#kpop

[ttw11lights]

It hurts when it goes 😪

[kathaelipwse]

Contract, Cooked & Kissed | C.Seungcheol

Pairing: Chef!Seungcheol × Journalist!Reader

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 8256 words ; Reading Time: 30-ish mins

Trope: Arranged Marriage | Strangers to Lovers | Mutual Pining | Secret Softies

Warnings: angst, mentions of family pressure, suggestive language, slow burn, Mingyu is cheol's bestie and woozi is the the reader's bestie, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Synopsis: A rising journalist. A quiet chef. Thrown into a contract marriage to please their families, neither expected the late-night meals, soft silences, or stolen glances. But what happens when pretend becomes too real… and time runs out?

Author’s Note: This one’s for the foodies and the pining girlies. Cheol is soft, hot, and fully whipped—just how we like him. Hope you fall in love bite by bite.

The scent of freshly baked bread hit you before anything else. But it wasn’t the comforting, cozy kind that made you think of home, of cinnamon and shared laughter. No, this was the suffocating kind—the kind that followed a man who showed up forty minutes late to a dinner you didn’t even know was a marriage meeting.

You stared across the meticulously set table, chopsticks frozen mid-air, the half-eaten plate of what your mother had enthusiastically described as "a very auspicious pasta with a secret family sauce" suddenly tasting like ash. The front door creaked open, and in walked him.

Rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms dusted with a fine layer of white. A flour-dusted apron was still tied firmly at his waist, a testament to whatever culinary emergency had delayed him. Dark hair, usually neat in the photos your mother had subtly (and not-so-subtly) shown you, was ruffled like he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly in the car. His expression didn’t read "sorry I’m late." More like, “I’d rather be elbow-deep in fish guts than here.”

Same. A silent, emphatic agreement settled in your chest.

Your mother turned to you with that practiced smile—the one she only pulled out when she was scheming, a smile that promised both sugar and a hidden agenda.

“Y/N, darling, this is Seungcheol. Seungcheol, this is my daughter.” Her voice was saccharine sweet, the kind that usually preceded a request to call some distant relative you’d never met.

You managed a tight smile, the muscles in your cheeks protesting the forced pleasantry. “Wow. What a totally casual and not-at-all-orchestrated dinner. The surprise element really adds to the charm.”

He raised a dark eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Did you also get tricked into this elaborate carb-loading session?”

“Absolutely. I was promised jjajangmyeon and a quiet evening with Netflix, not a proposal disguised as a pasta night.”

A snort escaped him, a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised you. His eyes crinkled at the corners, softening his otherwise sharp features. “Good. Then we’re on the same sinking ship.”

You didn’t expect to laugh. But there it was, bubbling up like a secret understanding between two strangers thrown into the same ridiculous, sauce-splattered situation.

Dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation that felt anything but. Your mom gushed about your burgeoning writing career, exaggerating your freelance articles into the next great literary sensation. His father, a stern-faced man with kind eyes, boasted about his son’s Michelin-starred potential, his words painting a picture of a culinary prodigy. You exchanged increasingly bewildered looks with Seungcheol every five minutes, a silent language passing between you that translated to: is this real life? Are our parents actually serious?

And then came the bombshell, delivered with the same casual sweetness your mother reserved for offering you a second helping of suspiciously healthy vegetables.

“We’ve drawn up a six-month agreement,” your mother said, her smile unwavering. “Live together. Get to know each other. See if… compatibility blossoms. If it doesn’t work, no harm done. We’ll simply consider it a well-intentioned experiment.”

Your wine glass hit the table a little too hard, the clink echoing in the suddenly tense silence. A splash of red stained the white tablecloth like a dramatic punctuation mark. “I’m sorry—what agreement?”

Cheol didn’t look surprised. Just… resigned. A weariness settled on his face, etching lines around his mouth.

“They talked to me about it last week,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth. “I said no. Several times.”

“So did I,” you echoed, the absurdity of the situation hitting you with the force of a rogue wave.

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken expectations and parental determination.

Then:

“We’re still doing it,” your mom said, her tone leaving no room for argument. That was that. The finality in her voice was a familiar, frustrating force of nature.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of hushed phone calls between your parents and his, logistical nightmares disguised as helpful suggestions, and a growing sense of surreal detachment. You found yourself signing papers you barely read, nodding along to conversations you only half-heard. It felt like you were sleepwalking through a bizarre play where you’d somehow landed the lead role in a romantic comedy you definitely hadn’t auditioned for.

Then came the day you found yourself standing in a sterile, brightly lit room, the scent of industrial-strength cleaner overpowering even the nervous sweat prickling your skin. A justice of the peace, a woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, droned on about the legalities of marriage. Your parents beamed from the front row, their faces radiating a triumphant “we know best” glow. His parents, while less overtly enthusiastic, offered polite, if somewhat strained, smiles.

Beside you stood Seungcheol. He looked… surprisingly calm. He wore a simple but elegant dark suit, the flour long gone, his hair neatly styled. He looked like he belonged here, in this official setting, taking these serious vows. You, on the other hand, felt like an imposter in the borrowed cream dress your mother had insisted on, your hands clammy as you clutched a small bouquet of white roses.

You hadn't had a proposal, no romantic declarations, no whispered promises under a starry sky. Instead, you had a late dinner, a shared sense of being tricked, and a six-month agreement. Yet, here you were, about to legally bind yourself to a man you’d met less than a month ago.

The justice of the peace turned to you. “L/N Y/N, do you take Seungcheol to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Your throat felt dry. You looked at Seungcheol, really looked at him. Beyond the initial annoyance and shared disbelief, you saw a flicker of something… else. A quiet understanding, a shared burden, maybe even a hint of reluctant curiosity.

Taking a deep breath, you said, your voice surprisingly steady, “I do.”

Then it was his turn. “Choi Seungcheol, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

He met your gaze, his dark eyes holding a depth you hadn’t noticed before. There was a seriousness there that went beyond the absurdity of the situation. “I do.”

And just like that, with a few signatures and the exchange of simple, unadorned silver bands that felt more like handcuffs than symbols of love, you were married.

The apartment you moved into together a week later was bigger than you expected. Minimalistic, all neutral tones and clean lines, with a kitchen so pristine it clearly belonged to someone who knew how to use it. Aka, definitely not you.

“You take the left room,” he said, lugging in a surprisingly heavy box labeled “Spices – Handle with Extreme Care.” “I’ll take the right.”

“Thanks. Also, no offense, but if you burn something past midnight and set off the fire alarm, I will throw you and your precious spices and you off the balcony.”

“Fair. And if you leave so much as a single strand of your hair in the drain, I’m reporting you to the housing gods for crimes against plumbing.”

You smiled, a genuine smile this time, as you set your suitcase by the door of your designated room. “Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful fake marriage.”

He turned away, his shoulders slightly hunched as he wrestled with another box. But not before you caught it—a small, real smile playing on his lips.

That night, you lay in bed, the unfamiliar silence of the apartment amplifying the frantic spinning of the ceiling fan. From the kitchen, a soft clinking of pots and pans drifted through the thin walls. Maybe he was cooking, a late-night creation born out of habit and passion. Or maybe, like you, he was stress-baking his way through the sheer, unbelievable reality of it all.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Woozi : please tell me this isn’t real please tell me he’s not hot You sighed, picking up your phone and typing back, a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. You: he showed up with flour in his hair and he made me laugh. and yeah… he looked surprisingly decent in a suit today. so yes. I’m doomed.

Deadlines felt less like a ticking clock and more like a pack of rabid badgers gnawing at your sanity. You’d been surgically attached to your laptop for what felt like a geological epoch, the blue light from the screen tattooing itself onto your retinas.

Eight hours. Eight glorious hours spent wrestling with the elusive nuances of Seoul’s underground supper club scene, a world apparently fueled by more secrecy than the CIA and questionable amounts of soju. Your editor, bless their demanding soul, had graced your inbox with a string of three increasingly frantic question marks.

Your stomach, meanwhile, had long since moved past rumbling and was now emitting a low, mournful groan that echoed the general state of your existence. You were too caffeine-addled and deadline-induced to even register hunger as a tangible sensation.

So, when the unmistakable aroma of garlic sautéing in sesame oil began to snake its way under your door and infiltrate your cramped office-slash-bedroom, your initial reaction wasn’t a Pavlovian surge of appetite.

No, it was a sharp pang of guilt, the kind that usually accompanied forgetting your best friend’s birthday or accidentally liking a tweet from 2012. This guilt, however, had a distinctly culinary origin. You knew exactly who was responsible for the tantalizing scent assaulting your senses.

