in the room whose gaze holds any warmth, any real understanding of who you are. Prince Heeseung twirls you, a perfect display for the watching world, but your mind is already elsewhere, tracing every escape route, every remembered kindness, every lesson about the danger of being truly seen. For the first time all night, you wish the dance would end.
The waltz ends in a wash of applause and glittering smiles, the sound ringing too loud in your ears. Prince Heeseung releases you with a bow that feels rehearsed down to the angle of his spine, but his hand doesn’t leave your waist immediately. His fingers press through silk, deliberate, proprietary, as if testing how firmly you’re meant to stand beside him. When he looks at you now, there’s something sharper beneath the polish, a flicker of entitlement that makes your stomach tighten. “You dance well,” he says quietly, his voice pitched low so only you can hear, “which is fortunate. My court values elegance. Control.” His gaze drifts, not lewd, not overt, but assessing, measuring you the way one might assess land or livestock. “We’ll speak again tonight. I’d prefer privacy next time.” The words are smooth, almost courteous, but they leave a chill crawling under your skin.
Your breath catches, pulse skipping. You manage a smile because you were raised to, because the court is watching, because every second you hesitate becomes something to gossip over. “Of course,” you reply softly, though your throat feels tight, your palms damp beneath your gloves. He inclines his head, satisfied, already turning as if the matter is settled. The crowd presses in again, murmuring approval, but the air feels wrong now, too close, too warm. You excuse yourself with a hand to your temple, murmuring something about needing air, and before anyone can stop you, you slip through the edge of the ballroom, past towering columns and into the dimmer arteries of the palace.
The corridor beyond is colder, quieter, lined with pale stone and tall windows rimmed with frost. You brace one hand against the marble wall, the chill biting into your palm as you drag in a shaky breath. The music bleeds through the walls in a softened echo, distant laughter and clinking glasses reminding you that the world hasn’t paused just because something inside you has cracked. Your hands tremble now that no one’s watching. Anger coils low in your chest, tangled with disappointment, with a hollow ache you weren’t prepared for. You’d hoped, foolishly, maybe, that Prince Heeseung might understand the things that matter to you. The giving. The people. The quiet acts of kindness that feel heavier than gold. Instead, his words replay in your head like a verdict: Control. Elegance. Value. As if you’re something to be displayed, not felt.
You don’t hear footsteps at first. You sense him before you see him, the shift in the air, the way the corridor seems to settle. Sunghoon stands at the far end, half in shadow, posture unmistakable even in the low light. He hasn’t rushed you, hasn’t drawn attention, just appeared, like he always does, exactly when you need him. “Miss,” he says gently, formally, as if the word itself might steady you. “Are you unwell?” His voice is controlled, respectful, but his eyes are anything but distant. They track the tightness in your shoulders, the way you’re holding yourself together by sheer will.
You turn to face him, and something in you breaks just enough to let the truth show. “I’m fine,” you say, and then exhale sharply, the lie dissolving. “I’m not.” The words spill out softer than you mean them to. “He doesn’t see me. He sees what I represent. What I can give him.” Your laugh is quiet, brittle. “He spoke about me like I was already his. Like my thoughts, my work, my heart, none of it mattered.”
Sunghoon steps closer without thinking, stopping himself only when he’s a respectful distance away, fists clenched at his sides. His jaw tightens, something dark flickering behind his eyes. “That’s not how he should’ve spoken to you,” he says, carefully, because everything he says is with restraint, said with obedience. “You deserve more regard than that.”
The silence between you thickens, charged. Candlelight from a nearby sconce paints his face in gold and shadow, carving out the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the firm line of his mouth. He looks carved from stone like this, broad shoulders straining against the cut of his uniform, every inch of him disciplined, restrained, dangerous. You realize how close he is now, how the warmth of him bleeds into the cold air, how your breathing has synced to the steady rise and fall of his chest. “I should fetch the Queen,” he says quietly, duty asserting itself like a reflex. “She should know—”
“No,” you interrupt, turning toward him fully. “Please. Don’t.” Your voice wavers, vulnerable in a way you never allow yourself to be. “Just stay. I don’t want anyone else right now.” His breath stutters. For the first time, you see him hesitate, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he wants to too much.
“If I stay,” he murmurs, lowering his voice, “I won’t be able to pretend I feel nothing.” His eyes drop briefly to your mouth, then lift again, as if chastising himself. “And that isn’t my place.”
You step closer, the hem of your gown brushing his boots, your fingers hovering near his wrist. “I don’t need you to pretend,” you say softly. “I need you to be here.”
When your fingertips finally touch him, it’s barely there—a brush of skin against leather—but the reaction is immediate. His hand opens instinctively, fingers curling around yours, grounding, possessive, restrained only by will. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your knuckles, reverent. “I won’t let him make you feel small. Not tonight. Not ever.” The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, protective, intimate in a way no vow spoken aloud ever could.
You stand there together, bodies close enough to feel the heat, the pulse, the promise of something forbidden pressing in from all sides. His forehead dips closer to yours, breath warm against your cheek. For one dangerous moment, the palace fades, the crown, the court, the prince. There’s just this narrow corridor, the echo of your heart, the dragon standing between you and everything that would claim you without love. Then voices rise somewhere nearby, footsteps approaching, and reality crashes back in. Sunghoon straightens first, hand falling away with visible effort, control snapping back into place. You catch his wrist before he can retreat. “Stay with me,” you whisper. “Don’t leave me alone tonight.”
He holds your gaze for a long, aching second, then nods once. “As long as you need me, Miss,” he replies. And you know it’s the truest promise you’ve heard all evening.
You don’t look away from him, not for a second. Your breath catches, and you feel the hush of the winter night pressing in close around your private world, soft and fragile. “Lock the door,” you say, your voice steady and low, no room for hesitation. The air between you hums with new electricity, sharper and sweeter than before.
He blinks, his mouth parting in surprise, eyes wide and dark. “What, Miss?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe you’ve spoken the command out loud, as if the intimacy of the moment could possibly deepen.
You tilt your chin up, hand still pressed to his thigh, gaze never faltering. “I said, lock the door. You must listen to me now, Sunghoon.” The words settle over the space like velvet, soft and absolute.
