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youthguk · 2 months ago

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Terms & Conditions | Act 1 of 2 | jjk (m)

pairing: CEO’s son!Jungkook x assistant!Reader

genre: corporate lust, forbidden tension, and a shattering lie in silk and crystal.

summary: You swore you came here to build a career — not fall apart in the hands of the CEO’s son.

warnings:power imbalance, office tension, fingering, oral (f receiving), dry humping, unprotected sex, infidelity themes, toxic dynamics, emotional manipulation, angst, heartbreak, smut, dom!jungkook, heartbreak kink, chain kink, slight dumbification, broken glass

w.c: 15k

author's note: this is a story idea i’ve been dying to try for a while — something about the tension, the imbalance, the unraveling… it just begged to be written. i’d love to hear your thoughts — reblogs, comments, messages — anything. your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

You don’t remember the last time your palms weren’t sweating before walking through those glass doors.

It’s only your second week at Jeon & Co., a name that sounds more like a private gallery or old-money auction house than one of South Korea’s most dominant conglomerates. They own everything — from high-end beauty brands to media networks, and you’re in their marketing sector, nestled under the glittering branch that manages global creative campaigns. The best of the best. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You graduated with honors, survived three interviews, and beat out hundreds of equally desperate graduates. You have a boyfriend, a freshly ironed blazer, and a bulletproof five-year plan that includes zero scandals, zero distractions, and certainly zero involvement with anyone who wears cufflinks before noon.

Every morning in the elevator, you repeat these words like a mantra: no distractions, no mistakes. Not here.

When the doors nearly close, someone slides in - tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a watch worth several months of your rent. You keep your gaze fixed ahead despite your racing heart, trying to ignore the immediate presence beside you and the expensive leather-and-spice cologne that fills the small space.

“Which floor?” he asks, voice dipped in amusement, like he already knows the answer.

“Twenty-three,” you say, and you don’t flinch when he presses it for you. When he shifts to face you, you keep your gaze fixed ahead, pretending not to notice when he murmurs, almost contemplatively, "New."

The elevator dings and you slip out without a word, waiting until you're safely at your desk to finally exhale.

Your coworker Lisa leans in with concern. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No," you reply softly. "Just... didn't sleep much."

Which isn’t a lie. You’ve been working late every night. Perfecting campaign research. Double-checking every deliverable. Your manager — cold and precise — has made it clear: your probation will not be extended. You either make it in three months, or you’re out. So you keep your head down. Say yes to everything. Go home with a sore back and swollen ankles, whispering apologies to your boyfriend when you miss your dinner dates, your calls, your chances to be soft.

You’ve made sacrifices. You can’t afford to make more. Which is why when he walks into the strategy meeting an hour later, that same man from the elevator — no tie, blazer sharp, the kind of presence that makes everyone shift in their chairs — you feel your spine stiffen like he just walked straight into your safe little plan and lit a match.

He doesn’t introduce himself. Just takes a seat at the end of the table, right where your line of sight lands if you dare look up from your screen.

Your gaze remains fixed on your laptop screen, scanning through notes and slides for the competitor branding strategy presentation you're about to deliver.

The meeting begins, and you make it halfway through your analysis before being interrupted by a voice.

“Why them?” he asks, casually, fingers tapping once on the table.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Why that competitor for your benchmark?” he repeats. “Seems like a safe choice. Predictable. I want to hear what you’d do if you weren’t trying to be perfect.”

It’s not rude. It’s not even harsh. It’s just direct — like he’s daring you to drop the mask. You glance up. He’s already watching you. That same hint of amusement behind his eyes, dark and unreadable.

“I…” you begin, lips dry. “Chose them because their campaign’s ROI was comparable. It makes the analysis clean.”

“Clean’s not always compelling,” he says, leaning back.

Silence fills the room.

Your manager clears her throat. "Let's move on."

You nod stiffly and return to your notes, but as everyone filters out later, you sense him pause behind your chair. Without looking at you, he murmurs just loudly enough for you to hear:

Tighten your formatting. You're being watched.

He continues walking as you remain frozen in place, suddenly aware of an invisible thread wrapping itself, silk-tight, around your ankles.

You don’t turn around until the room is nearly empty, the low hum of conversation fading into silence as the last team lead tucks her chair in and leaves. Your fingers still hover over your trackpad. Half a thought. Half a breath. Half a girl, now that he’s walked out of the room with your composure in his pocket. You finally look up — and Lisa’s still there, scribbling something in her notebook, lips pursed.

“Who was that?” you ask, too casual, like you’re asking about the weather and not the man whose voice is still caught in the collar of your blouse.

She doesn’t look up. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. I mean, I saw him in the elevator this morning, but—”

Lisa blinks. “You really don’t know?”

You straighten slightly. “Should I?”

She laughs — not unkindly, just a little stunned. “That was Jeon Jungkook.”

The name hits you with sudden recognition - you've seen it before on press releases, company initiatives, and most notably in The Korea Economic Daily's headline: "Jeon Group Appoints Founder's Son as Executive Creative Director."

Lisa studies your face as she adds, "He's the CEO's son."

You manage a quiet "Oh," while the implications sink in.

"And technically your boss's boss's boss," she continues, lowering her voice. "Well, not officially. But you know how it works."

Indeed you do. Corporate hierarchy isn't merely about titles - it's about influence, power, and legacy. And in this world, legacy means having your name pre-engraved on the boardroom door.

As you stare at your laptop screen, watching the cursor pulse at the end of your abandoned slide, the gravity of the situation settles in. You'd just challenged Jeon Jungkook, treated him like any other consultant, even called your work "clean" while looking him straight in the eye.

He hadn't corrected you - he hadn't needed to. Men like him never announce their presence; the room does that for them. Instead, he watches, waits, and wears that knowing smirk, perfectly aware you'll eventually understand your place. And now you have, though the realization comes a moment too late.

✓

The week after the strategy meeting arrives with an avalanche of emails, a last-minute pitch request, and an ominous calendar update titled “Campaign Direction Realignment — Strategic Oversight Pending”. You don’t question it. You barely have time to breathe.

The department is shifting — again. A new cross-departmental campaign was approved at the executive level, and leadership wants it expedited. You’re still on probation, which means you’re volunteered for everything and credited for nothing. And this time, the stakes are even higher.

On Monday morning, Jungkook returns with an official title printed in the internal memo: Executive Creative Advisor, Special Campaign Division. Like a storm warning, his name stands alone without photo or introduction.

When he joins your team's kickoff meeting, he carries himself with practiced ease - sleeves rolled up, Montblanc pen spinning between his fingers, wearing an expression that suggests he's already seen how this presentation will unfold. The atmosphere shifts immediately; everyone grows jittery and over-earnest while your manager's smile betrays just how much rides on this moment.

Unlike last time, Jungkook remains silent throughout the meeting. He simply observes, his unblinking gaze lingering on you mid-presentation until your voice falters briefly under its weight.

That evening, your boyfriend's voice echoes through your apartment with a mixture of concern and exhaustion as he hands you takeout: "You're not even here when you're here."

You respond with a smile, a thank you, and a kiss on his cheek, but keep to yourself how Jungkook had passed your desk earlier without a glance - and how profoundly his indifference had affected you anyway.

—

Thursday evening, 7:19 PM. The office stands nearly empty, with the sky outside a pressed charcoal bleeding into the windows. You sit hunched in front of your laptop at one of the standing desks near the breakroom's vending machines, headphones on and blazer discarded, forehead cradled in your palm.

The proposal for tomorrow's executive review isn't wrong, but something feels off. You've revised the design layout six times and adjusted the forecast numbers three times, searching for that perfect balance between innovation and risk management.

Lost in your lo-fi playlist, you don't notice his approach until his shadow falls across your screen and his voice, low and amused, breaks through the music: "Wrong forecast."

Your heart snaps against your ribs as Jungkook appears behind you, one hand braced beside your arm, the other pointing to your spreadsheet's 2nd quarter projection. "You're calculating based on hope," he continues, "not market behavior."

"I—sorry. I didn't realize anyone was—"

"Still here?" he finishes. "I know."

You should move away, minimize your screen, say something professional and leave. Instead, you remain frozen as his presence looms behind you—not touching, not inappropriate, just... inevitable. When he leans forward, his voice warm near your ear, the proximity sends shivers down your spine.

"Competitor C pulled a similar stunt last fiscal year. Overestimated customer conversion by 8%. Stock dropped in three days. You really want to make the same mistake?"

Words fail you as his breath ghosts against your ear, his voice like silk against nerves you hadn't known existed. Then he withdraws, leaving you with parting advice over his shoulder, "I'd recalculate based on conservative churn. And switch your color palette. Executives hate muted tones. Makes them feel old."

The hallway door hisses closed behind him, but you remain still, staring at the numbers he'd identified. He was right, of course. You feel exposed, laid bare, and worse—seen. Yet instead of fleeing, you steady yourself with a deep breath and begin to revise the forecast.

✓

The apartment smells like steamed rice and detergent when you step inside, your heels clicking softly against the laminate as you drop your bag by the door. You’re late — again. Not dramatically, not enough for a fight, but just late enough that the soup is warm instead of hot, and the conversation thinner than it should be.

Seojin doesn’t look up from his tablet when you enter the kitchen.