With the slow, deliberate movements of a zombie emerging from its digital grave, you swiveled your chair around.

The kitchen lights blazed with an almost aggressively cheerful brightness, illuminating Seungcheol as he navigated the small space with an unnerving level of calm. Olive oil hissed gently in a pan, a soft sizzle that spoke of practiced hands and controlled heat. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent a shower of perfectly diced carrots into a gentle, aromatic tumble.

He looked… composed. Unflustered. Like he wasn’t currently orchestrating a meal for a roommate who had communicated with him solely through a series of increasingly desperate Slack messages to her editor and the occasional frustrated sigh that probably vibrated through the shared walls.

“I… didn’t ask you to cook,” you mumbled from the hallway, your voice raspy from disuse and the sheer effort of forming coherent words.

He didn’t even glance up, his focus entirely on the sizzling vegetables. “Didn’t ask for your permission either.”

You blinked slowly, the sarcasm bubbling up despite your exhaustion. “Wow. How utterly… romantic. Should I expect a serenade next? Perhaps a sonnet dedicated to the exquisite aroma of sautéed onions?”

“I’m not trying to be romantic,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any playful inflection. “I’m trying to prevent you from collapsing face-first onto your keyboard and leaving a permanent imprint of the ‘shift’ key on your forehead.”

His bluntness, while undeniably practical, still managed to make your ears burn with a faint blush. You opened your mouth to deliver a suitably withering retort, something about the inherent dangers of unsolicited culinary interventions, but the way he was now meticulously plating fluffy white rice into a bowl stopped you. There was a quiet focus in his movements, a deliberate care that seemed at odds with the forced nature of your cohabitation.

Then, with a silent grace that felt almost theatrical, he slid the filled bowl across the countertop towards your designated spot at the small kitchen table.

You froze, halfway between the hallway and the kitchen. The aroma hit you then, fully, and it was like a punch to the gut. It was your comfort food, the culinary equivalent of a warm hug on a bad day. Soy-braised beef, cooked the way your mom used to make it.

The meat was impossibly tender, glistening with a hint of honey in the rich, savory glaze. And the carrots… the carrots were cut into perfect little stars. Your mom had always insisted on that flourish, a ridiculously time-consuming detail that had annoyed your younger self to no end, but now… now it just felt like a memory, warm and unexpected.

“How did you—?” The question hung in the air, a mixture of disbelief and something akin to… gratitude? You weren’t entirely sure.

He finally wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel, his expression still neutral. “You mentioned it in passing last week. Something about childhood comfort food and the psychological benefits of star-shaped vegetables. I Googled a bit.”

“You… Googled the recipe of my childhood comfort food?” The absurdity of the situation almost made you laugh, a dry, humorless sound.

You sat down slowly, the wooden chair scraping against the linoleum. You picked up the offered chopsticks, the smooth bamboo feeling strangely foreign in your hand.

You didn’t say thank you. The words felt too inadequate, too… real for this bizarre, orchestrated reality.

But you cleaned the bowl. Every last morsel of tender beef, every star-shaped carrot, every grain of rice soaked in the sweet and savory sauce. You even used a stray piece of lettuce to mop up the remaining glaze, a testament to your unexpected hunger and the undeniable deliciousness of the meal.

Later that night, the glow of your laptop screen finally fading, you padded out of your room in search of water, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor. Sleep clung to you like a heavy blanket, blurring the edges of your vision.

The faint sliver of light emanating from beneath Cheol’s closed bedroom door caught your attention. You were about to shuffle past, heading straight for the blessed oblivion of the kitchen sink, when a soft sound made you pause. The rhythmic click-click-click of a mouse. And then… a familiar headline.

Your name.

Curiosity, that insidious little gremlin, nudged you forward. You stepped closer to his door, your ear pressed lightly against the cool wood. The soft glow intensified, illuminating the space just beyond the frame.

He was reading your article. The one that was currently three frantic question marks away from being submitted.

You peeked just enough to see his screen. Your opening paragraph, the one you’d rewritten approximately seventeen times, was highlighted in a soft blue. His head was tilted slightly as he read, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth quirked in that thoughtful way you’d briefly observed during your disastrous first dinner. Then, a small, almost imperceptible huff escaped him. Was he…? Was he actually… smiling?

Panic, swift and sharp, shot through you. You backed away from the door as if it had suddenly become electrified, your bare feet padding silently back towards your own room.

Once inside, you leaned heavily against the closed door, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears.

He made you your mom’s ridiculously specific dish.

He was reading your work.

You were so utterly and completely screwed. This wasn't just a bizarre living arrangement anymore. This was… something else. Something unsettlingly domestic. Something that threatened the carefully constructed wall of sarcasm you’d erected around your unwilling participation in this matrimonial farce.

Whereas, cheol's phone kept buzzing.

mingyu: sooooooo mingyu: she licked the plate clean, didn’t she? Those star carrots really did the trick, huh? You're practically a culinary Cupid. cheol: shut up mingyu: OH MY GOD HE RESPONDED. The silent chef speaks! And with such eloquence! This is progress, my friend. Next thing you know, you'll be holding hands and gazing longingly at each other over a shared bowl of tteokbokki. cheol: blocked

This was going to be a long six months. A very, very long six months filled with unexpected acts of kindness, the lingering scent of delicious food, and increasingly uncomfortable eye contact that hinted at a reality far more complicated than a simple agreement.

Next Morning <3

You’d barely managed to peel your eyelids apart when the email notification chimed, a digital herald of the day’s impending absurdity.

Subject: New Series: Love in the Everyday—Couples Who Cook Together, Stay Together Your marriage is adorable. Myself as a editor, I am obsessed. First article & content due next week. Go wild, Mrs. Choi ❤️ Your lovely, Unhinged editor!

You stared at the glowing screen, the word “adorable” practically dripping with saccharine irony. Your contract marriage. Adorable. The sheer audacity of it made you want to bang your head gently against the headboard.

This was supposed to be a strategic alliance, a mutually beneficial arrangement built on tax breaks and convenient cohabitation, devoid of any genuine sentiment. Yet, your professional life was now hinging on convincing the world that you and your fake husband were the poster couple for domestic bliss.

Your life had officially devolved into a poorly written rom-com where the leads were constantly improvising a love story they weren’t actually living.

You found Cheol in the kitchen, a serene island of culinary focus amidst your internal storm. He was meticulously chopping vegetables, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of his knife a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in your brain. He looked effortlessly domestic, a stark reminder of the role he was about to play.

“Hey,” you began, the laptop clutched under your arm like a shield against the impending awkwardness. “So, about this video series… the editor really wants us to lean into the ‘adorable married couple’ thing.” You cringed internally at your own words.

He didn’t look up, his concentration unwavering. “Adorable, huh? Should I start wearing matching aprons with little hearts on them?”

“Please, no,” you pleaded. “Just… you know… the usual. Cooking, maybe some light banter. But she specifically mentioned wanting to see the ‘husband and wife dynamic’ shine through.”

Cheol finally paused, wiping his hands on a pristine kitchen towel. “So, more… ‘my wife this’ and ‘my wife that’?”

You nodded, a wave of secondhand embarrassment washing over you. “Pretty much. Apparently, the readers are eating it up.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Eating up a lie. Fascinating.”

“It pays the bills,” you reminded him, a weak justification for the charade.

“True,” he conceded with a sigh. “Alright, Mrs. Choi. Let’s give the people what they apparently crave: a heaping serving of marital fiction.”

The first video shoot felt like a masterclass in forced intimacy. Every time you fumbled a step, Cheol would smoothly step in, his hand briefly covering yours as he corrected your technique, murmuring a casual, “My wife always struggles with this part.” The phrase felt foreign and yet… strangely natural coming from him.

“My wife has a particular fondness for extra garlic,” he’d declare to the camera, adding another clove with a knowing smile that wasn’t directed at you.

“Actually, my husband here sometimes overdoes it,” you’d retort, forcing a playful eye roll that felt about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.

By the third video, a strange rhythm had developed. Cheol seamlessly integrated the “my wife” moniker into his explanations, his tone a casual blend of affection and mild exasperation that, you had to admit, sounded surprisingly convincing.

“My wife insists on adding this much chili,” he’d say, holding up a generous pinch of red pepper flakes, a slight shake of his head that somehow conveyed years of loving compromise.