He draws a slow, shaky breath, and something in his posture shifts, the quiet surrender of a knight laying down his sword at his lady’s feet. “Yes, Miss,” he answers, voice rough with longing and devotion. He stands and crosses the room, his footsteps silent on the carpet, the fire painting gold across his shoulders. You watch the strong line of his back, the tension in his hands as he slides the bolt home, the metallic click sealing you away from the world and the expectations that have pressed against you both all evening.
When he turns, the look in his eyes is only for you—hungry, reverent, and waiting for your next command, as if he knows the shape of every dream you’ve ever had. For the first time, you realize just how much power you hold in this room. And just how ready he is to give himself to you, to obey not as a servant, but as the man who has always watched, always wanted, always protected. The hush is absolute, the promise between you sharp as new ice, as inevitable as midnight snowfall outside your window.
The fire has burned low by the time the room settles into that tender, cloistered quiet, the kind that only comes when two people have stripped each other bare in every way that matters. Sunghoon sits close, his knee angled toward yours, forearm resting along the back of the settee, a barrier and an invitation all at once. Outside, the ton continues its endless, glossy swirl, all whispered judgments and polished masks, but here his attention never wavers from you. “They expect you to shine and bend at the same time,” he says quietly, voice steady and knowing. “To be beautiful, agreeable, untouchable. It’s a cruel game, Miss.”
You laugh softly, bitter and fond all at once, nodding because he’s right, because he’s always seen it so clearly. “They want women ornamental,” you reply, your fingers absently tracing the seam of his glove, “but obedient. Generous, but silent. Charitable, but never powerful.” His gaze sharpens with something like pride, like recognition of a secret you both share. There’s a warmth in his eyes that feels like shelter.
He shifts closer, so close now that his thigh presses into yours, grounding, deliberate, protective. “That’s why I watch,” he says simply. “The ton doesn’t get to take what it hasn’t earned.” There’s no bravado in it, no empty gallantry, just a quiet, unwavering certainty that makes your chest tighten. You find yourself telling him about Christmas mornings, about how you’ve always believed that giving should sting a little, that charity is only real when it costs you, when it’s anonymous. “Kindness loses its meaning when it’s performed for applause,” you say, voice low. His mouth curves, soft and real. “My mother used to say the same,” he murmurs. “If no one knows it was you, then it was pure.”
The conversation drifts easily, your values lining up like pieces of a puzzle. You talk about protecting the vulnerable, about how power should always lean downward, never press from above. He tells you he chose this life not for glory, but for proximity, close enough to intervene, close enough to shield. “I don’t believe in spectacle,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “I believe in standing between.” The words settle deep, intimate, and you feel a heat coil in your belly, a different kind of arousal, one born from safety and certainty.
You mention the whispers, the way the ton watches you too closely, measuring your worth by who stands beside you. His jaw tightens, just a fraction, his hand flexing. “Let them look,” he says quietly. “They’ll never see what’s mine to guard.” The possessiveness is soft but unmistakable, threaded with respect rather than ownership, and it makes your pulse stutter.
You lean in, your shoulder brushing his chest, the warmth of him bleeding through layers of fabric. “You never try to change me,” you say softly. “You only make sure I get to stay myself.” His hand tightens on the cushion, restrained, controlled, and you know that discipline is a choice, not a lack of desire.
The fire pops, sending sparks briefly upward, and in that flicker you see him so clearly, every night he’s walked half a step behind you, every room he’s scanned before you entered, every glance that asked permission rather than claimed it. “It’s never been about orders,” he replies, voice thick with something you recognize instantly. “It’s about trust.” The word lands between you, intimate as a touch. Your breath grows shallow, awareness blooming, your body remembering how his mouth felt earlier, how his voice sounds when it breaks just for you. You shift closer, letting your knee brush against his, and feel his attention sharpen, heat responding to heat.
You talk about legacy, about wanting to leave the world gentler than you found it, about believing that real goodness is quiet, not performative. He nods, earnest, unwavering. “Then I’ll make sure you get the chance,” he promises. “That nothing stops you, not even the world itself.” There’s reverence in it, something fiercely devoted. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, grounding yourself before the emotion tips into something dangerous. The ton, the expectations, the noise, all of it feels impossibly distant compared to the man before you, who has always chosen protection over possession.
It hits you then—sudden, overwhelming—the truth of it: every boundary he’s held, every watchful silence, every restrained touch has been an act of devotion. Your breath hitches, a soft, traitorous sound slipping from your throat before you can stop it, half gasp, half moan, thick with realization. His eyes darken instantly, fixing on your mouth, your flushed cheeks, the way your body betrays you. “Are you all right?” he asks, voice low, careful, but there’s tension in it now, coiled and waiting, like the moment before a storm breaks.
You swallow, then let a slow, wicked smile curl your lips. You lean in, lips brushing just shy of his ear, your hand sliding slowly up his thigh. “I’ve just realized something,” you whisper, your voice dropping, forward and hot. “The true guard of my heart has been standing right in front of me all along.” His breath stutters against your skin, control fraying. You press closer, letting your teeth graze the shell of his ear, and murmur, “My knight. My bodyguard. My shining prince in armor.” This time, the moan that escapes you isn’t restrained at all, and neither is the way his hand finally finds your waist, the promise between you shifting, hungry and real.
You let your eyes meet his, unguarded, letting him see every ounce of want. “Sunghoon,” you whisper, voice trembling with certainty and heat, “I want you—now. I want all of you. I want you to fuck me like I’m yours, because I always have been.” His answering look is nothing short of worship. The world outside is winter, bitter and unyielding, but here, in this moment, you realize he has always been the one who kept out the cold—the only guard your heart has ever needed, your knight shining beneath the weight of a thousand quiet promises, the warmth and strength of your forever.
He barely waits for the hallway to clear before he has you pressed back against the cold marble, the shock of it stealing the air from your lungs, making your gasp bloom into a moan. Sunghoon’s hands are on you, big and rough, velvet and leather and need, all restraint burned away. He hauls you up with a force that leaves your slippers dangling above the floor, mouth crashing down on yours, hungry and messy and starved. His tongue pushes deep, tasting, claiming, spitting into your mouth as you arch into him, greedy for every ounce of his attention. “Been waiting to ruin you,” he growls, breath hot against your jaw, voice shaking with how much he’s held back. “Don’t want you gentle tonight. Want you filthy, want you loud for me. You understand?”