“I reheated the jjigae,” he says, flipping a page on the screen. “Thought you’d be home by eight.”

“I was going to be. But there was—” You pause, trying to choose a word that doesn’t feel like a lie. “—a revision.”

He nods, still not looking at you. “You’ve been doing a lot of those lately.”

You open the fridge. Take the soup. Sit across from him at the small table you picked out together from a secondhand shop last fall. It wobbles at the corner. You’ve never fixed it.

The silence between you stretches thin, held together by the scrape of your spoon and the muted buzz of city traffic outside your balcony door. You glance at him. He’s still reading. Still in his hoodie from earlier. Still here. You should feel lucky. You do feel lucky. He’s patient. Steady. You’ve been together for nearly three years, since university — when everything felt simple and the future was just a hazy shape you planned for together over cheap beer and shared textbooks.

But tonight, with Jungkook’s voice still warm in your memory, Seojin’s steadiness feels more like stillness. The kind that doesn’t move forward.

“Did your boss like your slides?” he asks finally, voice mild.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you were redoing your slides for that new campaign. The branding one?”

“Oh.” You nod, taking a sip. “Yeah. She... didn’t say much. But I think it landed okay.”

“Good.” He says it like you just told him it was sunny tomorrow.

His response carries no curiosity, no pride - just a perfunctory acknowledgment, as if checking off another item on a list.

You consider telling him about your day - about discovering your numerical error, about someone noticing before it became embarrassing, about how it left you unsettled. But the words stay trapped behind your lips.

Instead, you ask, "How was your day?"

He shrugs. "The usual. My manager's still an ass."

The conversation dies there, withering in the space between you.

Later, while brushing your teeth as he watches reruns on the couch, you study your reflection and contemplate the person emerging in the mirror - someone whose voice might grow sharper, who might stop explaining herself, whose thoughts are slowly being reshaped by another's influence. You rinse, meet your own gaze in the mirror, and keep these musings to yourself.

✓

The day after the breakroom encounter begins like every other — a sterile loop of dark suits, blinking badge sensors, and recycled air — but something about the silence feels off-kilter.

Not loud. Not jarring. Just slightly out of place, the way a tilted painting disturbs a perfectly arranged wall. You notice it halfway through the morning meeting. He’s not there.

It takes you a few minutes to realize this fact matters. That somewhere between the late nights and campaign decks, you’ve come to anticipate Jeon Jungkook’s presence. Not because he speaks — he rarely does in team meetings — but because when he is in the room, everything seems to orbit differently. Like the temperature shifts. Like someone’s watching, even when no one is. But today, nothing moves. The room stays flat.

Your manager announces the new campaign direction — a fast-track initiative with a major overseas brand partner. It’s ambitious, high-pressure, the kind of opportunity the permanent employees elbow each other for in the halls. You try to focus on the details — target markets, deliverables, budget constraints — but you keep glancing at the empty chair near the window.

He doesn’t show up for the debrief either. Or the partner call in the afternoon.

When you pass the executive floor later, the door to his glass-walled office is shut, lights off. No coat slung over the leather chair. No Cartier pen abandoned on the table. No trace at all.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That one man’s absence has no bearing on your workload, your goals, your worth. And yet — when you sit down to update the forecasting model he corrected the night before, your fingers hesitate.

It was arrogance, probably. A performance. Someone too rich to speak gently, too powerful to worry about boundaries. You don’t need to think about it again.

Still, your hands hover over the spreadsheet longer than they should. Still, you find yourself replaying the way his voice slipped behind you, that cool, calm certainty, as if your miscalculation had always been obvious — and he’d simply waited for the right moment to remind you who was watching.

That night, at home, you try to let it go.

The lights are low. The TV is on. The apartment smells like basil and something warming on the stove. Seojin leans against the kitchen counter in grey sweats, scrolling through his phone as he stirs the pot with one hand, his movements absentminded.

He doesn’t look up when you come in, only says, “You’re late again.”

You check the clock. It’s 8:14. Barely different from last night. “Sorry. There was another meeting.”

“Is there ever a day you leave before seven?”

You smile. Or try to. “Not during probation, no.”

He says nothing to that. Just turns down the burner and sets out two bowls. The usual rhythm. Familiar. Safe. You sit across from him at the table, fingers brushing the edge of your spoon, and listen to the quiet clink of ceramic and the muted voices from the drama playing behind him.

This is what you wanted. Stability. Someone who didn’t ask for much, who supported your work even if he didn’t understand it. You’ve been together for years. He knows your order at your favorite café. You’ve talked about moving in somewhere bigger if your contract gets extended. Getting a car. Maybe a cat.

He’s good to you. Always has been. And yet…

You eat in silence, nodding when he speaks, laughing softly at the right parts of his story about a difficult client. You tell him about the upcoming campaign, about the sleepless nights ahead, about how you think your manager might actually be warming up to you. You leave out the rest.

You don’t tell him about the way someone stood too close to you in a hallway and said your name like it was already his. You don’t mention the man who didn’t look at you at all today — and how somehow, that unsettled you more.

Later, as you move through your nightly routine - brushing teeth, folding laundry, setting alarms - your mind wanders not to spreadsheets or marketing formulas, but to that voice. Low and even, it lingers in your memory, closer than propriety should allow.

You drift off to sleep without putting a name to this feeling, but it stays with you nonetheless.

✓

The invitation doesn’t come with flowers or pleasantries. It arrives via calendar — cold, impersonal, and marked mandatory.

Event: Strategic Brand Dinner with LX International Partners Location: Le Méridien Seoul, 32nd Floor Executive Lounge Time: 6:30 PM, Formal Business Attire Attendees: C-Suite, Campaign Division Heads, External Brand Directors, Select Junior Staff

Your name appears at the bottom of the list - highlighted and confirmed. As you stare at the screen, uncertain if this could be a mistake, Lisa leans over from her desk to ask if you received the invitation too.

When you admit your confusion, she breaks into a knowing grin. "It means you're killing it. They only invite the golden children to those things - either you impressed someone high up, or you're being tested." The dual possibilities send an uneasy flutter through your stomach.

Your inbox offers no additional context - no encouraging message from your manager, no casual acknowledgment. Just that formal blue icon from HQ, like a seal of fate. You try to frame it as recognition, a sign that your late nights and careful work are finally translating into value.

That evening, you select your outfit with deliberate care - a black silk blouse paired with tailored slacks, threading the delicate balance between belonging and restraint. As you dress, you can't shake the feeling of stepping into a space where familiar rules begin to blur, where someone might be waiting.

The executive lounge greets you with pristine elegance - white orchids and floating candles adorning each table, the city skyline a perfect backdrop through floor-to-ceiling windows. You arrive early, armed with practiced introductions and campaign talking points. But nothing prepares you for him.

Jungkook makes his entrance alone, fashionably late and separate from the crowd of board members and brand partners. His black suit fits with devastating precision, his white shirt open just enough to feel intentional. No tie. His presence doesn't merely interrupt the room - it transforms it.

As conversations pause and heads turn, he bypasses the head table without acknowledgment, making his way directly to your corner. Without hesitation, he pulls out the empty chair beside you, where you sit with other junior staff and a mid-level manager, as if this spot had been his intention all along.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, but he’s already lowering himself into the seat.

You manage a nod. Maybe a whisper of agreement. He doesn’t speak again for the first twenty minutes. Just sits there — still, poised, his fingers toying idly with the edge of his crystal water glass. You feel him even when he’s not moving. You feel the space between you shrink every time someone leans forward and you have to lean slightly toward him to see.

When the appetizer arrives, he finally speaks.

“You didn’t change your slide formatting,” he murmurs without looking at you.

You blink. “What?”

He turns his head slightly. Eyes narrowed, amused.

“You changed your forecast. But not the design.”

You’re suddenly very aware of the neckline of your blouse. Of the pulse just below your collarbone.

“You weren’t tagged in the update,” you say carefully.

“I didn’t need to be.”

His gaze lingers a moment too long - a subtle gesture that walks the line between professional and personal. When you reach for your wine, it's more reflex than necessity.

The perfectly prepared sea bass sits before you, its saffron cream reduction drawing enthusiastic praise from nearby diners. The wine is impeccable, the conversation flows smoothly as talk of Dubai's regional expansion fills the air, and you participate with practiced grace. Yet your attention remains firmly elsewhere.

Every nerve ending in your body is attuned to his presence beside you - the brush of his arm against your chair, his untouched entrée, the weighted silence he's maintained since your return from the restroom. You should welcome this reprieve from his attention, but instead, your skin tingles with an electric awareness beneath your blouse.

And then it happens. Not a jolt. Not a brush. Nothing dramatic enough to earn the room’s attention. Just a shift — the deliberate slide of his hand onto your thigh beneath the white linen tablecloth. His palm settles against the fabric of your slacks like it belongs there, warm and sure and intentional. Your heart lurches in your chest.

Every cell in your body reacts at once — the stillness of your limbs, the tightening of your grip on the napkin in your lap, the breath that sticks in your throat. You don’t dare look at him. You don’t move. And yet, he does. While answering a question from the external marketing director — something smooth, intelligent, deceptively casual about multi-channel asset deployment — his fingers begin to glide upward, just slightly, along the inner curve of your thigh.