“Well, my husband has the taste buds of a toddler,” you’d fire back, a genuine smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

The fan comments exploded with even more fervor. @ KitchenGoddessFan: OMG the way he says “my wife” # marriedlife # soinlove @ KDramaObsessed: Their chemistry is OFF THE CHARTS! He’s totally whipped for his wife! # husbandgoals @ SwooningStans: Every time he calls her “my wife” I get butterflies! This is the cutest couple ever!

You tried to remain detached, reminding yourself that it was all an act, a carefully constructed performance for an audience that believed your carefully curated online persona. But with each casual “my wife,” a tiny crack seemed to appear in the wall you’d built around your emotions.

One evening, while filming a particularly chaotic attempt at making homemade pasta, flour dusted both of your faces. Cheol reached out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge from your cheek.

“My wife is a disaster in the kitchen,” he said to the camera, his voice softer than usual, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he looked at you.

Your breath hitched. The warmth of his touch lingered, and the casual endearment, spoken so naturally for the camera, resonated in a way it shouldn’t have.

Later, while editing, you replayed that moment countless times. The way his eyes had crinkled at the corners. The almost imperceptible tenderness in his touch. The easy, possessive way he’d said “my wife.”

It was all for show. You knew that. But a small, treacherous part of you couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere beneath the layers of performance, a sliver of something real was starting to emerge.

Your phone buzzed.

Woozi : okay that “my wife” compilation your fans are making is genuinely concerning it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion You: tell me about it i think i need to move to another continent Woozi : maybe just… stop letting him call you his wife so much on camera? You: easier said than done bestie the editor is OBSESSED with the “husband and wife dynamic” i think i’ve created a monster

One month after the “Love in the Everyday” videos had inexplicably turned your bizarre contractual arrangement into internet gold, you found yourself wishing for the sweet oblivion of a root canal. Family gatherings on your mother’s side were less about familial warmth and more about a meticulously orchestrated judgment parade, with you and your life choices invariably taking center stage.

And tonight’s special guest of honor? Your husband. Your arranged husband. Choi Seungcheol. The chef. The infuriatingly talented, quietly observant, and undeniably attractive man who had a disconcerting habit of positioning himself just slightly behind you in social situations, as if unsure if he’d been granted permission to occupy the spotlight.

Apparently, some things never changed, even with a burgeoning online fanbase and articles dissecting your “adorable” marriage.

“Ah, the literary sensation graces us with her presence,” your Aunt Hyemi sang out as she greeted you at the door, her arms opening wide in a gesture that felt more performative than welcoming. “Still churning out those little think pieces that set the internet ablaze, dear?” Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, which held a familiar glint of condescension.

Then, her gaze slid to Cheol, lingering for a moment as if he were an unwelcome piece of furniture she hadn’t noticed until now.

“And the… husband,” she drawled, the word stretched out like a particularly unpleasant note in a poorly sung song. “Still… playing with food?” The implication hung heavy in the air: while you were out conquering the world with your intellect, he was merely toiling away in a kitchen.

Your grip on Cheol’s hand tightened instinctively, a silent offering of solidarity. He, as always, responded with a gentle squeeze and a polite bow, his expression serene.

"Still cooking, yes, Auntie. Someone has to ensure Y/N eats something other than lukewarm coffee and deadline-induced anxiety,” he replied, his tone even and devoid of any defensiveness. “Her work is important. I’m just here to… support her endeavors.” His choice of words, “support her endeavors,” felt deliberately understated, a subtle deflection of the implied slight.

You knew that smile. It was the carefully neutral mask he wore when people became too loud, too invasive, too prone to making assumptions based on outdated societal norms. It was the smile that preceded his polite but firm deflections when people asked him what it felt like to be married to someone “more successful” or when they patted him on the back and told him he’d “landed himself a good one.”

Your aunt tilted her head, her gaze sharp and probing. “Mm. Must be… peculiar, though. To be constantly in your wife’s shadow. A man… defined by his wife’s accomplishments.”

You choked on the lukewarm tea you’d just been handed, a sputtering cough escaping your lips. Cheol, however, didn’t so much as flinch.

He simply chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly genuine despite the underlying tension. “I find immense satisfaction in Y/N’s achievements. Being ‘in her shadow,’ as you so eloquently put it, doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We’re a team. Her wins are my wins.”

You weren’t sure if the sudden heat rising in your chest was pride at his quiet strength or a simmering fury at your aunt’s blatant rudeness. Perhaps it was a volatile cocktail of both.

Your aunt snorted, the sound akin to a cat hacking up a hairball. “That’s what men with no ambition say. A man content to stir pots while his wife ‘conquers the world’ with her… little articles?” She punctuated her statement with a loud, brittle laugh that echoed through the suddenly hushed living room. “He’s practically dirt under your heels, sweetheart. A charity case you keep around for the cooking and… well, whatever else a docile husband is good for.”

The room went utterly silent. Forks paused mid-air, halfway to pursed lips. Snippets of conversations died mid-sentence. Every eye in the room swiveled towards the unfolding drama.

Something inside you, something you hadn’t even realized was holding itself together with frayed edges, finally snapped. It didn’t crack subtly; it shattered into a million sharp pieces.

You stepped forward, your grip on Cheol’s hand tightening until your knuckles were white. Your voice, when it finally emerged, was low and sharp, each word clipped and cold as glass. “Say that again, Auntie.”

Your aunt blinked, her painted eyebrows arching in feigned surprise. “What, dear?”

“No, I want you to repeat it. Every single condescending, belittling word you just spewed about my husband. Go on. Say it again so I can hear just how utterly pathetic and small-minded you sound.” The polite facade you usually wore at these gatherings had completely crumbled, replaced by a raw, protective anger.

She recoiled slightly, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Excuse me, young lady—”

“No, you excuse me,” you interrupted, your voice rising slightly. “You think because he chooses to work in a kitchen, because his passion lies in creating something tangible with his hands, that he’s somehow less of a man? He runs a kitchen that feeds hundreds of people every single day. He manages a team of skilled individuals. He knows more about the complexities of human nature in an hour of observing his diners than you’ve learned in a lifetime of judging others over lukewarm tea and stale gossip.”

You could feel Cheol’s steady gaze on your back, a silent presence of support.

“He has more strength, more integrity, more sheer grit in his pinky finger than half the men in this room who are currently trying to impress each other with their fancy business cards and hollow boasts. And if you genuinely believe that the size of someone’s bank account is the sole measure of their worth, the only reason to marry someone—then frankly, Auntie, I’m eternally grateful that your husband chooses to sleep in a different room, likely to escape your poisonous opinions.”

A stunned silence descended upon the room, thick and heavy. Your aunt’s perfectly painted mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. Someone coughed nervously. Another relative muttered a low, impressed “damn.”

Cheol was still quiet, but the tips of his ears were flushed a delicate shade of pink, a rare outward display of his usually well-contained emotions.

You took his hand, your grip firm and possessive, and turned to address the rest of the room, your gaze sweeping over their stunned faces. “Anyone else have something they’d like to add? Any other insightful commentary on my husband’s chosen profession or his supposed lack of… backbone?”

They didn’t. The silence remained unbroken, save for the faint clinking of silverware as someone nervously resumed eating.

Later that night, after the tense atmosphere had (somewhat) dissipated and you’d retreated to the guest bedroom, you found a small tray outside your door. On it sat a bowl of still-warm stew, the comforting aroma filling the hallway. A neatly folded napkin lay beside it, and beneath it, a simple, handwritten note.

“You’ve been standing for me since day one. Let me be your place to fall. – Cheol”

You found him in the kitchen, the familiar quiet of his sanctuary enveloping him. His elbows were resting on the cool countertop, his dark hair tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance.

He didn’t look up when you walked in, his posture radiating a quiet weariness. “I didn’t expect you to go that hard.”

“I didn’t expect her to be that… cruel,” you admitted, the anger from earlier having receded, leaving behind a hollow ache.

“She’s your family,” he said softly, a statement of fact, not an excuse.

You walked over to him, the silence between you comfortable and understanding. You pulled out the chair next to his and sat down, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floor.

“You’re my husband,” you said, the words spoken softly but with a newfound conviction that surprised even yourself.

Cheol finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting yours. For the first time since the ink had dried on the ridiculous contract, his carefully guarded expression cracked, just a little. A flicker of something vulnerable, something real, softened the sharp angles of his face. It was as if the lines between the performance and the unexpected connection you shared were finally starting to blur beyond recognition.

He smiled. Not the polite, reserved smile he offered to the world. This was a different smile. A real one. A smile that reached his eyes and held a hint of something… more.