You’re already nodding, too lost in the wet slide of his lips over yours, the way he bites down, bruises blooming on your lower lip, dragging you closer, his palm sliding up your throat. His grip tightens, thumb pressed under your jaw, just enough to make your vision blur, your next moan coming out broken and high. “Let them hear you, princess,” he rasps, grinding his hips into yours until you can feel the length of him, hard and hot, pressing into the silk at your core. He grins when you gasp, teeth flashing as he mouths at your neck, sucking bruises into the skin just above your collar. “Want you marked. Want them to know who you belong to tonight.”
His fingers work fast, hiking your skirts up around your hips, baring your thighs to the cold and the dark, slipping between your legs with greedy intent. You shudder when he finds you slick, two fingers rubbing over your soaked panties, then pulling them to the side, the tip of his finger teasing at your entrance before sliding in. “So fucking wet for me already,” he murmurs, dark and triumphant, spitting into his palm before driving his fingers deeper, curling up inside you until your hips buck. He bites at your throat, licking the bruises he’s left, his free hand pinning your wrists above your head, his grip unyielding as he fucks you on his fingers, each thrust rough and hungry.
The air is thick with the wet sounds of his hand working you open, your breath ragged, every gasp and cry bouncing off the stone walls. You rut against him, grinding down on his palm, desperate for more, for anything, choking on your own need. “Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice guttural, hot breath flooding your ear. “Want me to ruin this pretty dress? Want me to fuck you so hard you can’t walk back into that ballroom?” His teeth drag down your throat, leaving a line of spit and bruises, and you sob his name, the sound filthy and desperate.
He spits in your mouth again, thumb pushing it down over your tongue, groaning when you swallow it without shame. “Look at you, princess. You were made for this. So needy, so fucking good for me.” His fingers never slow, working deeper, faster, until you’re keening for him, grinding yourself against his thigh. His hand leaves your throat to cup your jaw, thumb forcing your mouth open, tongue tangling with yours in another sloppy, spit-slick kiss. He breaks away only to whisper against your lips, “You want to cum for me right here? Let me feel you pulse on my hand while the whole palace listens?”
Your legs tremble, muscles tight with pleasure, his body holding you up when you might collapse. He lets go of your wrists, both hands now on your waist as he lifts you up higher, grinding his cock against your core, barely separated by ruined silk and lace. “Beg for it,” he hisses, rutting against you, every motion desperate, dirty, the heat between you searing. “Beg me to make you mine. Beg me to keep you.” His forehead drops to yours, sweat and spit and need mingling, his mouth claiming yours again in a kiss that’s more violence than tenderness.
He slides two fingers into your mouth, forcing them deep, making you gag and drool as you suck them, your own slick and his spit coating your tongue. “Good girl,” he praises, voice breaking, cock grinding into you harder, deeper, the friction making you see stars. His teeth sink into your shoulder, his other hand slipping between your thighs again, thumb circling your clit, his movements ruthless, relentless, until you’re crying out, shaking in his grip. He groans against your neck, biting harder, marking you with every inch of himself, not stopping until you’re shattered in his hands, all thought burned away by how fiercely he’s claimed you.
And when you finally break for him, your whole body wracked with pleasure, he catches you, pulls you into his chest, breathing you in like a man starved. “Mine,” he whispers against your ear, voice wrecked. “No one else gets this. No one else ever will.”
Sunghoon doesn’t bother undressing you all the way, he wants you desperate, helpless, still half-swallowed by silk and velvet. He grabs your wrists and spins you toward the heavy wooden table in the shadows, forcing your chest down, ass arching up for him, your dress bunched high around your hips. The heat of his body crowds behind you, his thighs hard as marble, cock already leaking against the curve of your ass. His hand slides up your spine, possessive and rough, before he yanks your panties aside and lines himself up, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. “Keep your mouth shut, princess,” he growls, voice thick with need. “Unless you want the whole fucking palace to hear how wrecked you are for me.” You choke on a gasp as he thrusts in all at once, his palm clamping over your mouth, smothering your moans as he fills you to the hilt.
The stretch is brutal, your walls fluttering around him, every inch of him hot and thick, dragging a filthy cry from your throat that he catches in his hand. “You like this, don’t you?” he whispers, breath hot against your ear as he fucks into you, slow and deep at first, his hips grinding into your ass, the slap of flesh obscene in the echoing dark. Your fingers claw at the table, legs shaking, desperate for friction, for more. Sunghoon’s other hand snakes under you, palm flattening against your belly, holding you in place as he slams into you, pace relentless. “Look at you,” he taunts, biting at the shell of your ear. “Bent over like you’re made for me. So fucking perfect, so needy, so loud, can you feel how deep I am? You’re going to take it, princess. Every single inch.”
His hand leaves your mouth for a second, just enough for your voice to spill out—choked moans, curses, pleas. “Fuck, Sunghoon—” you gasp, and he shoves two fingers between your lips, forcing your mouth open. “Say my name again. Tell me how good I make you feel.” He never lets up, pounding into you, hips flush with your ass, his cock hitting that spot that makes your vision go white. You’re drooling around his fingers, begging for more, for anything, for him to never stop. “You feel that?” he says, teeth scraping along your neck. “How tight you are? You’re so fucking wet for me. This pussy was made for my cock. I want you ruined, so every step you take tomorrow reminds you you’re mine.”
You can barely speak, voice breaking around his fingers. “Yours, I’m yours, fuck—don’t stop, Sunghoon, please—” His grip tightens, body shuddering behind you, sweat dripping down his temple, his muscles bulging as he drives into you harder. “You’re going to remember this, aren’t you?” he spits, filthy and low. “Every time that pathetic little prince looks at you, you’ll remember how I split you open, how you begged me for it, how I make you cum.”
You cry out, walls clenching, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure up your spine, mind gone with the stretch and the sound of him breaking you apart. “Say it,” he demands, “say you love being fucked like this.”
And you do, breathless and shameless, “I fucking love it, Sunghoon—don’t stop, don’t ever fucking stop—”
He drags you up by the hair, chest flush to your back, his arm snaking around your throat. His thumb finds the hollow under your jaw, pressing just enough to make your head spin, make your pulse thunder. “Look at me,” he snarls, forcing your gaze to the window’s reflection, where you can see his eyes gone black with lust, your face wild, lips parted, flushed and teary. “You see what you do to me?” His cock pulses inside you, every thrust making you gasp for air, every squeeze of his hand sending lightning through your nerves. “You like being choked, don’t you? My perfect little slut, so pretty when you’re desperate for breath.”