Your fork nearly slips from trembling fingers as conversation continues around the table, the other diners blissfully unaware of what transpires beneath the pristine tablecloth. Only you and him share this charged moment of transgression.

His fingers stop just shy of the seam of your trousers — not bold enough to be obscene, not soft enough to ignore. The pressure is maddening in its restraint, and somehow, that makes it worse. Far worse. Your body aches to react, to shift, to respond, but the weight of the room around you holds you hostage in your seat.

He leans slightly toward the table, voice low as he offers some quip about Gen Z loyalty indexes. His thumb strokes once — slow, deliberate — along the inside of your thigh. You inhale sharply, too sharp, and his head turns minutely in your direction, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, just enough to be a warning.

“Still pretending you’re unaffected?” he murmurs beneath his breath, eyes still fixed on the wineglass in his hand.

It takes every ounce of strength you have to rise from your chair — not too fast, not rushed, but fast enough that your manager glances up from her conversation with a curious brow. You offer something vague — a quiet apology, a mention of needing to freshen up — and slip away, your heels hushed against the thick carpeting as you walk toward the corridor outside. You don’t head for the restroom. You don’t need to. You just need air — space — a moment alone to wrestle your heartbeat back into something that doesn’t sound like surrender.

The hallway is dim and cool, washed in soft recessed lighting and the occasional glimmer of crystal from a decorative chandelier. You lean against the wall, eyes closed, pulse thundering in your ears. You’re not sure if you’re more humiliated or aroused.

Your breath catches at the sound of approaching footsteps - even, unhurried, deliberate. You remain still as he stops just behind you, his presence radiating heat against your back.

“You didn’t say no,” he says, voice low, quiet, but certain. “You stood up. You walked away. But you didn’t stop me.”

“That wasn’t consent,” you say, breath trembling, though you don’t move away. “You touched me at a business dinner.”

“I touched you,” he repeats, stepping forward until your shoulder blades meet the firm line of his chest, “and you didn’t even flinch.”

You should push him away. You should walk back into that room and sit beside someone else. You should report him, maybe. Instead, your voice softens. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is at your jaw, brushing your skin with infuriating care. “But you won’t.”

His hand moves to your waist. Steady. Confident. The other slides lower, down the line of your hip, and then dips beneath the waistband of your trousers — no fumbling, no hesitation. He’s done this before. He’s thought about it.

You gasp when his fingers slip beneath your underwear. Not in protest — in shock. In heat.

“You’re soaked,” he says, so quietly it sounds like praise.

Your hand flies to his arm — not to pull him away, not really, but to hold on. He curls two fingers inside you, and your breath breaks, head falling back against his shoulder as his other hand finds the edge of your coat and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with ease.

“You want to pretend this is about power?” he whispers, lips brushing your neck. “That you don’t want this as much as I do?”

Your body is trembling. You hate that he’s right.

“Don’t do this,” you manage. “We’re at a—”

“Dinner. Yes,” he cuts in. “And yet here you are, letting me finger you in a hallway while your manager eats crème brûlée with a glass of Château d'Yquem.”

His voice darkens. “So say it. Say you want to come.”

You shake your head — not in refusal, not anymore — just in helpless disbelief.

“Say it,” he demands again, his fingers pushing deeper, slower, his palm angling upward so every stroke hits exactly where you’re weakest. “Say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

You pant, words slipping through grit teeth.

“I want to come.”

“Louder.”

“I—fuck—Jungkook—please—” Your hands are on his chest now, gripping his lapels like a lifeline. “I want to come—please—”

“Good girl,” he breathes.

And then he breaks you. His thumb finds your clit at the exact rhythm your body was begging for, the heel of his palm rocking against you as he curls his fingers one last time — and your entire body unravels. Not gently. Not slowly. You fall hard, silent but shaking, a moan trapped in your throat as you come against his hand, forehead pressed to his shoulder, nails digging into his jacket. He doesn’t speak. He just holds you upright as you tremble.

And when your breath finally steadies — when the world begins to return in flickers of scent and sound — he eases his hand from your trousers, adjusts your blouse where it slipped, and smooths the lapel of your coat with a strange sort of gentleness.

“You have five minutes,” he says, stepping back like nothing happened. “Fix your lipstick.”

And then he’s gone.

✓

The apartment is dark when you enter. The hallway light flickers softly on, motion-sensor timed, casting the space in its usual glow — clean, quiet, uneventful.

Your coat slides from your shoulders with practiced ease, your shoes joining the pair already lined up neatly near the door. You close the door softly. Out of habit. Or guilt.

Seojin’s on the couch, already half-asleep, blanket draped loosely over his torso and his phone still glowing in his hand. He startles slightly when you step in, blinking blearily toward you.

“Hey,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion. “You’re back late.”

“There was a dinner,” you say as you cross the room, dropping your bag by the table like you always do. “Client-facing. All hands on deck.”

He rubs his eyes. “You eat?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He yawns. “I left the rice cooker on if you’re still hungry.”

You couldn't imagine eating anything else right now. When he shifts upright on the couch, you pause to take in his drowsy state - hair slightly mussed, eyes heavy with sleep.

Leaning down, you press a gentle kiss to his lips. When he doesn't resist, your fingers find their way beneath his shirt, seeking the familiar warmth of his skin. You deepen the kiss, moving slower, more deliberately, until he gently pulls away.

“Babe,” he says, voice still tender. “I’m so tired.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hover there, inches from his mouth, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name.

“I just missed you,” you say.

He softens, gives you a small smile. Brushes a hand over your cheek.

“I missed you too,” he says. “But I’ve been up since five. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

You nod. Step back. “Of course. Go to bed.”

“You coming?”

“In a bit.”

He shuffles toward the bedroom, feet dragging slightly on the hardwood, and you stand in the middle of the living room in silence, staring at the spot where your coat now hangs like a ghost on the wall. Eventually, you follow him.

You slip into bed beside him without turning on the light, careful not to shift the mattress too much, careful not to let the scent of your blouse — still faintly stained with something that isn’t him — drift into the space between you.

He's already asleep while you lie awake, arms folded and eyes fixed on the blank ceiling above. Your mind drifts to Jungkook's words, echoing with dangerous clarity: Say it, and I'll let you fall. The memory of how easily you surrendered haunts you - not just the act itself, but the person who drew it from you.

Jeon Jungkook, the CEO's son and your superior, holds more than just professional power over you. He saw through your carefully constructed facade of ambition and perfection, dismantling it with frightening ease. In just one dinner, you let desire cloud your judgment, allowing it to seep into your veins like sweet poison.

As you close your eyes and try to steady your breathing, shame washes over you. The weakness you feel stems not from his touch, but from your willing participation - from the pleasure you found in it, and the certainty that this memory will linger, refusing to fade no matter how much you wish it would.

✓

The first thing you notice is that nothing has changed.

Not the walk from the elevator to your desk. Not the scent of too-strong coffee wafting through the corridor before 9 a.m. Not the way your coworkers hover nervously around the printer like it might explode if handled improperly. Everything looks the same. Sounds the same. Functions the same. And yet, you are not the same.

You move slower now. Not visibly — not enough for anyone to raise an eyebrow or ask if something’s wrong — but with a stiffness in your limbs, like your body is still locked in that marble hallway, breath caught behind your ribs, the memory of his fingers inside you humming low and persistent between your thighs. You should feel ashamed. You do. But more than that, you feel… displaced. Unmoored.

And then he walks in.

Just before the Monday strategy meeting begins at 9:30, he enters with his usual precision - immaculate in charcoal, silver cufflinks catching the light beneath his tailored jacket sleeves. His composed expression and measured steps betray nothing as he takes his place at the head of the table.

Throughout the meeting, he maintains a studied indifference, reviewing materials on his tablet without once acknowledging your presence, his gaze never wavering even when your name appears in the campaign outline.

You tell yourself that’s good. It’s a relief. You don’t want attention. You don’t want questions. You don’t want the weight of something unspoken pressing down between you in a room full of people who would devour the scent of scandal if they thought it belonged to someone young and unprotected.

But when he turns his head slightly to correct a minor budgeting note — sharp, efficient, disinterested — and his eyes pass clean over you like you are air... you feel the first crack form.

By Wednesday, it’s no longer a question. He is avoiding you. Meticulously. Intentionally. With a precision that stings more than any confrontation would have. You’ve become a blank spot in his vision, a silence in his speech, a neutral space carved out in meetings and emails and shared corridors. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t pause when you speak. Doesn’t offer even a glance when you enter a room he’s in.

And for some reason, that’s the part that hurts the most — the erasure. Because when he touched you, he did it like he knew you. Like he saw you. And now, you could stand in front of him in nothing but your shame and your carefully pressed ID badge, and he still wouldn’t blink.

You bury yourself in tasks. Stay late under the fluorescent buzz of the 23rd floor. Redo the same slide deck twice, not because it needs it, but because working on something you can fix gives you the illusion of control. You don’t check your phone. You barely go home.

When you finally do, it’s Thursday night, and Seojin is waiting with reheated curry and a look in his eyes that isn’t quite concern, but is dangerously close to it. He asks if something happened at work. You say no. He asks why you’ve been quiet. You say it’s the new project — the pressure. The late hours. You offer him everything except the truth. But he doesn’t buy it. Not entirely.