You didn’t sleep in the guest bedroom that night. You found yourself drawn to the quiet comfort of the hallroom's couch. You fell asleep with your legs tangled together, your head resting on his steady chest, his hand gently resting on your waist, a silent promise of support and understanding passing between you in the darkness.

Next day, you find woozi's texts, you had vented to him….you always did. After all he is your bestfriend.

💬 Woozi : You defended him in front of your entire family? Like a freaking knight in shining armor? 💬 You: I wasn’t about to stand there and let her talk about him like he was disposable. Like his worth was tied to a paycheck. 💬 Woozi : Girl. You are so screwed. You know that, right? This isn't just some cooking show anymore.

The silence in the apartment had become a tangible thing, a heavy blanket suffocating the vibrant energy that had once flickered between you. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of shared understanding, but a hollow echo in the spaces where laughter used to bounce off the walls. A silence that felt stolen, a temporary reprieve before the inevitable storm.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours ticking down with agonizing slowness until the contract expired. Until the apartment keys were exchanged, his worn leather apron would be folded away into a box, the subtle, comforting scent of his cologne would vanish from the bathroom counter, leaving behind only the ghost of his presence.

You’d meticulously constructed a narrative of readiness in your head, a mental checklist of practicalities and detached acceptance.

It was a lie. A pathetic, paper-thin fabrication that crumbled a little more each day.

You felt his absence in the way your hand instinctively reached for his when you navigated crowded spaces, only to grasp empty air. In the way your footsteps hesitated outside his closed bedroom door at night, a silent plea for connection warring with a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the ache in your chest. It intensified with the muffled sound of his laughter during phone calls with Mingyu, a pang of longing twisting in your gut because that unrestrained joy wasn’t directed at you.

And then Woozi, bless her oblivious heart, had dropped a conversational grenade with the casualness of commenting on the weather.

“You gonna write about his Paris job in the last article?”

Your feet had slammed to a halt in the middle of the living room, the mundane task of watering the wilting basil plant suddenly forgotten.

“His what?” The question hung in the air, laced with a dread you couldn’t quite articulate.

Later, with a trembling hand, you’d navigated to his open laptop, the screen glowing with an email that felt like a betrayal waiting to be discovered.

Subject: An Invitation to Paris – Chef Choi Seungcheol Chef Seungcheol, We are thrilled to extend an invitation to join our esteemed team in Paris… Our establishment boasts three Michelin stars… We offer a long-term residency with full creative freedom…

It was everything a chef of his caliber dreamed of, the pinnacle of his profession. A chance to truly shine.

And you hadn’t heard a single word.

He walked in later, the familiar comforting scent of cinnamon and star anise clinging to his clothes. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the familiar dusting of flour, his dark hair endearingly messy, his cheeks flushed a healthy pink from the kitchen’s heat. He looked vibrant, alive, on the cusp of something extraordinary.

You stood frozen at the counter, his laptop screen a silent accusation between you.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his easy smile fading as his gaze landed on the open laptop.

“You got an email,” you stated, your voice flat, devoid of inflection.

Cheol didn’t move, his eyes locked on the glowing screen. “You… you read it?”

You nodded, your fingers gripping the cool edge of the marble countertop as if it were the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“You weren’t going to tell me.” The words were a quiet accusation, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you.

“I was going to,” he said, his voice low, defensive.

“When?” you pressed, the question laced with a bitter edge. “Before you packed your knives? Or after the plane took off, with a casual postcard saying ‘Wish you were here, wife’?”

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly. He finally broke eye contact, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over your shoulder. “Why does it matter? This… this was always fake. Right?”

The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, the comfortable warmth replaced by a glacial chill.

“You made it very clear from day one,” he continued, his voice tight. “We do the contract. We play the part. We get what we need. Then we leave. No strings. No… expectations.” He still wouldn’t meet your eyes, and the avoidance felt like a physical blow.

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny the sudden, sharp pain that pierced through your carefully constructed indifference, but the words caught in your throat. He was right. That had been the agreement.

But the agreement hadn’t accounted for the unexpected warmth of his smile, the quiet understanding in his eyes, the way your lives had inexplicably intertwined in the shared space of your fake marriage. The agreement hadn’t factored in the terrifying realization that you were falling for the man you were contractually obligated to leave.

That night, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime of shared meals, you cooked. You hadn’t done it in months. Not since the wedding, a distant, surreal memory. Not since he’d started anticipating your hunger, feeding you without a word, without expectation. Not since you’d realized how much you’d come to rely on his quiet care.

You made something simple, something that tasted of home before home became this strange, temporary space with him. A comforting kimchi jjigae, the familiar spicy aroma filling the silent apartment.

He took one tentative bite, his eyes closed, and then slowly, deliberately, set the spoon down.

“What?” you asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper in the echoing silence.

He shook his head, his gaze distant. “Tastes like… distance.” The word hung in the air, a heavy, unspoken truth.

The apartment became a battleground of unspoken words and averted gazes. He retreated to the comforting chaos of the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans a stark contrast to the heavy silence emanating from your closed bedroom door where you furiously typed words that refused to capture the storm raging within you. Dinners were eaten hours apart, cold and solitary affairs. Your carefully synchronized routines, once interwoven like delicate threads, now lay untangled, frayed at the edges.

But your heart, that stubborn, foolish organ, never stopped searching for him in the empty spaces.

Two nights later, with a heavy heart and trembling fingers, you submitted the final article draft. The one your editor had eagerly anticipated – the grand finale of “Love in the Everyday,” featuring you and your adorably, undeniably real-seeming husband.

But the words on the screen weren’t the lighthearted anecdotes she expected. You didn’t write about the joy of shared cooking, the enthusiastic fan comments, or the viral videos that had chronicled your fabricated romance.

Instead, you wrote about him.

About the quiet strength with which he carried your world, never demanding center stage. About the way he’d wait patiently outside your office with a packed lunch, a silent gesture of care amidst your chaotic deadlines. About the fierce, unwavering support he’d offered that night with your family, standing steadfastly behind you, unflinching in the face of their cruel judgment.

You wrote about the terrifying, gut-wrenching realization of falling in love with someone who had never explicitly stated if he was allowed to love you back, within the confines of your bizarre, temporary arrangement. You poured your raw, vulnerable truth onto the digital page, a confession disguised as a farewell.

You hit send before your courage failed you, the click of the button echoing the finality of the impending goodbye.

💬 Mingyu : You really gonna leave without telling her how you feel, you idiot? She practically went to war for you. 💬 Cheol: What if… what if the ‘my wife’ thing was just for the cameras? What if the comfort food was just a nice gesture? What if I’ve completely misread everything? The contract ends in two weeks, Mingyu. Two weeks and this whole… performance is over. 💬 Mingyu : She made you dinner, Cheol. After finding out you’re leaving for Paris. A home-cooked meal filled with the taste of… distance, according to you. That’s not just a friendly gesture. That’s practically a declaration in Y/N-speak. She might as well have proposed with a side of kimchi. Don’t be a fool.

--

Choi Seungcheol, a man who could coax flavor from the simplest ingredients, had become a master of emotional suppression, a skill honed in the demanding heat of Michelin-starred kitchens where sentimentality was a weakness.

He had meticulously constructed a fortress around his burgeoning affection for Y/N, each brick a layer of logic, practicality, and the stark, unyielding reality of their contractual arrangement. Mingyu’s hopeful pronouncements, filled with the saccharine optimism of a K-drama fanatic, had been dismissed as mere fantasy. Love? A dangerous delusion.

Their entire relationship had been a carefully orchestrated performance, a series of “my wife this” and “my wife that” delivered for the insatiable gaze of the internet, a cruel pantomime of intimacy. The absence of a single genuine kiss, a fundamental act of connection, underscored the hollowness of their charade.

And a persistent, agonizing question gnawed at him: did she even need him beyond the occasional recipe critique and the shared performance of marital bliss?

And so, with a heart heavier than any cast-iron skillet, he had adhered to the cold, unyielding terms of their agreement. On the fourteenth day, the expiration date circled in his mental calendar since their first disastrous dinner, he had placed the signed divorce papers on the pristine kitchen counter, the crisp finality of the document a stark counterpoint to the messy tangle of his emotions.

The silence as he’d closed the apartment door behind him had been a deafening testament to the chasm he was leaving behind. The gleaming promise of a prestigious kitchen in Paris, a lifelong ambition realized, felt like ash in his mouth, the bitter taste of what he was sacrificing lingering on his tongue.

The journey to forget Y/N, the woman he had sworn to protect his heart from, stretched before him, a desolate and seemingly endless road.