Your hands fly up to his wrist, not to push him away but to hold him tighter, your body arching into the choke. He leans down, voice pure filth against your cheek, “Breathe for me, darling. Take what I give you. Take everything.” He keeps you pinned, his hips snapping up, forcing you to take him deep, your eyes meeting his in the glass, nothing but raw want and need reflected back. “Look at you—ruined and perfect. You’ll cum just from this, won’t you? From the way I own you. Say it.”
You gasp, words trembling on the edge of a sob, “I want it, Sunghoon, I want you to choke me, want you to fuck me, I want all of you—” And he rewards you with another brutal thrust, eyes never leaving yours as you fall apart.
He pulls out suddenly, spinning you to face him, both of you panting, sweat sticking your dress to your skin. Sunghoon grips your chin, forcing your mouth open, and spits right onto your tongue, eyes burning. “Swallow it,” he commands, and you do without hesitation, moaning as his spit slides down your throat. “Good fucking girl,” he says, voice thick with pride and need. “Open your legs for me.” You obey, shameless and hungry, hiking your skirts, and he drops to his knees, grabbing your thighs, spreading you wide.
He spits again, this time right onto your pussy, his fingers gathering it and your slick, rubbing rough circles into your clit. “Look how messy you are for me. I want you ruined, want you dripping down your thighs when you walk back in there.” He laps at you, tongue greedy, teeth scraping your inner thigh, sucking marks that’ll last for days. You grind down onto his face, desperate, fingers tugging his hair. “That’s it, princess—fuck my mouth. Let them see you limp tomorrow. Let them see who fucked you open.” You cry out, shameless, begging him for more, and he eats you like he’s starved.
He stands abruptly, lifting you with brute force, pressing you against the wall, one leg hiked over his hip. The length of him rubs along your soaked folds, every grind making your nerves sing. His hand wraps around your thigh, squeezing hard, fingers digging into soft flesh, bruising you. “You feel that?” he pants, cock sliding through your slick, bumping your clit with every rough thrust. “You’re fucking mine, say it—” He punctuates his words with a sharp slap to your ass, the sound echoing, the sting making you arch into him, shameless.
You wrap your arms around his neck, nails digging in, rocking your hips into him, greedy for friction, for fullness, for the burn. “I’m yours, Sunghoon, yours—fuck me, please, harder—” He grins, wild and dark, and slaps your thigh, then your ass again, making you yelp, his voice pure command.
“You want it filthy, don’t you? Want everyone to see these marks, want everyone to know who made you scream.” He ruts into you, cock thick and heavy, bodies slamming together, your moans broken and raw, every inch of you on fire for him.
You’re nothing but need now, grinding down onto his cock, his thigh, his hands—whatever he’ll give you, you take. “Sunghoon, please,” you whine, voice rough, desperate, “I need it, need you inside me, need to cum for you. Please, I want to feel you fill me up, want you to ruin me.”
He hisses, grip tightening, eyes blown black with hunger. “Beg for it, princess. Let me hear you say how much you want to cum on my cock. Tell me you want me to cum inside you, fill you up so deep you’ll never forget it.”
“Fuck, Sunghoon, please—fill me, fill me up, I want it so bad, want your cum dripping out of me, want everyone to see I’m yours. Please, please—” Your voice cracks, body shaking, teetering on the edge.
He thrusts up into you, relentless, feral, his mouth finding your nipple, sucking, biting, leaving teeth marks that make you keen, your walls fluttering around him. “You’re gonna take every drop,” he snarls, “gonna milk my cock until there’s nothing left, then you’re going to thank me for making you mine.” You sob, overwhelmed, pleasure building, desperate for the moment you fall apart for him, for the world to fall away until there’s only Sunghoon, only you, only this.
He’s holding you down, your back arched off the table, legs forced wide by the strength in his arms. His cock is buried so deep it feels like he’s in your stomach, your cunt stretched around him, sticky and obscene, the table beneath you creaking with every brutal thrust. Sweat drips down his neck, glistening on his chest, every thick vein on his cock bulging as he fucks you open. You’re a mess for him, drooling onto your own tits, tears streaking your cheeks as you stare up at him, mouth slack, tongue out, begging for it, needing more. “Daddy, fuck, you’re so big, it hurts—keep going, don’t stop, please, fuck me harder,” you gasp, clutching his arms, nails digging in, clawing at his skin. He spits in your mouth, then across your tits, smearing it down between your breasts, biting at your nipple until you sob, his hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing, choking off your cries so you’re forced to feel everything, every inch of him slamming inside you.
He grins, dark and feral, his eyes so black it’s like he’s not even human, just hunger and heat and power, cock throbbing inside you. “Fucking slut,” he growls, slapping your cheek, making you moan, your cunt spasming around him, “You love getting used, don’t you? You love Daddy’s cock ruining your tight little pussy, stretching you out until you can’t take it.” You whimper, grinding up to meet his thrusts, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room, your own filth soaking down your thighs. “Yes—yes, please, Daddy, fuck me, ruin me, make me yours. I want it so bad, want you to cum in me, want everyone to see your cum dripping out of me, want to feel you leaking down my legs all night.” The sound of you begging makes him snarl, the force of his hips doubling, cock punching into you, your body shuddering as he leans down, teeth scraping over your lips, then your throat, biting, marking you up. “Say you’re Daddy’s whore. Say you’ll take every drop,” he spits, one hand on your throat, the other digging into your thigh, spreading you open, holding you exactly where he wants you.
You can barely breathe, everything raw and stretched and perfect, every thrust driving you closer to the edge. “I’m yours, Daddy, I’m your whore, your cumdump, fill me up, I want it, need it, please, please—fuck, fuck—” You’re babbling, broken, cock-drunk and wild, grabbing at his hair, dragging him into your mouth, biting his lip, smearing spit and sweat and tears together. He spits in your mouth again, slow and filthy, tongue pushing it past your lips, making you swallow, then grins down at you, savage, proud, twisting your nipple between his fingers until you scream. “Look at you—already cockdumb, already ruined for anyone else. You know nobody will ever fuck you like this, nobody will ever fill you like I do,” he pants, the veins in his arms straining, his body shuddering over you, his cock swollen and angry, throbbing inside you with every desperate pulse.