“You’re different lately,” he says softly, not accusing, not angry — just observant. “You don’t look at me the same.”

And you know he’s right. Because when you look at him — when you kiss him goodnight or lean against him on the couch — your mind slips sideways. You remember a hand that didn’t hesitate. A voice that demanded. A mouth that praised you in filth. You remember how easily you surrendered to someone you barely knew. Someone you had no right to want. And no matter how many times you tell yourself you regret it… your body still remembers it as a gift.

That night, when Seojin reaches for your hand beneath the sheets, you lace your fingers through his and smile. You press your cheek against his shoulder and close your eyes. You whisper that you’re just tired. That you’ll be okay after the campaign wraps. That this is just a rough patch. He believes you, or wants to.

You fall asleep wishing you believed yourself. But when morning comes and Jungkook walks past you in the hallway without a word, you feel your insides twist again — not because he ignores you.

But because part of you needs him to stop.

And the other part is starting to need him to look.

✓

It begins again in the elevator with a glance. The doors are closing when you rush in, breathless, clutching a folder of campaign briefs. After catching the door with your heel and murmuring apologies to the senior assistants and intern, you see him.

He stands in the back corner in his black suit, one hand in his pocket, the other holding coffee as dark as his watch. Though he remains still at first, the moment the doors seal shut and the floor number illuminates above, his gaze finds you - slow and deliberate, like sunlight across a wall.

You try to ignore it, but the heat of his stare burns against your cheek. When you finally look back, his dark eyes meet yours without expression - no smirk, no recognition, just a weighted patience that makes you flee at the next ding of the elevator. He remains behind, unmoving.

—

Two hours later, you’re standing in the briefing room, pressed between two product managers and a wall of glossy mock-ups, trying to follow the flow of the meeting. It’s warm. Too warm. The AC hasn’t been working right all week, and everyone’s packed in too tightly for comfort.

The subtle shift of movement behind you brings an unexpected touch - fingers ghosting between your shoulder blades and along your spine. The contact is light, almost tentative, as if meant to steady rather than demand. Yet there's an intentional weight to it that makes your breath catch and your pulse quicken.

You don't need to look back to recognize who it is. When someone asks a question moments later, you manage to answer with remarkable composure, even as the phantom sensation of his touch lingers after he withdraws.

As the room gradually empties, you remain rooted in place. He stands by the table, methodically scrolling through his tablet with practiced indifference. Something compels you to pause as you walk past him - an inexplicable force that holds you there, suspended in the charged silence between you.

“Is this your new thing?” you ask quietly, arms crossed. “Ignoring me in public and touching me in private?”

He doesn’t look up. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He swipes once. “That’s what makes it fun.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You think this is a game?”

At that, he does look up. The slightest curve at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile — just enough to flash in his eyes.

“I think it’s amusing,” he says. “Watching you try to act like you don’t remember how good I made you feel. Like that hallway never happened.”

You bristle. “You ignored me for an entire week.”

“I was busy.”

“Bullshit.”

“Careful,” he says softly, stepping closer. “That kind of tone will make people think something happened.”

You hold your ground. “Something did.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you — like a painting, or a puzzle. “I never denied it.”

“No, you just pretended it didn’t matter.”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you, long and steady, until your pulse starts climbing again.

“Would you rather I made a scene? Talked about how good you sounded with my fingers inside you? In front of your manager, maybe? The intern?” Then, casually, as if he's discussing a spreadsheet instead of your last breathless confession:

“You’re the one who said it couldn’t happen again.”

You swallow hard. “And you agreed.”

“Did I?” He steps around you, his voice brushing your neck as he passes. “I don’t recall.”

You remain still, holding your breath, feeling the phantom trace of his touch. Later, as the afternoon stretches endlessly in the stifling heat, your body can't help but remember the lingering sensation of his hand at your spine, as if it belonged there all along. Deep down, you know what your mind refuses to admit: this game has only just begun.

✓

The invitation arrives on a Tuesday — formal, sleek, printed in high-contrast type with subtle gold edging. Vēra Lux × Jeon Group: a sponsored industry event hosted by a European cosmetics conglomerate eager to break into the Asian luxury market. There’s talk of a brand merge. Of cross-cultural campaigns. Of a future collaboration that could define the next fiscal year.

Everyone who’s anyone is going.

Your department is required to attend. Attendance is expected. Enthusiasm is optional, but professionalism is not.

And so, you dress accordingly — a sleek black dress that’s just conservative enough to be safe, but structured enough to be remembered. Long sleeves, high neckline, slit just above the knee. You wear your hair up, your lipstick muted. You apply your perfume in three sharp sprays — one for your neck, one for your wrist, and one for your pulse point that hides just beneath the fabric at your hip. You arrive exactly on time.

The venue is all polished floors and mirrored chandeliers, the kind of place where the light feels filtered through wealth. Waiters pass with champagne coupes and pale canapés no one really eats. The air smells faintly of rose water, expensive cologne, and subtle ambition.

Jungkook arrives fashionably late, commanding attention with his effortless presence. His midnight black suit fits immaculately, the absence of a tie and two undone buttons revealing a glimpse of silk beneath the lapels. Clean-shaven with a sharp jaw and cold eyes, he moves through the room without acknowledging you – though he doesn't need to. He's well aware of your gaze following his every move.

The event itself blurs together — polite introductions, branded speeches, the occasional laughter as executives flatter each other with measured ease. You float through the evening as you’ve been trained to: poised, efficient, collected. You speak only when spoken to, smile when appropriate, and accept a second glass of champagne when your manager insists it will “help your networking face.”

By your third glass of champagne, his presence materializes behind you like a shadow. As you stand near the tall window, barely registering a senior strategist's monologue about mascara demographics, his voice cuts through the ambient chatter with dangerous precision.

"You clean up well."

The momentary freeze in your shoulders betrays you before you can turn to face him. Jungkook has positioned himself deliberately close, his dark gaze trailing your profile with an intensity that walks the line between professional assessment and something far more intimate.

"You weren't even looking at me," you manage.

"I didn't need to."

His attention drifts to your exposed neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. "You always wear your hair up when you're trying to behave."

You create distance with a measured step. "I'm not doing this here."

The slow smile that crosses his face carries a promise. "Not yet."

You spend the next half-hour avoiding him — or trying to. You circle the room, swap meaningless phrases with visiting reps, let one of the Paris-based creatives compliment your accent while you sip something dry and French. You refuse to look toward the back corner where Jungkook now stands, deep in conversation with someone who owns three niche fragrance brands and is known for sleeping with all his interns.

His presence follows you like a shadow throughout the evening, a constant awareness prickling at the edges of your consciousness.

As the event draws to a close, you find yourself in the valet circle, the cool night air a relief against your flushed skin. He materializes beside you, quiet but commanding.

Without touching you, he simply says, "You don't need to Uber."

"I didn't ask."

"I know. I'm offering."

"I'm fine."

He tilts his head, studying you. "You've had three drinks. You didn't eat."

You exhale softly. "You've been counting?"

His mouth curves into a knowing smile. "Of course I have."

His car arrives - matte black, sleek, worth more than your college degree. "I'll take you home," he offers, moving toward the door. "No expectations."

You fold your arms. "That's a lie."

"No," he replies, his voice dropping lower. "That's a warning."

The weight of the moment settles between you. Getting into his car means surrendering something - not your safety or dignity, but the carefully constructed lies you've been telling yourself.

Exhaustion and wine have softened your resolve, and beneath it all lies a deeper truth: you want to be seen again. Touched. Cornered. Ruined.

"Just a ride," you murmur, moving past him.

His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you inside with gentlemanly precision, but his eyes betray darker intentions. The door closes behind you with a soft, definitive click.

✓

The car glides through the city with a soft hum, windows tinted against prying eyes. You maintain your distance, angled toward the window with arms and legs crossed - a carefully constructed barrier between you and the man beside you. Though your posture screams control, your quickening pulse betrays every pretense.

Jungkook remains silent, one arm draped across the center console as his fingers tap an idle rhythm against leather. His other hand rests on the wheel, steering with practiced ease through the amber-lit streets. The cabin envelops you both in notes of sandalwood and unspoken tension.

When he finally breaks the silence, his voice barely disturbs the air between you. "You're quiet."

"So are you."

Without taking his eyes from the road, he replies, "I thought you needed space."

"I do."

The smile that curves his lips is knowing, patient. "No, you don't."

You turn back to the window, but his low voice follows. "You didn't say no when I offered to drive you. Didn't say no during the briefing. And certainly not in the hallway."

Your breath catches as he continues, each word deliberate. "You want to be good, but you love being undone."

"You're wrong," you whisper.

"No," he says, voice darkening, "I'm not."

The car rolls to a stop, and you realize with a start that you've passed your apartment. Instead, you find yourself on a quiet side street, where towering trees and warm-lit windows create a pocket of perfect privacy. Before you can process this shift, he turns to face you fully, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the confined space.

“I won’t ask again,” he says softly, dangerously. “Do you want this or not?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Something inside you — reason, guilt, shame — tries to rise up, but it drowns under the way he’s looking at you, not like he owns you, but like he’s already memorized the way you taste.

“You won’t even have to move,” he says. “I’ll do everything.”