Your final article went live at 7:00 a.m., a digital ghost released into the vast echo chamber of the internet. You didn’t refresh the page, didn’t dare to scroll through the comments section, a battlefield of opinions dissecting a love story that had never truly been yours. Woozi’s frantic texts remained unanswered, each unanswered ping a testament to your profound emotional exhaustion.

Instead, you remained on the cold kitchen floor, a fetal curl of despair amidst the sterile normalcy of the apartment. Your gaze was fixed on the empty space where Cheol’s favorite skillet had hung, a phantom weight pulling at your chest.

He was gone. The silence he’d left behind was a suffocating shroud, each breath a painful reminder of his absence. You replayed the soft click of the closing door in your mind, a sound that had severed the fragile thread connecting your lives. The image of his neatly packed suitcase leaning against the door the night before was a fresh wound.

And so, as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the empty rooms, you didn’t move. You simply let him go, the unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings a leaden weight in your soul. The future stretched before you, a vast and terrifying expanse devoid of his quiet presence.

But what you didn’t know, as you sat amidst the ruins of your almost-love story, was that miles above the earth, suspended in the sterile cabin of an airplane, your raw, vulnerable words were finding their mark.

[YOUR ARTICLE: EXCERPT] "He always used to say the right meal could mend a broken spirit. I was skeptical, a cynic of grand gestures and easy comfort. But then there were nights when the weight of the world pressed down, when the carefully constructed walls around my heart threatened to crumble, and he would simply offer a warm bowl, a silent presence, a tangible act of care that spoke volumes without uttering a single word of forced comfort. He held space for my anxieties, my exhaustion, the messy, unfiltered parts of myself that I usually kept hidden from the world. He saw the cracks in my facade, the vulnerabilities I fought so hard to conceal, and instead of recoiling, he offered a quiet understanding, a shared meal that tasted of acceptance. He never demanded explanations, never pushed for vulnerability I wasn’t ready to offer. He simply was, a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of my emotions. And now, the thought of a future without the comforting aroma of his cooking filling this apartment, without the quiet strength of his presence a constant reassurance, without the unexpected warmth of his hand brushing mine in a fleeting moment of shared laughter… the thought is a vast, echoing emptiness. The idea of navigating life without his quiet support is a chilling prospect, a flavor of profound loss that no amount of professional success or fleeting internet fame can ever hope to mask."

Seungcheol sat rigidly in seat 14A of his first class, the leather of his worn satchel digging into his clenched fists. The plane remained stubbornly grounded, the pre-flight announcements a distant, meaningless drone. Outside the window, the grey expanse of the tarmac mirrored the desolate landscape of his heart.

His gaze was fixed on the illuminated screen of his phone, your words a searing indictment of his carefully constructed logic. Each sentence was a fresh wound, tearing through the layers of denial he had so painstakingly built. He saw the quiet moments you described, the unspoken language of shared meals, the fragile connection he had so readily dismissed as mere performance.

A wave of agonizing regret washed over him, a bitter taste of what he was so carelessly leaving behind. He had prioritized a lifelong ambition over the quiet, unexpected love that had bloomed in the most unlikely of circumstances. He had chosen the glittering promise of Paris over the raw, vulnerable truth reflected in your words.

With a sudden, visceral certainty, he knew he was making a catastrophic mistake. The Michelin stars, the accolades, the culinary triumphs – they all paled in comparison to the simple, profound connection he had shared with you.

He unbuckled his seatbelt with a trembling hand and stood abruptly, his bag clutched like a lifeline.

“Sir, we are now preparing for departure—” the flight attendant began, her voice laced with professional concern.

“I can’t,” he choked out, the words a raw whisper torn from his throat. “I have to go back.” He didn’t meet her questioning gaze, his focus solely on the urgent, desperate need to return to the woman whose quiet strength had unknowingly become his own anchor.

You heard the hesitant knock around noon, a fragile sound that barely penetrated the heavy silence of the apartment. You remained curled on the floor, a hollow ache where your heart used to be.

Then another knock, slightly more insistent, followed by the soft, hesitant murmur of your name. His voice. The sound, so familiar yet so unexpected, sent a jolt of disbelief through your numb despair.

With a slow, almost agonizing movement, you pushed yourself up, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. He stood in the doorway, his breath ragged, his dark hair disheveled, the familiar fabric of his apron peeking out from beneath his rumpled jacket. He looked like a man who had run across continents for a single breath of air.

“I… I came back,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity.

A single tear traced a lonely path down your cheek. “Why?” The question was barely a whisper, laced with a fragile hope you didn’t dare to believe.

He held up the small bento box, his hands trembling slightly. The warmth radiating from it was a tangible reminder of his quiet care. Inside, nestled amongst the carefully arranged ingredients, was the simple, comforting stew he had made on the night your carefully constructed world had threatened to shatter.

“I made you this,” he said, his voice low and raw. “Because… because you once said it helped you survive. And… and your words… they made me realize… I don’t want to just survive without you, Y/N.”

He took a hesitant step closer, his gaze locking onto yours, his dark eyes filled with a raw vulnerability you had never witnessed before.

“You… you’re more than just someone I cooked for. You… you help me breathe,” he confessed, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “I was so afraid… afraid of ruining what we had, even if it was… unconventional. I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel this… this real. I was so terrified of being rejected, of misreading every small gesture…”

Before he could unravel further, you reached for him, your fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his jacket, your face pressing into the familiar comfort of his chest. The scent of him, a blend of spices and something uniquely his, filled your senses, a lifeline in the suffocating emptiness.

“You always were,” you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, the words a fragile affirmation of the feelings you had both tried so hard to deny.

He leaned down, his lips finding yours with a desperate tenderness, a kiss that tasted of regret, of longing, and finally, of a hesitant, burgeoning hope. It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful, wasn’t a performance for an audience. It was real, raw, and a promise of something more than a contract.

That night, the silence in the apartment was finally replaced by the comfortable hum of shared presence. He moved around the kitchen with a familiar grace, preparing a simple meal while you sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching him with a newfound tenderness. You stole bites from the simmering pans, and he didn’t stop you, his gaze lingering on you with a soft smile. When you burned your tongue on a particularly eager taste, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of forgiveness and the promise of a future finally worth savoring.

💬 Woozi : So… real marriage now? No more pretending for the internet? 💬 You: Real everything, Woozi. Finally. And it tastes so much better than any viral video. 💬 Woozi : My best friend’s finally whipped. Beautifully, irrevocably whipped. About damn time.

THE END.

[o6frog]

stray kids pride ᯓ★

[n-americano]

ི᭨ ➒➒ ᭨ ྀ ۫ ༧ crush on you ྐ ❤︎

[saintfaux]

[jjjjisun]

Sunday Morning

NJZ Danielle X AESPA Karina X Male OC | 1945 words

TW: Incest

—

Buy me a Ko-Fi.

Book commissions here.

—

Author's note: Happy Karina and Danielle day!

—

A violent storm had descended upon the night, the thunder growling like a waking beast and lightning carving veins of light into the ink-black sky. The old mansion rattled, its timbers creaking as if alive, and the rain lashed against the windows with the fervor of a jilted lover. In the expansive master bedroom, dominated by a large four-poster bed, a naked man lay awake, his heart pounding in sync with the storm's rhythm.

Karina, his daughter, was the first to sneak in, her petite body hugging the shadows. Her eyes, fierce and bold, met his in the darkness. She was a wild thing, untamed and free, her dark hair cascading down her back, the sheet clutched loosely in her hand. "Couldn't sleep?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the storm's fury.

He shook his head, pulling the sheet higher up his chest, a futile attempt at modesty. "You?" he replied, his voice hoarse with sleep and something else he dared not name.

She smirked, tossing her hair back. "Never could sleep through a storm. Not without…" she paused, her eyes glinting wickedly, "company."

Before he could respond, Danielle, his other daughter, padded in, her lithe form accentuated by the faint glow of the lightning. She was the yin to Karina's yang, her fair hair contrasting with her sister's darkness. "What are you two doing?" she asked, her eyes flicking between the two.

"Just talking about the storm," Karina said, her smirk growing wider. "Wasn't it you who used to love stormy nights?"

Danielle's cheeks flushed, but her eyes burned with a familiar challenge. She dropped her sheet, standing before them nude and unafraid. "I still do," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. And then, with a playful laugh, she lunged, aiming for Karina, the sheet they had both been clinging to forgotten.