He drags you up, throws you over his thigh, making you straddle him, his cock slapping wet and heavy against your clit, your slick running down his leg, smearing everywhere. “Ride Daddy’s thigh, slut. Show me how bad you want it,” he commands, voice low and rough. You obey instantly, grinding down hard, your clit catching on the hard muscle, the sweat-slick skin, every movement raw and electric. You’re so wet you can hear it, the filthiest, wettest sounds filling the air, your moans turning into cries, your whole body shuddering as you chase it, desperate for friction, for that sharp, wicked release. “Oh my God, Sunghoon, Daddy, I can’t—I’m gonna cum, please, I’m gonna soak you, please—” He just laughs, sharp and cruel, his hands gripping your hips, rocking you faster, making sure you rub your swollen cunt over every inch of his thigh, dragging it out, making you earn it.
He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, mouth hot on your ear, teeth scraping over your neck, biting until you squeal, until you go limp for him, utterly owned. “Good fucking girl,” he whispers, words dripping into your ear like poison, “Look at the mess you’re making. Soaking my thigh, drooling, begging for my cock—fucking insatiable.” You nod, wild, needy, grinding and grinding, chasing the edge, riding his thigh like you’ll die if you stop, your cunt clenching on nothing, desperate to be full again. “Please, Daddy, please, I need your cock, I need you to fill me up, I need you to cum inside me, please, fuck me, fuck me now—” You’re crying for it, hands slipping on his sweaty skin, trying to force yourself back onto his cock, greedy and shameless and needy.
He lifts you like nothing, throws you face-down over the table, yanks your ass up, spreads you open, spits on your pussy, then slams into you so deep you see stars. “Take it, take every fucking inch, you filthy little bitch,” he snarls, his cock splitting you open, driving into you with animal ferocity. “You’re gonna cum for me, gonna cum on my cock, milk me dry, then you’re gonna say thank you while I fill you up.” Every thrust is brutal, overwhelming, the table rattling, your tits bouncing, his balls smacking against your swollen, aching cunt. You sob, arching back, desperate, “Yes, yes, thank you, Daddy, thank you, I want your cum, I want to be stuffed, please—” He slaps your ass, hard, the sting making you yelp, his other hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, pinning you, forcing you to take every inch, every brutal stroke.
You feel his cock swell inside you, every vein, every twitch, his cum boiling in his balls, ready to explode. “You ready, slut? Ready for Daddy to fill you up, ready for me to fuck my cum so deep inside you that you’ll be leaking for days? Gonna fuck it back into you every time you drip, gonna make you wear it, smell like me, look like you belong to me.” You can only scream for him, broken, teetering on the edge, every nerve set on fire. “Please, Daddy, please cum in me, please breed me, please fuck me full, want to feel it dripping out, want to taste it, want to be your mess—” Your whole body locks up, walls clamping down, and you cum with a scream, a blinding, brutal orgasm that rips through you, makes you claw at the table, legs shaking, cunt spasming around him, milking his cock for everything.
He doesn’t stop, not for a second, fucking you through it, fucking his cum deep, filling you over and over as his cock pulses and unloads, thick and hot and endless, dripping out around his cock, painting your thighs, running in hot, sticky streams down your legs. “That’s it, fucking take it, take all of Daddy’s cum, you little cumdump, you greedy slut. I’m not stopping until I’m empty, until you’re overflowing for me,” he snarls, grinding his cock inside you, making sure you feel every spurt, every filthy, ruined drop. You’re sobbing, out of your mind, ruined and shaking, still grinding back on him, wanting more, never satisfied, your body insatiable, always hungry for him.
He flips you again, makes you sit on his cock, facing him, his cum leaking out, pooling on the floor. He kisses you filthy, tongue down your throat, spit and cum smeared everywhere, then leans back, his hands in your hair, forcing you to look him in the eyes as he fucks up into you, using you, body slamming against his, sweat and slick and heat building again. “You think you can handle more?” he taunts, voice mocking and sweet, “You think you can take Daddy’s cock again, even when you’re fucked out, dripping, ruined? I want to see you beg. I want to see how much you’ll take for me.”
You do—you beg, shameless, desperate, words tumbling out between sobs and moans, “Please, Daddy, use me, break me, fill me again, I want it, I’ll take anything for you, please, I’m yours, only yours—” You grab his hand, shove his fingers into your mouth, sucking them deep, drooling, whimpering around them, eyes glazed, pupils blown, completely undone for him. He fucks you harder, cock thick and swollen, somehow still hard, his cum leaking out with every thrust, your cunt so full it aches, so sensitive every drag of his cock makes you see stars, tears streaking down your face as you take it, want it, beg for it.
He’s got you in his lap now, thighs spread wide, holding you open with one big hand, the other around your throat, squeezing, choking you out just enough to make your world narrow to him, his cock, the filthy, obscene pressure building again. “Look at you,” he grunts, sweat dripping onto your chest, “Fucking perfect. Made for this. Made for my cock, my cum, my mess.” You shudder, moaning, “Yes, Daddy, I’m made for you, only you, please, keep fucking me, don’t stop, don’t ever stop—” He just laughs, dark and hungry, and starts again, cock slamming up, forcing another orgasm out of you, and another, your body wrecked, shaking, ruined, and you love every filthy, fucked-out second of it.
He shoves you forward, your body folding over the table’s edge, ass high, pussy exposed, slick and leaking with the mess of his cum. His hands clamp around your hips, strong enough to leave bruises, fingers digging in as he lines himself up, notching the swollen head of his cock right against your still-throbbing entrance. He doesn’t ease in—he drives forward in one savage thrust, splitting you open all over again, your cunt spasming, struggling to accommodate his size, the stretch a delicious, burning ache. “Fuck, look at you,” he spits, voice ragged, one hand slipping up your back, pressing you down until your cheek’s flush to the cold surface, ass tipped high. “Such a filthy girl—so hungry for my cock you’re still dripping, begging for more even after I’ve ruined you. You hear that? That’s how wet you are. That’s Daddy’s cum inside you, and you’re still greedy for more.” Each word lands with a sharp smack of his palm against your ass, the sting making you cry out, thighs trembling, the noise obscene, echoing in the small space, skin-on-skin and the wet, shameless slap of your bodies coming together.