And somehow, your body leans before your mind agrees.

You shift toward him, breath shaky, thighs still clenched but no longer crossed. You whisper, “This is wrong.”

He answers by closing the space between you, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating kiss. It's consuming - his lips claiming yours with an ease that should be criminal as his hand curves around the back of your neck like muscle memory. You melt into him until your hands find his hair, until the leather seat catches your back and your knees part instinctively. When he finally breaks away, it's just enough to share your breath.

“You smell like guilt,” he says, voice low, rasping. “But you taste like surrender.”

And then he’s lowering himself — slowly, carefully — one knee pressing into the floorboard as he guides your hips forward, your thighs apart. His hand is steady beneath your skirt, and when he bunches the fabric around your waist, he does it without hesitation, revealing lace already damp against your skin.

You gasp as the air hits you. He watches the way you shift — the way your thighs tense, the way your chest rises. He doesn’t unzip his pants. Doesn’t undo a single button.

Instead, he places one hand on your stomach — not to hold you down, but to anchor you — and then leans in, breath warming the inside of your thigh until your hands fly to his hair like instinct.

The first brush of his mouth is featherlight — a ghost of a kiss against the lace, not even contact, not fully. But then he pushes your underwear aside, and when he finally tastes you — skin to skin — it’s with a moan so low and full you feel it vibrate through your spine.

You whimper. “Fuck—” you whisper, hips lifting.

But he’s already gone deeper — tongue parting you with devastating ease, licking slow, flat strokes up your slit like he’s savoring you, like he’s making art out of your undoing. Your back arches.

“Don’t—” you pant, hands fisting the leather. “We shouldn’t—this isn’t—”

But he only groans softly, tongue flicking hard over your clit until your words dissolve into sound.

“You taste better when you lie to yourself,” he says, lips grazing the tender skin between your folds.

And then he devours you. He eats you like a man who’s starving — mouth working you open, tongue dragging slow circles, then harder ones, then faster. You try to stay quiet. You fail. You try to close your legs. He pushes them apart with his shoulders.

Your lips part with his name despite your best efforts to stay silent.

“Jungkook—” it rips out of you, breathless, shattered, desperate.

He groans against you, tongue plunging deep, his fingers bruising your hips now as he holds you down, sucks your clit with the kind of focus that should come with a warning. Your hands claw at the seat, your heel digs into the floor, your stomach knots and unravels and knots again.

When you come, it’s not elegant.

It’s raw. Your entire body trembles. Your thighs shake. Your voice breaks in his mouth, and you ride his tongue like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world. And still — he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking you through it, soft now, gentle now, like a promise. You pant, dizzy. Boneless. Skirt still bunched at your waist, blouse damp from the heat of your own breath. He finally pulls back, chin wet, eyes half-lidded. You meet his gaze.

He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, slow and reverent. He climbs back into the seat beside you without a word.

For a moment, all you can do is stare straight ahead, dazed and pulsing, your body still fluttering with aftershocks that haven’t fully faded. Your breath is shaky, shallow, your thighs slick and your mind scattered in a thousand directions that all lead back to him. But then — slowly, impossibly — your gaze shifts. You turn your head. And you see it.

The tension in his jaw. The way his hand tightens around the gearshift. The bulge straining against the dark fabric of his tailored trousers, thick and pronounced, so hard it almost looks painful. You swallow. Hard. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes — slow and shallow — as if he’s holding himself back from tearing the steering wheel in half. And suddenly, your need returns like a second wave — sharp, molten, clawing up your spine. You thought coming would be enough, that it would hush the want. But it hasn’t. It’s only sharpened it.

Desire coils through you like smoke, a yearning that transcends mere physical want - you need him, completely and without reservation.

Without thinking, you shift in your seat, your bare thigh brushing his. His breath stutters — the smallest hitch — but he doesn’t stop you when you move closer. Doesn’t flinch when your fingers trail down, soft and tentative, to trace over the bulge in his pants.

His knuckles go white on the console.

“You didn’t even touch yourself,” you whisper, voice hoarse and trembling. “You just… took care of me.”

“I wasn’t thinking about myself,” he replies, jaw tight. “I was too busy tasting you.”

You groan — quiet, wrecked — and then you move. You climb onto his lap slowly, knees bracketing his thighs, one hand on his chest, the other sliding up the back of his neck to bury in his hair. His breath punches out of him the moment your weight settles fully over his crotch.

“Fuck—” he hisses, finally looking at you.

His eyes are feral now, glazed with heat and restraint, the control he’s always carried like a weapon now trembling at the edges. You start to move — slow, deep, rolling your hips in a long grind that presses your soaked core directly against his clothed cock, dragging your swollen clit over the rough fabric. He chokes on a sound — part growl, part moan.

“Don’t,” he bites out, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in. “You don’t know how sensitive I am—”

“I know,” you breathe, rocking against him again. “I can feel you.”

You lean forward, brushing your mouth along his jaw. “You’re so fucking hard it’s obscene.”

His hips jerk up into you, involuntary. You moan, louder now.

“I wish there wasn’t anything between us,” you whisper, grinding harder. “I want to feel you. All of you. No zipper. No excuses.”

He groans, low and guttural, one hand flying up to grip the back of your neck as he yanks you into a kiss — not soft, not even close. It’s messy, hungry, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing and parting and finding each other again like you’ve both already gone a little insane. You’re panting into his mouth, hips rolling with more pressure now, chasing friction, chasing heat. His cock strains between you, thick and leaking beneath the fabric, and your underwear is so soaked it feels like it isn’t even there anymore.

“You want me to fuck you in the back of my car,” he growls into your mouth, breath warm and filthy. “Tell me.”

You nod, moaning. “Yes. I want to ride you, skin to skin. Want to feel how deep you go.”

He snarls — honest to god snarls — and suddenly his hand is between you, yanking down your neckline so hard the fabric groans. He shoves your bra aside, mouth closing over your nipple in one desperate pull. You scream — high and broken — your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as he sucks hard, tongue rolling, teeth grazing just enough to make you shake.

“Jungkook—oh my god—”

“Say it again,” he demands, voice muffled against your chest. “Let them hear.”

You don't know who he means - the watching city, the endless night, some distant god - and in this moment of pure sensation, you couldn't care less.

You ride him harder now, pace faltering, movements jerky, breath shattering as your orgasm builds again, ten times sharper than the first. He thrusts up to meet you, every grind of his clothed cock against your pulsing heat dragging you closer to the edge. You’re incoherent now, whimpering, gasping.

“You’re going to make me—fuck—” he growls.

“I’m so close,” you sob. “Don’t stop. Don’t—please—”

He doesn’t. He pulls you tighter, faster, mouth still on your breast, his hips slamming up to meet yours again and again until—

Ecstasy shatters through you in waves, your body writhing as pleasure claims every nerve ending. A broken cry escapes your lips while your thighs clench and hips buck against him. He responds with one final, desperate grind - a guttural groan tearing from his throat as you feel him pulse and spill beneath the fabric of his slacks.

His face finds refuge in the crook of your neck, both of you frozen in the aftermath. The evidence of your shared release surrounds you - your ruined blouse, your soaked underwear, the fog-laden windows, and the heady scent of sex permeating the air. Through it all, his pants remain fastened, a final barrier neither of you dared to cross.

✓

The apartment is warm and dim and quiet, the kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket — soft, familiar, still.

Your boyfriend is in the shower. You can hear the water running through the wall, steady and casual, the same way it’s always sounded. The bathroom door is cracked slightly, steam curling through the gap in lazy coils. His phone buzzes once on the nightstand. Yours sits beside you, face down.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling. Your body is clean. Your skin smells like lavender and lotion. Your blouse is hanging in the laundry basket, still crumpled from where his mouth was on you. Your underwear is in the trash — soaked through, impossible to explain.

Silence fills the space between you since arriving home. The excuse of fatigue and a headache let you retreat to bed, lights off and facade intact, while turmoil churns beneath your composed exterior.

Through the cracked bathroom door, steam curls into the bedroom as the shower runs endlessly. You lie there listening to the water, using it to mark time until your phone suddenly vibrates.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You're not sleeping.

You stare at the screen, offering no response. Another message follows quickly.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You keep clenching your thighs when you're thinking about me. Do they ache now, baby?

Your breath catches as heat floods your throat. A slight shift confirms what you already know - the lingering ache, the persistent pressure, the way two orgasms somehow weren't enough.

[You]

Stop.

Behave properly.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I was behaving.

You're the one who climbed on top of me like you were going to cry if I didn't let you come again.

Your eyes fall shut as your fingers twist into the blanket, heart pounding an urgent rhythm against your ribs.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I haven't stopped thinking about how wet you were.

How hot you felt through those panties.

I almost came the second you started moving.

It hurt. It still does.

Your thighs press together instinctively as your breath wavers.

[You]

You're going to ruin me.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You're already ruined.

The shower continues its steady rhythm as your gaze darts to the bathroom door. Without thinking, your fingers move across the screen.

[You]

I can still taste you on my tongue.

I hate that I liked it.

I hate that I'm still horny.

The pause stretches before your screen illuminates once more.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I wish there were no clothes between us in that car.

I wish I could've felt how tight you are while you're dripping down my cock.