The room filled with laughter, and soon, they were a tangle of limbs, their bodies sliding and pressing against each other, their tickling fingers exploring familiar terrain. The storm outside seemed to mimic their play, the rain intensifying, the thunder rumbling like their own laughter.

He watched, frozen, as their playfulness turned sensuous. Their touches lingered, their eyes locked, their breaths hitching in sync. He felt a familiar stirring, a response he couldn't suppress or control. He was their father, but they were his weakness, his downfall. He knew he should stop them and reclaim his self-control, but he was rooted to the spot, his pulse pounding in his ears, drowning out the storm.

Karina looked up, her eyes meeting his, her fingers dancing on Danielle's hip. "Join us, Dad," she purred, her voice sultry, inviting. "The storm doesn't seem so frightening with us together, does it?"

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between them, the thunder outside escaping without a peep in the face of the tsunami of want crashing through him. He knew he shouldn't cross this line, but in that moment, bathed in the storm's light, he couldn't find the strength to resist. He let the sheet fall, revealing his arousal, and surrendered to the storm within.

The thunder's grumble had softened to a murmur, and the rain was now a rhythmic patter against the windowpanes as the storm reached a gentle crescendo. The room's illumination oscillated with the passing Lightning, caressing the three figures in the large bed. The tension was thick and palpable, holding them in a suspended state of anticipation.

Karina's hand, previously dancing on Danielle's hip, now slid down, her fingers parting Danielle's thighs with tender authority. Danielle's breath hitched, her lips parting on a soft gasp. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lower lip, and her eyes flicked from Karina's fingers to her father's face. "Dad," she whispered, "tell me you want this as much as we do."

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked with Danielle's. He could feel his arousal throbbing in response to their Touch, their words. He was teetering on the edge of a precipice, one he had never dared to approach before. But the sight of them, their bodies flushed, their breaths coming in short pants, their eyes filled with hunger and want, was his undoing. "I do," he admitted, his voice raw and honest. "God help me, I do."

Karina's fingers found Danielle's center, stroking, exploring. Danielle's hips moved in rhythm with her sister's touch, her moans filling the room. His gaze flicked between them, his pulse pounding in his ears. He reached out, his fingers tangling in Karina's hair, pulling her in for a kiss. Their lips met, their tongues sliding against each other, igniting a fire that raged through his veins.

Danielle's fingers wrapped around his cock, her touch tentative yet sure. He groaned into Karina's mouth, his hips moving in sync with her sister's touch. He felt freefalling, his body alive with sensations he had long suppressed. He broke the kiss, his gaze finding Danielle's. "Come here," he growled, pulling her to him.

She straddled him, her warmth pressing against him. He captured her mouth, his hands roaming her body, relearning the curves he had tried so hard to forget. He hears. Karina's soft laughter, and then her touch was there, her fingers joining Danielle's in stroking him, her lips tracing patterns on his chest.

Danielle reached between them, positioning him at her entrance. She slid down, a slow, torturous inch at a time, her eyes locked with his. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, his breath coming in short gasps. When she had taken all of him, she began to move, her hips rolling in a slow, sensuous rhythm.

Karina's hands were on Danielle's breasts, her fingers pinching and rolling the nipples. Danielle's breath hitched, her movements becoming more frantic. He felt Karina's touch on him, her fingers stroking the base of his cock where it disappeared inside Danielle. His grip on Danielle's hips tightened, his thrusts meeting her movements.

Danielle leaned back, her hands settling on Karina's shoulders. Karina's lips found Danielle's nipple, her tongue flicking against the hardened peak. Danielle's moans filled the room, her head thrown back, her hair cascading down her back. He could feel her tightening around him, her body tensing in preparation for release.

He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed in counterpoint to her movements, his touch firm and steady. Danielle's body bowed, her release pulsing through her, her inner muscles-clenching around him.

He couldn't hold back any longer. With a groan, he came, his body shuddering with the force of his release. Danielle collapsed against him, her body spent, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Karina's hands stroked his chest, her touch gentle and soothing.

As their breathing slowly returned to normal, Danielle lifted her head, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Dad," she whispered, "I don't just want you to fuck us. I want you to breed us."

Karina nodded, her fingers twining with Danielle's. "We want to carry your child, Dad."

He stared at them, his mind racing. He had crossed this line, which he knew he couldn't uncross. But at that moment, looking at them, their bodies flushed, their eyes filled with love and desire, he knew he didn't want to. He took their hands, his fingers intertwining with theirs. "Then let's ride out the storm together," he said, his voice filled with determination. And with that, he sealed their fates, binding them together in a way that was primal, intense, and undeniably erotic.

The first light of dawn broke through the storm clouds, casting a soft glow over the three spent bodies entwined in the bed. The room was filled with the symphony of their breaths, slowly evening out, and the faint patter of rain against the windows. He was the first to stir, his fingers tracing patterns on their arms as he lay between them.

"Morning," Karina mumbled, her voice still heavy with sleep. She nuzzled into his chest, her hand moving to cover his.

Danielle stirred as well, her fingers finding his waist. "Morning, Dad," she said, her voice soft and content. She rubbed her face against his shoulder, a small smile on her lips.

He looked down at them, his heart swelling with mixed emotions. He cupped their faces, his thumbs stroking their cheeks. "Are you both sure about this?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "About what we did, what we want?"

Karina's breakfast pushes up, her breasts pressed against his chest. "Oh, we're sure," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Aren't we, Dani?"

Danielle nodded, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Very sure," she confirmed. "I think it's time we made it official." She rolled on top of him, her hands pushing his thighs apart. She bent down, her breath hot on his cock as she took him into her mouth.

He groaned, his fingers tangling in her hair. She sucked him, her tongue swirling around the head, her hand pumping the base. He felt himself hardening, his body responding to her touch. He looked down at her, her fair hair cascading around his lap, and then caught Karina's gaze, her dark eyes filled with hunger as she watched them.

Karina joined in, her hands stroking his chest, her fingers pinching his nipples. He moaned, his hips bucking slightly. Karina switched her sister on sucking his manhood and took him deeper, her throat convulsing around him. He felt the pressure building, his balls tightening.

"Stop," he gasped, pushing Karina away. She sat back, her lips glistening, her eyes hungry. "I want to come inside you," he said, his voice raw. He reached for her, pulling her up. She straddled him, positioning herself over his cock.

But she didn't lower herself onto him. Instead, she leaned back, her hands on Dani’s thighs. "We have other plans for that, Dad," she said, her voice teasing. She looked at her sister, a silent conversation passing between them. Danielle nodded, a seductive smile on her lips.

Karina got on her knees, her massive breasts swaying. "Noona Karina wants you to come inside her too, Dad," she said, her fingers playing with her nipples. "But first, she wants to show you how much she's enjoyed your attention." Karina pushed her monster breasts together, a valley of soft, pale flesh between them.

He groaned, his gaze locked on the sight. Danielle took his cock, positioning it between her sister's breasts. Karina began to move, her hips rolling, her tits on either side of his cock, sliding up and down. He watched, mesmerized, as his daughter used her sister's breasts to pleasure him.

He reached out, his fingers finding Danielle’s clit. She moaned, her movements becoming more frantic. He felt his release building, his balls tightening. Danielle's body tensed, her orgasm ripping through her.

"Come on my tits, Dad," Karina whispered, her eyes locked with his. "Mark me. Make me yours."

He groaned, his body tensing as he came between Karina’s breasts. Danielle collapsed against Karina, their bodies sticky with sweat and his release. They all looked down, a sense of satisfaction filling the room.

Karina laughed, her fingers wiping his cum off her skin. "Looks like we've made a mess, sis," she said, turning to Dani. She grinned, her hand joining hers in cleaning their skin.

As they got up to clean off properly, he watched them, a sense of peace washing over him. He still had his worries and doubts, but at that moment, looking at them, their bodies glistening, their smiles soft, he knew he wouldn't trade this for anything. He was ready to face whatever came next and cross whatever lines they needed to.

[skzyonglixie]

⠀ kiss me 💋 ᅠᅠ

[flutterdashes]

ㅤㅤㅤ必死的身体、 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂 ㅤsouls ㅤ🎻̲͟░̲ ♬˳⸰⬯

ㅤㅤㅤ𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽–𝙴𝙻𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽 天使們在我床上盤旋時 🪽

ʕ̢̣̣̣̣̩̩̩̩·͡˔·*Ɂ̡̣̣̣̣̩̩̩̩⠀⠀⠀𖧁͟♥︎̼̻⠀ 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 ㅤ𝖺 ㅤ𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾, ㅤ𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆ㅤ 𝗈𝖿ㅤ @saintlysl

[littlexbunni]

‎‧₊˚✧ bf!ateez texts ✧˚₊‧

they are jealous

warnings: jealous boyfie’s 🤭, the usual 2 C’s (chaos & crash outs), suggestive content, a little more mature themes mentioned in jongho’s but nothing major, mild swearing, tiny violent outbursts but never acted on,

note: my mental health took a dive and the guilt of not posting was eating me alive so hopefully this makes up for the lack of posting recently.