You moan, wrecked and needy, every thrust making your whole body rock forward, his cock dragging deep, hitting spots inside you that make your toes curl, your mouth open and drooling on the table. “Please, please, Daddy, don’t stop, want to feel you split me open, want to feel your cum running down my thighs, want to be used, want you to fuck me stupid—” You’re babbling, broken, crying out as his hand comes down again, this time gripping the back of your neck, forcing you to take it, holding you exactly where he wants you. His free hand slides between your legs, fingers rubbing your clit, rubbing his own cum back inside you, your body trembling, back arching, every nerve ending white-hot, desperate for the next release. “You feel that?” he growls, fucking you harder, rougher, sweat dripping from his chest onto your spine. “You’re so fucking tight, squeezing me, milking me—such a good little slut, always ready for Daddy’s cock, always begging to be filled. You love being fucked like this, don’t you? Face down, ass up, taking every inch.” He bends down, teeth scraping your shoulder, biting hard enough to leave a mark, groaning into your skin as he pistons into you, relentless, animal, cock driving so deep it punches the air from your lungs.
Your legs go weak, eyes rolling back, drool slick on your lips as he chokes you, voice broken and desperate. “Yes, Daddy—fuck, yes, I love it, I need it, I’ll take anything for you, anything, want you to fill me, want to be your good girl, your little whore, your everything—please, fuck me harder, harder—” You’re sobbing, high on pain and pleasure, clenching around him, milking his cock, wanting every filthy drop, every brutal thrust. He fucks you through it, slapping your ass, spreading you wider, shoving his thumb in your mouth, making you suck it while his cock ruins you from behind. “Take it, take it all, show me how much you love being Daddy’s perfect little cumdump.” You choke around his thumb, spit spilling down your chin, gasping out filthy thanks, your body a puppet on his cock, helpless to anything but his pace, his hunger, his need to see you broken and begging.
He doesn’t slow down, if anything he’s rougher, harder, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, the ache building again, overwhelming, the pressure mounting in your gut. He drags you upright, pulls you flush against his chest, your back slick with sweat against him. His hand slides to your throat, squeezing as he fucks up into you, your cries growing louder, higher, echoing with every slam of his hips. “You gonna cum for me, princess? Gonna make a mess for Daddy, show me how much you love it?” He pounds into you, relentless, your walls fluttering, whole body seized up as you cum again, the orgasm wringing every last bit of sanity from you, your cunt clenching, spasming, milking him for more, desperate for every last drop of his cum.
He groans, cock swelling, and cums inside you again, another thick, endless torrent, hips jerking as he fills you to overflowing, cum oozing out with every thrust. You’re limp, boneless, every muscle trembling, but he isn’t done—not even close. He pulls out slow, watching his cum drool out of your ruined hole, then grabs you by the waist, hauls you onto the bed, tossing you onto your back, eyes burning with hunger. “On top,” he commands, voice hoarse, “Show Daddy how you ride cock. Make me cum again. Make me regret ever letting you off my dick.”
You scramble into his lap, legs spread wide, grabbing his thick, messy cock, guiding it back inside you, sinking down until you’re full to the hilt, the stretch making you gasp, moan, claw at his chest. Your hands press to his shoulders, nails raking down his skin as you start to bounce, slow and filthy, grinding your hips, rolling your clit against his pelvis, the mess of cum slicking your thighs, dripping down, making it easier, dirtier. “Fuck, Daddy, you feel so good—so big, so fucking thick, stretching me open, making me yours,” you gasp, bouncing harder, tits bouncing, sweat slick, body rolling with every movement. “You love this, don’t you? Love watching me fuck myself on your cock, love how needy I am for you—” Your words spill out, shameless, hungry, eyes locked on his as you ride him, every bounce sending him deeper, every grind making you both shudder, desperate for more.
His hands are everywhere—on your ass, your waist, your tits, grabbing, squeezing, guiding your hips as you fuck yourself down onto him, over and over, filthy and wild. He licks a stripe up your chest, bites your nipple, groaning into your skin. “That’s my girl—look at you, riding Daddy’s cock, making a fucking mess. You gonna milk me dry? You gonna make me cum again, fill you so much you’ll be leaking for days?” You whimper, grinding harder, chasing that edge, the friction of his cock dragging against your g-spot, his thumb on your clit, your whole body strung tight, ready to break. “Yes, Daddy, yes, I want it, want your cum, want to feel you everywhere—please, please, please—” Your begging is shameless, filthy, words breaking apart as you cum again, harder than before, your cunt spasming, squirting, soaking his cock and thighs.
He curses, grabbing your hips, thrusting up into you, making you ride it out, making you take every brutal, aching inch. “That’s it, good fucking girl—don’t stop, keep riding, make me cum again, you’re so fucking tight, can’t get enough of you, never gonna get enough—” His cock throbs inside you, already hardening again, your body too spent to care, needing more, always more, the two of you tangled in sweat and spit and cum, fucking until your voices are raw and the world disappears, until all that’s left is the filthy, beautiful mess you’ve made together, and the hunger that never, ever dies.
The palace lights flash by through the carriage window, but you don’t see any of it—you’re straddling Sunghoon’s lap, knees pressed to the velvet seat, your ruined cunt still raw and open, dripping with his cum. The carriage jolts, bouncing with every turn, and you’re already moaning, the motion forcing his thick cock deeper, every bounce making your tits jiggle, sweat-slick skin sticking to his chest. His mouth finds yours, all teeth and tongue, his hands tangled in your hair, pulling you down to devour him, swallowing your cries, both of you breathless, drunk on each other. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” you’re sobbing it, desperate, your forehead pressed to his, hips working, your clit dragging over his pelvis, your body writhing in his lap, every thrust making you see stars. “Fuck, you feel so good—can’t stop, can’t get enough, need you, need you, I love you—”
He grabs your ass, squeezing hard, grinding you down, letting the motion of the carriage slam your bodies together, his cock filling you, every inch claimed, every sound filthy and obscene. “Say it again,” he pants, voice wrecked, lips wet and swollen, eyes dark with need, “Say you love me, say you’ll take all my cum, say you’ll never stop fucking me, even if they hear us.” You moan, head thrown back, sweat dripping down your spine, your pussy squeezing him tight as you bounce and bounce, carriage wheels rattling beneath you, bodies sliding together in the dark, his cum leaking out with every roll of your hips. “I’ll never stop, I’ll never stop, I love you so much, Sunghoon, I’m yours, always—fill me, fuck me, please, make me yours again—”
He kisses you filthy, tongue in your mouth, moaning into each other, the whole world fading except for the frantic, desperate movement of your bodies. He fucks up into you, meeting every bounce with a brutal thrust, hands tangled in your hair, the carriage rocking, the slap of your skin echoing off the gilded walls. You ride him harder, cunt milking him, slick and obscene, crying out, “I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you—” until you’re sobbing into his mouth, grinding down, greedy for every drop, every thrust, every promise. The city passes in a blur, the carriage a confessional, a temple, a battlefield of heat and sweat and surrender—nothing else in the world but his cock inside you and the words “I love you” pouring out, over and over, sealing you together, forever filthy, forever his.