You were grinding so hard, baby. If I'd let you keep going, you would've soaked my pants.

Another futile squeeze of your thighs does nothing to ease the mounting tension.

[You]

We're not doing this.

[Jeon Jungkook]

We already did.

[Jeon Jungkook]

But next time… I'm not stopping at your underwear.

The phone slips from your grasp as you curl onto your side, pulse racing. When the shower finally stops, you lie there in the darkness - flushed and breathless - as water drips in the silence, your mind fixed on the inevitable question of when "next time" will arrive.

✓

The meeting is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. sharp.

You sit near the back of the executive briefing room, spine straight, notes prepared, smile polite — everything about you composed to the point of perfection. This is what you’ve been working toward for months. The pitch campaign of the quarter. An internal competition so sharp it’s been whispered through office floors for weeks. The chance to lead a brand identity presentation that might stretch far beyond the company’s own legacy — new reach, new budgets, and possibly, your name in lights under the quarterly report.

Pride wells inside you - or at least it should. The feeling evaporates the moment his name appears on the slide: CREATIVE LEAD — JEON JUNGKOOK.

Your throat constricts as you stare at those professional, innocuous words. They seem to mock you, belonging to the same man who had you desperate in his car three nights ago, who floods your phone with midnight messages that leave you aching, whose taste and voice haunt you while your boyfriend sleeps unaware beside you.

Drawing in a steadying breath, you straighten your posture and focus on maintaining composure. The division head moves through the presentation, outlining the brand refresh and campaign strategy before announcing your role as analytical lead with a warm smile. You acknowledge it with practiced politeness, though your lungs seem to have forgotten how to function.

When you finally dare to look across the room, Jungkook is already watching. He reclines at the far end, one elbow propped on the leather armrest, fingers thoughtfully pressed beneath his chin. His expression remains carefully neutral, but his gaze holds yours a beat too long before sliding away - as if this was all according to plan, as if he knew exactly how this would unfold.

✓

The building empties early on Thursdays. You don’t know why. You only know that by seven thirty, the only sounds echoing through the halls are the quiet hum of computers still running and the faint mechanical sweep of the cleaning crew on the lower floors. Most teams are gone. Most lights are off. But you’re still here — tucked in a corner conference room with your laptop open, slides half-polished, fingers stiff from typing, heart beating too loudly in your chest for someone just working on a pitch deck.

You could’ve done this from home. You should’ve. But ever since the assignment was announced — ever since you saw his name beside yours — you’ve started staying later. At first, you told yourself it was just strategy. Focus. Fewer distractions. A quiet space to think. But by now, you know better.

You know it’s because this is the only time he stops pretending. The glass door clicks open behind you. You don’t turn around. Not right away. You just lower your screen slightly, forcing your breath to steady. Forcing your expression into something composed.

“I figured you’d already gone,” you say, keeping your voice level.

“No,” comes the answer — smooth, steady, low. “I was waiting for you to stop pretending you could avoid me.”

You glance up. Jungkook stands in the doorway, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone in a way that should be casual — but nothing about him is casual anymore. Not the weight of his stare. Not the tension coiled in his arms. Not the way he looks at you like he knows exactly how wet you are under that professional pencil skirt and the excuse of your silence.

He steps inside. The door closes behind him with a muted sigh. You rise from your chair — not to run. You’re not sure why, really. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s that part of you that still thinks you can bluff your way out of the gravity you’ve both been circling. But he only watches you. And then, finally, you break the silence. Not with something soft. With something angry.

“Is this a game to you?”

His eyes narrow. “No.”

You cross your arms, trying to hold onto something. “Then what is it?”

He steps forward — not fast, not aggressive, just sure.

“You,” he says quietly, “make it hard to play fair.”

“I see the way you look at me,” he continues, voice smooth, deliberate, like every word has been sitting on his tongue for days. “The way your lips part when I walk into a room. The way you hold your breath when I pass behind your chair. You want to be good. But you’re not.”

You should walk away. You should push past him, leave the room, erase this moment with professionalism and pride.

But instead, you whisper, “You’re not either.”

His mouth twitches — not into a smile, not quite. “No,” he says. “I’m not.”

And then he moves. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt as he pushes you — not hard, but fast — until the back of your thighs meet the edge of the glass conference table. His mouth finds your throat before you can speak, tongue dragging up the line of your jaw as your hands fly to his chest, not to stop him, just to hold.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmurs against your skin. “To fuck you where anyone could see. To hear you moan when you know you shouldn’t.”

You gasp as he lifts you — easily, like you weigh nothing — and sets you onto the table, pushing your knees apart as he steps between them.

“I think about you when I’m on calls,” he growls. “I can’t look at you in meetings without imagining you under me, legs shaking, begging me to make you come.”

“Jungkook—”

He silences you with a kiss — deep, wet, devastating — and then his hand slides under your skirt, pulling your underwear aside with one sharp tug. You’re soaked already, and when he drags his fingers through your folds, he groans against your mouth.

“Still so fucking wet for me.”

He doesn’t wait. He unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other still buried between your thighs, thumb rolling over your clit until your hips lift off the glass in a broken, desperate rhythm. You don’t even hear the sound you make when he frees himself from his pants — thick, flushed, already leaking — because all you can feel is want.

And then he’s there and he doesn’t tease. He thrusts in one smooth stroke, hips snapping forward as your body takes him all at once — stretch and heat and fullness that makes you cry out, nails clawing into his shoulders, eyes wide and unseeing.

“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel—fuck, you’re so tight—”

Your head falls back, fingers trembling. “You’re big—too big—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, pulling out halfway only to slam back in. “You take it so fucking well.”

The table shakes beneath you. His rhythm builds — deep, unrelenting, hard enough to echo in the room. His hands grip your thighs, then your hips, then your ass, pulling you closer, holding you still as he ruins you one thrust at a time.

You cling to him like you’re drowning. And then — just when you think you can’t take more — his hand slides up, yanks the neckline of your blouse down, pulls your bra aside. He mouths at your nipple like he owns it, sucks hard, tongue flicking over the peak until your scream breaks the silence.

“Jungkook—oh my god—”

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being fucked like this? On a table? At work?”

You’re nodding, breathless, boneless, thighs quivering. “Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

And he doesn’t stop. Not when your nails scrape down his back, not when your head lolls back against the smooth glass with a sound that doesn’t sound like you at all. He finds the rhythm that undoes you — deep and measured, every thrust angled just right to drag across that spot inside you that makes your thighs jerk around his hips and your mouth fall open with a helpless cry. He grinds into you on every downstroke, not rushed, not frantic — just devastatingly precise, like he’s memorized the way your body coils before it breaks.

Your fingers tremble where they grip the edge of the table. You cling to the glass like it might anchor you, but it doesn't. Nothing can. Not when his hand slides up to your throat, not tightening, just holding — grounding you as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching harder with every slick, obscene snap of his hips.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growls into your neck, voice hot and ruined. “That’s it, baby—come on. Come for me.”

And you do — with a sound so high and strangled you don’t even recognize it as yours, thighs locking around his waist as you shudder through it, everything going white-hot and wet and wild, your body seizing on his cock as he fucks you through the tremors, relentless, groaning at the way you clench.

He kisses you hard — messy, teeth dragging your lower lip, tongue claiming your mouth like it’s a promise — and fucks you deeper, harder, until your second orgasm is building too fast, too sharp, making your legs shake and your moans rise into whimpers.

“Again,” he hisses, pulling back to look at you, flushed and panting. “You’re not done.”

Your head shakes, but your hips chase his anyway.

“Jungkook—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can,” he pants, sweat beading at his temple as he slams into you again, the slap of skin on skin echoing against the glass walls. “You’re gonna give it to me again. Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

And when his hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing fast over your swollen clit while he pounds into you, your body gives in again — your muscles locking, stomach contracting, lips parted in a silent cry as the second wave crashes down, louder, messier, wetter than the first.

Your body writhes against him, blouse hanging open, skirt pushed so high it’s barely on you anymore. Your legs shake around him, your vision blurs, your voice breaks.

You sob his name. Not once. Not softly. But over and over — “Jungkook, Jungkook—fuck—” — as he fucks you through it, until your body trembles so hard he has to grip your waist to keep you from sliding off the table.

You're completely undone — face flushed, chest rising in jagged gasps, breasts slick with sweat and spit, fingers twitching against the glass. Not a single part of you is untouched. Not a single part of you is safe. And still, he doesn’t stop until he’s spilling inside you with a low, strangled growl, hips jerking against yours, forehead pressed to your collarbone as he groans your name like a secret he shouldn’t have ever learned.

You stay like that — tangled, panting, broken open in every way that matters — before you finally move, legs still trembling as he slips out of you, your body flinching from the sudden emptiness.

You slide down from the table with shaking legs, adjusting your blouse, pushing your hair back, not meeting his eyes. You whisper, “We can’t do this again.”

You leave without a word, your heels clicking against marble in a steady rhythm that echoes through the empty corridor. Behind you, Jungkook remains motionless - shirt open, belt undone, lips parted - as he watches the door swing shut. Though he doesn't follow, a knowing smile plays at the corners of his mouth, he’s already planning how you will break that promise.

✓

You ghost him.