[poemale]

　 　 　 　⍰　 kaomoji elements　 ര

　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　  　 　 create ur own kaomoji w/ me !!

⠀

eyes

ˊ ˋ　 ◞ ◟　  .ܸ .ܸ　 • •　  › ‹　 o̴̶̷᷄ o̴̶̷̥᷅　  ≧ ≦

ˇ ˇ　 ◜◝　   ◡◡⁠　 •̀ •́　 ^^　 ᵒ̴̶̷̥́ ᵒ̴̶̷̣̥̀　  ꈍ ꈍ

⏑ ⏑　 ◝ ◜　 _ ̫ _　 •́ •̀　 ⊳⊲　 o̴̶̷̤ o̴̶̷̤　  ˃̶̤́ ˂̶̤̀

´ ｀ 　 -᷅ -᷄　  .⁠ .⁠　  ߹ ߹　 ՞ ՞⁠　 ಠ ಠ　 ᴗ͈ ᴗ͈

mouths

ᵕ　 ⤙　 ᴖ　 Ⱉ　  △　 ࿁　 ꕀ　  ‸

༝　 ‿　 ⌓　 ⩊　   ⌑　  ｡　 ㅁ　 ⇀

̫　 ֊　  ᎔　  ᗜ　  Д⁠　  ³　 ᯅ　  ˬ　 　 　 　 　 

noses

˶　 ᵜ　 ᆺ　 ˕　 ܫ

˔　 ᴥ　 ɷ　  ̷　 ꀾ　 

ears

ᐢ ᐢ　  ᕱ ᕱ　 ᕬ ᕬ　 ᙏ　  ᵔ ᵔ　 ᐡ ᐡ　 

∩∩　 ꪒ ꪒ　 ՞ ՞　 ⍝ ⍝　 ᥥ ᥥ　 ᘏᘏ

hands / arms

ก ก　 ٩ ۶　 ⊃⊂　 ᑌ ᑌ　 ദ്ദി　  ა૮

ฅ ฅ　 ੭ ᐣ  っ ς　 ੭ ੭　 ੭っ　 ∩ ∩

brackets

𝇋 𝇌　 ૮ ა　 ૮₍ ₎ა　  ( ິ )ິ　 ໒꒰ྀི ྀི꒱७  ૮ ོ ོ𑁬

₍ ₎　 ꒰ ꒱ྀི　 ૮꒰ ꒱ა　 ᧔ ᧓　 ᧔ྀི ᧓ྀི　 ʕ ྀི ྀིʔ

꒰ ꒱　 ଘ꒰ ꒱　 ꒰ ੭ ꒱ ᐣ　 𓊆 𓊇　 ᑦ꒰ྀིྀི ྀྀི꒱ᐣ 　 ૮꒰ྀི ꒱ྀིა

　

⠀⠀

[fairytopea]

ཐི ♡̵̼͓ ཋྀ ۫ 𓈒 rose garden. ♩

[kenopziagz]

Feliz cumpleaños al más grande amor de mi vida.💕

✨ 0408 ✨ HAPPY JONGHYUN DAY! 🎊✨🌸💖

[mikeyyysol]

Bringing this Jersey club flip I made of XG’s “Left Right”. The video was made in blender 3d and composited in after effects!

[verkomy]

more seonghwa 🥀

[jjjjisun]

Younger sis minji (newjeans) having an OF. Reader found it and instantly subscribed, getting himself off multiple times a day and uses it to chat with minji. Minji then finding out that it was her brother (from his pc, phone, or username) and then gets turned on but she doesnt know why. Chats w her brother and asks for cumtributes or just video sex (starts with just jerk off instructions so there’s no video, and minji decides to masturbate as well and turns on her cam, saying hello to her bro) and eventually inviting him to make a breeding video with him

Million-Dollar Experience

NJZ/NewJeans Minji x Male OC | 2663 words

TW: Incest

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In the quiet of his sprawling penthouse, Jae poured himself a generous glass of Scotch, the amber liquid casting entrancing shadows in the dim lighting. He was a man of detailed observation, a skill honed by years of handling high-stakes business deals. Tonight, however, his attention was not on market trends or acquisition targets but on a curiosity that had piqued his interest over the past few weeks.

His laptop screen displayed the homepage of OnyFans, a website known for its risqué content. He'd stumbled upon it while investigating a potential business venture, but one name had caught his eye: Minji. His little sister, nine years his junior, was a mystery to him. She'd left home at eighteen, pursuing a life he'd never quite understood. Now, here she was, living in Seoul and working as a model and an idol. But in the dark, intimate world of OnyFans, she was "Minki," an irresistible blend of innocent and sultry.

Jae clicked on Minki’s profile. The image was evocative: Minji lying back on velvet, her hair a dark cascade, eyes coyly peeking over her shoulder. The video thumbnails promised a captivating mix of sweet and sensuous. He felt a pang of guilt, of betrayal, but Crimson had always been his refuge, his secret place of escape. He'd figured out Minki's account, just as he figured out everything. Besides, he rationalized, he was just looking out for her.

Jae settled into his favorite armchair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. He selected a video titled "Wicked Whispers" and clicked play. The room filled with Minji's soft humming, the sound of a shower running, and the rustle of fabric. She was getting ready, her body visible in glimpses, a tantalizing dance of flesh and shadow. She was gorgeous, a fact he'd always known but had never quite acknowledged like this.

Suddenly, a chat window popped up. "Miss Minki, you look ravishing tonight," a user typed. Jae felt a twist of jealousy. He knew it was irrational, but he didn't want anyone else complimenting her.

Minji laughed, a sound as bright as a laugh could be in the intimate setting. "Why, thank you, handsome. You're making me blush," she typed back, her fingers dancing over the keyboard.

Jae saw his opportunity. He'd been watching, observing, and now he wanted to participate. He created a new user account, "J-regex," and sent a message, "What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Minji's eyes widened slightly, and her face showed a hint of surprise. She took a moment before typing, "A girl like me? What kind of girl do you think I am?"

Jae felt a thrill. This was going to be fun. "A girl worthy of better company," he typed, his fingers flying over the keys with an ease belied by his serious demeanor.

Minji smiled a slow, intriguing smile. "Is that so? And who would you suggest?"

"Someone who can appreciate the delicate balance you strike," Jae replied, his eyes never leaving the screen.

Minji leaned back, her body stretching in a way that made Jae's mouth go dry. "Well, J-regex, you might be just the company I'm looking for."

The room was silent except for the soft hum of the laptop and the clink of ice in Jae's glass. He felt a stirring in his loins, the first tendrils of arousal. He was playing a dangerous game, but he'd never been one to shy away from risk.

Over the next few weeks, their exchanges became a routine. Jae would watch, would chat, would tease. Minji would respond in kind, her smoldering looks and suggestive words driving him to the edge of madness. He'd never felt so alive, so recklessly drawn to someone. And yet, he was painfully aware that this Minki was not his little sister. No, this Minki was a temptress, a siren, a woman he couldn't help but crave.

One night, as Minji lay back, her body glistening with baby oil, she looked directly into the camera and whispered, "I wonder what it would be like, J-regex. Would you be gentle, or would you take me hard and fast?"

Jae's breath hitched, his cock straining against his pants. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn't stop. Not yet. Not ever.

"I'd start slow," he typed, his fingers trembling slightly. "Let you feel every inch of me. But once you're begging for it and breathless and needy, I'd give you everything. Hard, fast, until you're screaming my name."

Minji bit her lower lip, her eyes sparkling with desire. "I like the way you think, J-regex. Let's make that a reality, shall we?"

Jae's heart pounded. He'd crossed a line, a forbidden one. But he couldn't stop now. He was too deep, and Minji, Minki, whoever she was, was the most intoxicating woman he'd ever known.

Their relationship was evolving, becoming more than just a chat in a dark room. It was dangerous, delicious, and utterly forbidden, and Jae wouldn't have it any other way.

Jae stretched out on his king-sized bed, his laptop propped open before him. Minki was just coming online, her "Busy" status flashing to "Available." He felt a familiar thrill course through him, a dangerous mix of anticipation and guilt. But tonight, he decided, he would push the boundaries.