The carriage lurches over the cobblestone streets, every bump making his cock bounce inside you, thick and swollen, sliding against your walls, each jolt forcing you to gasp, your breasts bouncing, sweat pearling at your hairline. The plush velvet seats are slick with your bodies—his hands gripping your ass, spreading you wide as you ride him, your thighs splayed, skirt bunched around your hips, the warm air thick with the scent of sex. Sunghoon’s mouth is on your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing sensitive skin, tongue swirling, saliva trailing down to your ribcage. The carriage rocks violently with a turn, and you nearly lose your balance, falling against him, his cock slamming deeper, the tip kissing your cervix, making you wail, clutching at his shoulders. “Look at you, so fucking perfect, riding Daddy’s cock in his own carriage, tits in my mouth, dripping for me,” he groans, mouth full of your nipple, his hips grinding up to meet every drop, every desperate bounce.
You can feel the wheels under you—every rut in the road, every sharp turn, the whole vehicle shuddering and pitching, shaking your body, making your cunt clamp down on him, the friction unrelenting. Your knees are bruising against the velvet, slick with sweat, your clit grinding into his pelvis every time the carriage jumps, your moans echoing off the gilded paneling and mirrored windows. “Fuck—Sunghoon, you feel so good—so thick—every time this carriage bounces, you fuck me deeper, you’re hitting everywhere, oh my god—” You’re whining, words tumbling from your mouth, desperate and wild, your voice cracking as you ride him, rolling your hips, cock grinding against every swollen spot inside you. His hand moves to your throat, squeezing lightly, forcing you to meet his gaze, and he snarls, “Keep bouncing, princess, let them all hear you—let the whole palace know you belong to me.” The words make you bounce harder, chasing every thrust, cunt slick, his cock dragging out with every lift of your hips then slamming home as the carriage jostles beneath you.
He leans in, mouth latching to your other nipple, sucking so hard you cry out, arching into him, feeding him your breast as you grind on his cock, feeling every vein, every throb. The rhythm is relentless, the carriage creaking, rocking on its springs, the world outside nothing but a blur of city lights, the two of you lit only by the dim golden lanterns swaying overhead. The velvet curtains shiver, nearly falling from the force of your bodies, his hands everywhere—squeezing your ass, pulling you down hard, rolling his hips up to meet you, cock pressing so deep you see stars. “That’s it, fuck—ride it, take it, you look so fucking pretty with my cock bouncing inside you, dripping on my lap, tits in my mouth—nobody’s ever going to fuck you like this.”
You’re close to breaking, desperate for more, whining as you drag yourself off him, making a filthy, wet sound, cum spilling down your thighs. He grabs your wrist, hauls you forward, pressing your back to the velvet cushions, and you straddle his face, knees digging into the soft seat, pussy glistening and ruined right over his mouth. “Sit on my face, make a mess,” he growls, breath hot, tongue flicking out, licking you in broad, hungry strokes, nose pressed to your clit, his hands locking around your thighs, pinning you down as the carriage rocks again, nearly throwing you off balance. You grab the curtain for support, legs shaking as he devours you, sucking, moaning into your cunt, the vibration sending shockwaves up your spine, every lick harder, sloppier, wetter. You grind down, hips rolling, rutting against his mouth, the movement of the carriage matching his tongue, bouncing you on his face, your juices slicking his chin, dripping down his throat.
You’re babbling now, filthy and lost, “Daddy, oh fuck—don’t stop, eat me, want to cum all over your face, want to ride your tongue until I can’t breathe—” He answers with a growl, tongue lashing your clit, then two thick fingers pushing into your cunt, fucking you open, curling up, his lips sucking your clit as the carriage jolts again, your entire body shuddering, thighs trembling, desperate to cum. You grind harder, the velvet soaked, your hips riding his face shamelessly, bouncing on his mouth every time the wheels hit another stone. “I love you, I love you, I love you—” you sob, words broken, pouring out as he sucks you through it, your orgasm crashing over you, legs locking around his head, hips shaking, cumming for him, for the whole palace to hear, your cries swallowed by his tongue.
When you collapse, ruined and weak, he pulls you down, throws you onto your back, and sinks his cock into you again, the carriage still moving, the city rushing by, his body on top of you, your mouths fusing in a desperate, hungry kiss—“I love you, I love you, I love you—” said with every thrust, every bounce, every filthy, worshipful stroke, until the carriage finally rolls up to the palace gates, and neither of you ever want to stop.
It’s deep winter outside, frost lacing the windowpanes in silver filigree, the world gone quiet and blue, but your room is a cocoon of heat and shadow, all honeyed lamplight and the weight of Sunghoon’s hands gliding over your skin. You’re straddling him, sheets rucked around your waist, thighs parted over his hips, your cunt pressed down on his cock, slow, languid, taking him inch by inch until you’re completely full, utterly open, and there’s nowhere else for him to be but inside you. The bed creaks softly with every roll of your hips, the rhythm unhurried—just you rocking above him, your hair falling in soft waves, the curve of your body gilded by the lamplight. His hands slide from your knees to your waist, tracing the lines he’s learned by heart, then up, palms cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble, sensitive and aching.