Not all at once, but methodically — first by refusing to look at him during meetings, then by ignoring the messages that come after dark, still arriving on schedule even when you pretend to be asleep, your phone lighting up on your nightstand like a warning you no longer feel brave enough to read.

You delete his number, but not before copying it somewhere hidden, buried in a place you hope you’ll forget, though you already know you won’t. You archive the message thread, stare at the space where his name used to sit between your alarms and your reminders, then delete it too — and for a second, you feel something close to power. But it doesn’t last.

You go to work like nothing’s changed. You sit in the same seat during team calls, speak in the same calm voice, wear the same pressed clothes and polished shoes. You keep your face neutral when his name appears in the group chat, when your inbox holds notes tagged “for approval” with his initials beneath, when he speaks during creative syncs like nothing has passed between you but timelines and metrics. And you match it.

You match his silence with silence, his professionalism with poise, until every moment that ever existed between you becomes something weightless and false — like a fever dream you were never sick enough to die from.

Except the truth is, it's already consumed you - a fever that never broke, still burning through your veins with every heartbeat.

Because your body doesn’t forget. Not when you cross the lobby and smell the cologne someone else wears that’s too close to his. Not when you sit through a meeting and feel a phantom pressure against the inside of your thigh, like your skin remembers where his hand once belonged. Not when you’re lying awake beside a man who doesn’t press against you anymore, who’s too polite to ask why your body flinches when he touches your hip in his sleep.

You try to be good. Again. The kind of good you used to believe in. You stop staying late. You make dinner even when you don’t feel like eating. You answer every text Seojin sends you with a smiley face or a photo of your desk, as if that can somehow make up for how far away you’ve already drifted.

But nothing changes. None of it is enough to fill the void he left behind.

That night in the kitchen, he stands there with damp hair and phone in hand, his words cutting through the silence: "I don't even know who you are anymore." The exhaustion in his voice makes it clear he's done waiting for answers you can't give. You keep your eyes down, unable to face him, knowing that if he asked you the same question, you'd be just as lost.

When he leaves, you remain frozen in place, wrapped in a sweater that carries his scent, wondering how you transformed into someone who could experience such intimacy with a stranger and dismiss it as a mistake.

The illusion of freedom you try to convince yourself of shatters the moment you lie down in your empty bed. Your first thought isn't of relief or independence - it's of Jungkook's number, still unblocked on your phone. You leave the device face-down, fingers twisted in your sheets, attempting to recall a time when desire didn't feel like destruction.

✓

You keep your head down for days — not because you’ve done something wrong, but because it feels like you have. Every morning you pass through security expecting your badge to blink red. Every unread email from HR makes your heart stutter. Every slack notification jolts like it’s about to summon you upstairs, into a boardroom where everything ends in glass and shame.

Your mind races with questions about his response - whether he reported it, covered it up, or simply remained silent. But nothing comes of it. Instead, on the following Monday — rain tapping soft against the windows, your hair still damp from walking too fast in a coat that never quite keeps you dry — your manager pulls you aside with a printed letter in hand and a smile that borders on triumphant.

“You’re being moved to permanent,” she says, tapping the corner of the offer letter against your desk like she already expects gratitude. “Full benefits. Salary bump. A higher bracket than standard for someone in your first year, but—” she smiles wider now, “you clearly impressed someone up high.”

The offer letter in your hands might as well be written in hieroglyphics. Your throat constricts as you accept it silently, maintaining a facade of composure. Your manager beams at you, clearly interpreting your silence as humble gratitude, but beneath your blouse, your skin prickles with an unspoken question you refuse to acknowledge.

Was it him?

You respond with nothing more than a professional nod before returning to your desk, though the data on your screen blurs as your thoughts drown out everything else. Days pass without a word from him - no messages, no meaningful glances, not even when your promotion appears in the company newsletter with its congratulatory star. No chance encounters by the coffee machine, no brushing of hands in hallways.

You try to convince yourself this is for the best, that your success stems purely from merit - not from heated moments against glass tables while the city witnessed your undoing. You repeat these assurances until they almost ring true.

But four days later, a knock echoes through your apartment. The hour is too late for anything innocent, and your heart already knows who stands on the other side. You don't bother with the peephole - your bare feet carry you to the door as your pulse slows to a heavy rhythm, your body preparing itself for what comes next.

When you open it, there he is. Jeon Jungkook, like an unfinished sentence waiting to be completed. His black coat hangs open, no tie, hair slightly disheveled as if he's been running his fingers through it. He brings no pretense - no phone, no flowers, no excuses. Just himself and a gaze that tells you he never learned how to stop wanting you.

Neither of you speaks. You stand frozen in this moment, uncertain whether you're about to fall again or finally find your footing.

✓

He remains in the doorway, rain-dampened shoulders and exposed collarbone forming a silhouette against the night. His gaze meets yours with quiet intention - not to begin something new, but to resolve what was left unfinished between you.

The hallway light flickers above, casting golden shadows across the deep navy darkness behind him. You wish you could dismiss this as another fevered fantasy born from lingering desire, but his presence is undeniably real.

When he finally speaks, his voice carries neither confession nor seduction. "You earned it," he says softly. "Everything in that offer. You did it." Your breath catches as he continues, his gaze unwavering. "I just made sure no one overlooked you."

There's no triumph in his words, no expectation - only raw honesty and the weight of knowing he sought your success even from the edges of your silence. But you can't accept this offering, even as his presence in your doorway - beautiful and controlled - makes every step you've taken feel like an inevitability leading back to him.

You press your palm against the door, forcing yourself to whisper, "You need to leave." The words emerge not as anger but as surrender, and when his gaze drops briefly to your mouth before meeting your eyes again - patient, undemanding - you already know what follows.

His kiss, when it comes, holds neither hunger nor heat, but something devastatingly gentle - as though he's committing every moment to memory. Your hand betrays you, curling into his coat as you return the kiss, falling back into the gravity between you.

Because maybe you’re tired of lying. Or maybe you're tired of pretending that anything in your life has felt this right and this wrong all at once.

Though you don't invite him in, the door remains open between you - a threshold neither of you crosses, yet he already knows what lies beyond words and walls.

The kiss deepens slowly — not because either of you is hesitant, but because it doesn’t feel like either of you has the heart to rush through it this time. He doesn’t push past your lips like he’s trying to win something, and you don’t open your mouth like surrender — it’s not about giving in anymore, not about being claimed or punished or ruined.

It’s about being felt. He presses closer. Not a step forward — just a lean, the weight of his chest brushing yours, his hands finding your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear again. And you don’t move. You just stand there, door still open behind him, arms curled into the fabric of his coat as the warmth of his mouth lingers against yours like a breath, a pulse, a truth.

You kiss him again — slower now, deeper — and when he follows, when his tongue slides softly past your lips and you moan, helpless, against the taste of him, that’s when you reach up and curl your fingers around the chain that rests against the hollow of his throat.

He groans and it’s quiet, low, barely audible, but it’s felt — like it comes from his spine, like the metal between your fingers is connected to something under his skin that was always meant to belong to you.

You pull him in gently by the chain, guiding him across the threshold as his coat falls open. When his mouth finds yours again, there's a new kind of hunger in his kiss - not dominance, but pure desperation. His touch isn't that of someone seeking conquest; instead, his hands move across your skin with the reverence of someone who's been aching for every inch he hasn't yet discovered.

His jacket drops to the floor with a soft thud, your fingers already working open the buttons of his shirt, slow and trembling, as he backs you toward the couch, hands slipping under your top like he needs to feel your skin now — all of it, warm and honest and bare beneath his palms.

Your shirt peels off. His pants drop low on his hips, exposing the trail of muscle that makes your breath catch. You step out of your underwear while never breaking eye contact, and when he pushes his boxers down, your eyes fall to his cock — thick and already leaking, not intimidating this time, just right, just him.

He lowers you onto the couch, his hands cradling your thighs as you lie back, and when he settles between them, you don’t gasp or beg — you exhale. Soft and full and steady. Because this time, you’re not falling. You’re choosing.

He slides into you slowly — achingly slow — and the stretch is so deep, so thick, so familiar that it burns in the most beautiful way. You moan, long and low, arching into him, your nails dragging lines across his back. And Jungkook groans — face buried in your neck, arms shaking slightly as he stills inside you, like he’s overwhelmed too.

“You feel like home,” he breathes.

You don’t answer. You just kiss his temple. And move.

The rhythm you find together is slow, grinding, intimate — a pace that isn't about how fast you can get off, but how long you can stay wrapped in each other. He kisses you between every thrust, forehead to yours, mouths brushing, your breath shared in tiny gasps and broken sighs.

And when he reaches down and strokes your clit — gentle, slow circles — your legs begin to tremble, the pleasure curling from your spine like a tide rising. You cling to him, closer, tighter, needing more of him, needing to anchor yourself somewhere inside this moment.

Your fingers wrap around his chain again, the cool metal a bridge between your bodies as you pull with gentle insistence - not to control or wound, but to forge a deeper connection in this moment.

His hips jerk at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you as he groans, mouth falling open at the feeling of you clenching tighter around him.

“You’re gonna make me—fuck,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Keep doing that.”

You tug again. The metal glints against his sweat-slicked chest. Your orgasm builds with every grind of your hips, every whisper of “don’t stop” falling from your lips, every stroke of his fingers between your thighs, until you’re gasping his name again — but softer now, like a secret.