Minji appeared on screen, her hair damp from a recent shower. A towel wrapped around her hid what Jae knew were tantalizing curves. She blew a kiss at the camera, her smile mischievous. "Hello, everyone. Who's ready to have some fun tonight?"

Jae typed out his message, his heart pounding in his chest. "Say 'Oppa,' Minki." He knew it was a risky move, a taboo and intimate demand. But he wanted to hear it, wanted to feel closer to her.

Minji's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed, a hint of a challenge in them. She knew it was him. He'd hoped, had feared, but now he was certain. "Is that what you want, J-regex?" she typed back, her voice sultry as she spoke aloud, "Oppa, is that what you want to hear?"

The sound of it, the way it rolled off her tongue, sent a jolt of lust through him. He knew he should stop, should pull back, but he couldn't. Not now. Not when they'd come this far. "Show me," he typed, his breath coming faster.

Minji's lips curled into a slow smile. She stood up, letting the towel drop to the floor. She was naked, her body a work of art. She sat back down, spreading her legs, giving the camera, Jae, a perfect view. She started to touch herself, her fingers tracing a path from her collarbone down to the curve of her hip. "Like this, Oppa?"

Jae gasped, his cock straining against his pants. He should stop this, should put an end to it, but he couldn't. He was addicted, enraptured, entirely at her mercy. "Yes," he typed, his hands shaking. "Touch yourself, Minki. Make yourself come."

Minji moaned, a soft, sexy sound that seemed to envelop him. She followed his command, her fingers finding her clit, circling it slowly, then faster. She threw her head back, her hair cascading over her shoulders, her body writhing on the bed. "Oppa, I'm so close," she whispered, her voice ragged.

Jae couldn't take it anymore. He unzipped his pants, his hand wrapping around his cock, stroking it in time with her movements. "Come for me, Minki," he growled, his voice barely recognizable.

Minji's breath hitched, her body tensing, then she cried out, her orgasm coursing through her. Jae followed her, his release ripping through him, his body shuddering with the force of it.

As they both came down from their high, Minji looked directly into the camera, her expression serious. "We need to talk, J-regex. Or should I say, Jae Oppa?"

Jae felt a jolt. She knew. He should never have crossed that line, but it was too late. He typed a response, his heart pounding, "What do you want to talk about, Minki?"

Minji smirked, a hint of triumph in her eyes. "I know who you are, Oppa. And I think it's time we took this... relationship offline."

Jae felt a mix of shock, fear, and exhilaration. He'd always been the one in control, the one calling the shots. But here, now, he was at Minji's mercy. And she intended to use that to her advantage.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he typed, a lame attempt at denial.

Minji laughed, a sound as musical as it was taunting. "Really? Because I think you do, Oppa. And I think you'll like what I have in mind." She paused, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I want you to make a video with me. A special one. A million dollar experience."

Jae's eyes widened. He knew what that meant, the kind of content she was suggesting. It was explicit, intimate, entirely forbidden. But the thought of it, of being with her like that, made his cock stir again. He wanted it, wanted her, even if it meant risking everything.

"What kind of video, Minki?" he typed, his curiosity piqued.

Minji leaned in, her voice low and seductive. "A breeding video, Oppa. A million-dollar experience that you will get for free. All you have to do is say yes."

Jae stared at the screen, at the woman who was his sister, his seductress, his temptation. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump. Prepared to risk everything for this forbidden dance with Minji. Because even though he knew it was wrong, even though he knew it was dangerous, he couldn't stop. Not now. Not ever.

"Yes," he typed, his heart pounding in his chest. "I'm in."

Minji smiled, a smile that promised a world of pleasure and danger. "I'm glad you are, Oppa. Because this is going to be one hell of a ride."

The door to Jae's penthouse clicked shut behind them, sealing them off from the world outside. Minji leaned against the cool, hardwood door, her breath coming in short, excited gasps. She looked up at her big brother, whom she'd once idolized. He stood tall, his eyes fierce with desire, a wolf ready to devour his prey.

"Minji," Jae growled, his voice hoarse with need. "Get on your knees."

Minji felt a shiver run through her. She should protest, should remind him of their blood tie, but the words stuck in her throat, swallowed up by the raw, primal desire coursing through her veins. She sank to her knees, her heart pounding in her chest.

Jae stepped closer, hisaconda unzipping his pants, his thick cock springing free. He tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Open your mouth, Minji. Show me what a good little sister you can be."

Minji's lips parted, her tongue darting out to swipe at the bead of pre cum at the tip of his cock. Jae groaned, his grip on her chin tightening. "Tease," he hissed, but there was no anger in his voice, only desire.

She took him into her mouth, her lips stretching to accommodate his width, her tongue flicking against the sensitive underside. She sucked him, her head bobbing back and forth, her hands gripping his thighs for balance. Jae's fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her, controlling her. He fucked her mouth, his hips moving in sharp thrusts, hitting the back of her throat with each stroke.

Minji gagged, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, but she didn't pull back. She wanted this, wanted to give him pleasure, to feel his control over her. As if reading her mind, Jae groaned, "That's it, Minji. Take it like a good little sister. Big brother's cum."

His words, so dirty, so taboo, sent a surge of heat between her legs. She moaned around his cock, the vibration making Jae gravelled, "Fuck, Minji!"

He thrust one more time, deep into her throat, his cock pulsing as he came, filling her mouth with his hot, salty seed. Minji swallowed it all, her eyes never leaving his, a sense of power and satisfaction washing over her.

Jae pulled her up, his hands cupping her face, his lips claiming hers in a fierce, passionate kiss. "You're mine now, Minji," he whispered against her lips. "Mine to protect, mine to please, mine to breed."

Minji felt a shiver run through her at his possessive words. She wanted that, wanted to be his, to belong to him. She nodded, barely whispering, "Yes, Oppa. I'm yours."

Jae led her to his huge room filled with dark wood and leather. He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling her to stand between his legs. He undressed her slowly, his fingers tracing paths of fire on her skin. When she was naked, he leaned in, his lips wrapping around her nipple, sucking, teeth nipping gently.

Minji moaned, her hands tangling in his hair, holding him to her. Jae switched to her other breast, his hands roaming her body, cupping her ass, her pussy. He slipped a finger inside her, then another, his thumb circling her clit. She rode his hand, her body seeking release, but Jae pulled back, a wicked smile on his face.

"Not yet, Minji. Not until I say so."

He laid back on the bed, his eyes raking over her naked form. "Come here. Ride me."

Minji straddled him, her pussy aching to feel him inside her. She reached down, guiding his cock to her entrance, then sank, taking him in inch by inch. Jae groaned, his eyes closing, his hands gripping her hips. She started to move, her hips rolling, her body gliding up and down his length.

Jae opened his eyes, watching her, his expression intense. "Fuck me, Minji. Hard and fast, like you want to."

Minji moaned, her nails digging into his chest as she did as he commanded. She rode him hard, her body slamming down on his, their skin slapping together, their bodies fused in a dance as old as time. Jae's hands gripped her ass, guiding her movements, his hips thrusting up to meet her, their bodies coming together in a synchrony that was sensationally intimate.

"Come for me, Minji," Jae growled, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing hard, fast. "Come on your big brother's cock."

Minji's body tensed, her orgasm washing over her, her inner walls pulsing around Jae's cock, milking him. As if that was his undoing, Jae groaned, his cock throbbing inside her, filling her with his cum.

They lay there momentarily, their bodies still joined, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Then Jae rolled them over, his body covering hers, his mouth claiming hers in a soft, tender kiss.

"Minji," he whispered, his eyes searching hers. "What are we going to do?"

Minji's fingers traced patterns on his back, and her heart filled with a sense of peace and love she'd never known before. "I don't know, Oppa. But I want to be with you."

Jae nodded, his expression serious. "I want that too, Minji. And I promise you, if you lose this legal battle and can't be an idol anymore, we'll face it together. You'll be mine; I can make you my wife, and I will provide for you."

Minji felt a surge of love and desire. She smiled a slow, sultry smile. "And until then, Oppa, we'll make the most of our time together. Don't you think?"

Jae grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief and desire. "I was hoping you'd say that, Minji. Now, turn over. I've got a date with your beautiful ass."

Minji laughed, rolling over, her body already anticipating his touch. As Jae's lips traced a path down her spine, she knew she was exactly where she was meant to be. With him, in this dance of forbidden love, they were ready to face whatever storm may come their way.