He rises up just enough to take your breast into his mouth, warm and wet, tongue swirling, lips sucking slow, savoring the taste of your skin. His other hand cups the small of your back, pulling you closer, pressing his mouth harder to your nipple, moaning softly as you grind down onto him, your bodies slick with sweat and the remnants of earlier pleasure. You cradle his head, fingers threaded through his hair, tilting his face up so you can kiss him, tongues meeting, breaths mingling, your body rolling over his, every movement a worship, a promise, a vow. “You feel so good,” you whisper, voice low and trembling, hips rocking, his cock dragging against your walls, deep and perfect, slow enough to make you ache for more, for everything. “You’re mine, Sunghoon. I’m gonna fucking marry you. You know that, right? You’ve always belonged to me.”
He shudders, his mouth leaving your breast only to press wet, reverent kisses along your collarbone, then up your neck, his breath hot against your ear. “I know, I know—I’ve always been yours,” he groans, his voice thick with feeling, head buried in your neck as you ride him, your bodies locked together, chests pressed close. His arms wind around your waist, holding you so tight you can barely breathe, his cock throbbing inside you, every inch of him surrendered. “You’re my heaven,” he says, muffled against your skin, lips finding your jaw, your cheek, his hair fanned over your chest. “I could die here. Don’t stop, don’t ever stop. I want to feel you forever.” You rock harder, thighs shaking, slick pooling around the base of his cock, your hands cradling his face, guiding him back to your chest, letting him suck your nipple again, the intimacy almost too much to bear, your heart aching with how much you love him.
You kiss his forehead, his eyelids, every tender place, letting your nails trace patterns down his back, your hips never stopping, slow and deep, clenching around him, taking him in until you’re trembling with the sweetness, the pleasure, the promise of it all. You feel his breath catch, his voice going soft and shattered, “I love you—I love you—please, never let me go.” You lean down, pressing your lips to his, and in the hush of your bedroom, in the warmth of your bed, you give him everything—your body, your soul, your forever.
Outside, the snow is falling in slow, silent sheets, cloaking the city in white. But inside, Sunghoon is the winter guard of your heart, the one who keeps the cold out, who watches the windows and holds the warmth for you alone. With every thrust, every soft gasp, every kiss against your skin, he lays down his devotion like a blanket, and you know, with every deep, slow roll of your hips, that he will always be the shield at your gate, the heat in your winter, the only heaven you’ll ever need.
The city spends January under a hush of snowfall, rooftops scalloped in white, lamp-posts wearing soft crowns of ice. You and Sunghoon are married in that brief blue light before dusk, vows spoken beneath crystal chandeliers that glitter like frost on pine needles. He stands in his formal uniform, your knight in winter armor, yet his eyes never leave yours, devotion burning hot enough to turn the cold air to steam. When the final blessing echoes through the nave, he bows his head to brush your knuckles with his lips, sealing a promise you both already feel beating in your joined palms: as long as you need me, Miss.
The honeymoon months pass in rooms warmed by roaring fires and thick quilts, your new rings clinking gently every time you lace your fingers together. He carries you across every threshold, muscle flexing, voice a low rasp in your ear: “Mine to keep warm.” Outside, drifts pile against the mullioned windows, but inside he builds the world with his body, hands mapping skin, mouth grazing your throat, each kiss a hot breath thawing you from the inside out.
Nights find you stretched beneath him, snow-light filtering through the curtains in silver bands. He sinks deep, slow, savoring the way you open around him, claiming space that only ever feels right when he fills it. Your thighs bracket his hips; his palm spreads possessively over the swell of your lower belly, territory he has marked twice already with life. “My brave girl,” he murmurs, dragging in a shaky breath as heat floods between you. “Carrying our little legacies.” You arch, chest brushing his uniform shirt still half-buttoned, and whisper back, “Our future came wrapped in winter. Keep me burning.”
He fucks you with the measured strength of a swordsman, thrust after patient thrust, each stroke a pledge. Sweat beads at his temple despite the chill beyond the walls. Every roll of his hips draws a soft cry from your throat, and he answers by sealing his mouth over yours, swallowing the sound, feeding you his sighs in return. Embers throw copper sparks across his shoulders; in their glow he looks like bronze warmed by flame.
When passion climbs higher, he sits back on his heels and cups your breasts, thumbs circling nipples that peak in the cool air. The sight of you, hair fanned across white linen, stomach firm from bearing his children, makes his voice rough with awe. “Perfect,” he murmurs. “Made to be worshiped, made to be loved.” He surges forward, cock gliding through slick heat, and you meet him eagerly, ankles locking at the small of his back. Outside, wind rattles the windows, but the bed groans louder with each collision, a steady rhythm of devotion and want.
Pleasure sharpens to a bright, glacial edge. You tumble over first, clenching around him, breathless as flakes whirl past the glass. He pushes deeper, jaw tight, until the world narrows to the heat between you. “Give it to me,” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders. “Fill me, guard me, claim me again.” His control shatters—hips snapping, pulse roaring—until he spills hard and hot, groaning your name like a prayer.
Long minutes pass in haloed silence, his heartbeat steadying beneath your palm. He kisses your damp forehead, then trails lips to each eyelid as though grateful you are real. “Two bright stars already,” he whispers, thumb stroking the faint silver lines on your hip, badges of the lives you’ve carried. His hand slides lower, covering your womb, and a wicked spark glints in his winter-dark eyes. “But this body was forged to shelter one more. Let me melt in you tonight, let me keep the snow away until spring.”
You laugh, a soft, tremulous burst that fogs the chilled air, before guiding him back between your thighs, still slick, already eager. “Lock the door again, my love,” you command, voice husky with invitation. He obeys without hesitation, bolt clicking shut, commitment ringing as clearly as church bells in the snowy square. When he returns, you cup his face and breathe against his lips. “Then come back in. We’ve babies sleeping down the hall and another waiting to be wished into the world. Breed me once more, my knight, show winter it can never touch the warmth you keep for me.”
Snow drifts softly against the panes, but inside, heat blooms: fierce, unyielding, a hearth that never goes out. Sunghoon—the winter guard of your heart—bends again to his task, and the night stretches long with vows carried on ragged breaths, with love carved deeper into the marrow of your bones.
asks, comments, likes and reblogs appreciated 🖤. don’t be a silent reader as you guys suck and you are the problem in the tumblr writing community.
lightbulb @wannabangyangyang - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