When you come, it’s full-body — waves of heat rolling through you, your back arching, your eyes closing tight, the chain still twisted in your fingers like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And even as you pulse around him, wet and aching and overwhelmed, he doesn’t let go.

He’s trembling above you now, his jaw slack and his chest rising in ragged waves as your bodies move together — not with the frenzy of earlier, not with urgency or teeth or bruises, but with something far more dangerous: something honest. His thrusts have slowed, deeper now, less rhythmic, like he’s no longer chasing climax but trying to hold it off, trying to stay in the moment just a little longer, trying to memorize what it feels like to be this far inside you — surrounded, wrapped, welcomed.

But it’s slipping. You can feel it in the way his control starts to crack, in the way his hands slide down your back with too much pressure, in the way his mouth grazes your jaw like a man whose words are caught behind his teeth, trembling and unfinished. His hips begin to stutter, no longer smooth but erratic, messy, desperate.

And when your fingers tighten around the chain at his throat — silver glinting faintly between your sweat-damp chests, cool to the touch even now — his head drops, a moan clawing from his throat, so raw it nearly breaks you to hear it.

“I’m not gonna last,” he whispers, not pleading, not asking, just admitting it with a vulnerability that feels heavier than any of the filth he’s ever murmured into your skin. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold it.”

He’s still inside you, so deep you can feel every twitch, every tremble of his body as he hovers at the edge, and when you press your lips to the corner of his mouth — soft and sure — and whisper, “Then don’t,” something inside him gives out.

His entire body seizes above you, his muscles tightening like drawn wires, his breath hitching hard in his chest as he buries himself in one last thrust so deep, so full, you swear you stop breathing altogether. His hands fly to your hips, gripping like anchors as he comes inside you — thick and hot and overwhelming — his groan curling out of his mouth in a low, strangled sound that vibrates against your collarbone.

It goes on longer than you expect — wave after wave pulsing from him, each twitch of his cock spilling more heat into your already-soaked core, every sound he makes a mixture of release and disbelief, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like the feeling of your body wrapped around him is too much to survive.

And through all of it, he doesn’t pull away. Not from your mouth. Not from your skin. Not from the chain still caught between your fingers, your knuckles pale from how tightly you’re holding it, as if the tension in that single piece of metal is the only thing keeping you from falling apart with him.

When he finally stills — his hips softening, breath stuttering out in a slow collapse — he doesn’t lift his head right away. He just breathes against your throat, his body trembling with the last aftershocks, arms tightening around your waist as if he’s trying to fuse your bodies together before the world can find a way to separate you again.

You lie there for a moment, in that impossible stillness, his cock still nestled deep inside you, both of you flushed and tangled and soaked in sweat, your limbs loose and aching and marked.

And when he finally lifts his head, eyes dark and glassy, mouth parted like he’s about to say something too fragile to hold, you can only stare up at him — chest to chest, heart to heart — with your breath caught halfway between exhaustion and wonder.

Without smiling, he leans in close, his voice a low and certain whisper meant only for your ears “This isn’t over.”

And the way he says it — not as a threat or warning, but as a simple truth — makes you realize he's speaking of something far deeper than this night. He's speaking of you, of this connection, of everything you've tried to escape but found yourself becoming within his embrace.

✓

The morning begins without rest.

You barely have time to blink yourself awake before the call comes in — not a question, not a suggestion, just a notification from your manager’s assistant letting you know that you’ve been assigned to assist with the company’s most significant investor gala of the season. No option to decline. No time to process. Just a simple line in bold: “Dress code: black tie. You’re on-site support.”

You move quickly, running on autopilot, still aching between your legs from the night before, every movement a silent echo of the way he held you, the way he moved inside you, the way his voice sounded when he promised — promised — that it wasn’t over. But now it’s morning, and there’s no message from him. No trace of last night but the marks on your hips and the silence in your phone.

By the time you arrive at the venue, your hair is slicked back into a low bun, your clipboard tucked tightly under your arm, your lips painted in a shade that says control and nothing else. The black dress they told you to wear is clean-lined and elegant, sleeveless, cinched at the waist, the hem brushing the floor just above your heels. It’s professional. Unassuming. Forgettable.

You are trying to fade into the background, and yet your body betrays you with every movement - haunted by memories of his touch, his gaze, the sound of his pleasure. Moving through the ballroom like a shadow in velvet, you focus on your tasks: aligning name cards, supervising wine service, centering elaborate floral arrangements on tables worth more than your monthly rent. You maintain strict professionalism - speaking only when necessary, avoiding eye contact, staying busy and useful while striving to remain unnoticed.

Just after seven, the atmosphere shifts. The lights dim imperceptibly, the music softens beneath murmured conversations, and a photographer raises their camera. The change ripples through the room like an invisible wave - not loud or obvious, but unmistakably present.

The entire room turns in unison as the CEO makes his entrance, commanding attention with the effortless confidence that comes from generational power. His presence fills the space - sleek, controlled, magnetic in his crisp suit. And beside him stands a woman whose name you don't yet know.

But there she stands - young and polished in an ivory silk gown that clings perfectly to her frame, one hand resting on Jeon Jungkook's arm. The CEO's son maintains perfect composure beside her, his expression carefully neutral, those same lips that traced your skin mere hours ago now curved into a practiced smile.

“That’s Jungkook’s fiancée,” says one of the senior managers beside you, a woman whose eyes haven’t left the couple at the entrance. Her tone isn’t cruel. Just matter-of-fact. “Her family owns half the company in London.”

When your eyes finally meet his across the crowded room, his gaze finds you with neither surprise nor alarm - just a steady, emotionless recognition. He remains motionless beside his companion, offering no gesture, no word, no explanation for this devastating revelation. His unbearable calm speaks volumes as he regards you with the detached interest one might show a stranger.

Your fingers close tighter around the stem of the wine glass in your hand — tighter, tighter — and before you can stop it, before you even feel it, the glass snaps in your palm, crystal shattering in your grip with a sound that doesn’t match the music, wine spilling in slow rivulets down your wrist and onto the floor. A soft gasp ripples through nearby guests, but you remain frozen - hand bleeding, vision blurring, heart constricting around a truth you should have anticipated.

And across the crowd, without a flicker of emotion, he simply turns away.

part 2 is here

#jungkook smut #jungkook imagine #bts smut #jungkook ff #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x oc #jungkook x original character #jeon jungkook x reader

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autisticmudkip · 1 month ago

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[Image Description: Two pictures of Ibrahim, a young Palestinian man, and his elderly parents. In one of the pictures they are sitting in the rubble of a house. Below the pictures are the words "The rubble covered everything, but hope still exists within us. Your donation can bring life back from the rubble. End Description.]

My dear friend @aburakhiaibrahim and his family have lived through over a year and a half of genocidal war in Ghazzah. They have been suffering through hunger and fear, and they long for peace and safety. However, despite what they have gone through, they still hold hope in their hearts. Your donations can help this hope persist, and help them survive until the day Palestine is free.

Ibrahim's family consists of 28 people. Each of them requires food, water, and shelter; necessities that all cost a premium in Ghazzah right now. Unfortunately, donations have been very slow for their campaign. Their campaign was created in March of 2024, over a year ago, but so far barely 40% of the total goal has been raised. Often, Ibrahim and his family will go for days at a time without receiving any donations.

I ask you, please share and donate to Ibrahim and his family. If you wish, you can donate through paypal, which sends the money to them more directly. If you are unable or uncomfortable with that, you can donate to the family's gfm campaign instead. Either way, please help my friend's family survive, and increase their hope for the future.

Vetted here by @/gaza-evacuation-funds

Vetted #336 on nabulsi and el-shab-hussein's list

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ybklix · 3 days ago

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𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

۶ৎ giving your boyfriend a gift that will help him in his long and lonely nights when you can’t be there for him. ⋆˚࿔ pairing: idol bf felix x fem reader

cw: mdni, smut, softdom felix, masturbation, fingering, teasing, overstimulation, sextape, sextoys, slight dirty talk, pet names, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, backshots, creampie.

wc: 7.3k

｡°❀ 🫧 into you by ariana grande ‧ꕤ.ﾟ🫧 good for you by selena gomez ｡°❀ 🫧pornstar by nessa barret ‧ꕤ.ﾟ🫧

𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 .𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

wen’s note: im delulu rn, I love my man :3 !! sorry (a freshly cooked fic—that hasn’t been in the drafts for monthssss, enjoy) + im backkk yassss:)

It’s your last day. The last day the two of you will be together, physically, for a long time. In a few hours, very early in the morning, you will take a flight back ‘home’ —if you can call home wherever Felix isn’t with you— and you will feel nothing but sadness and emptiness. You just know that days are approaching when a video call with him is what keeps you happy.

Your love life with Felix is facing another challenge: overcoming the distance between you. You don’t usually complain much about it, as you don’t want to be a burden to Felix, constantly complaining how much you miss him when he has to go far away, doing what he is most passionate about in the world, you know how much it means to him to be on stage, so you shut up all the whims you think because of the huge need to have him next to you all the time. So sadly, it’s just your last day on your quick visit, and, as much as you’d like to be there for him, going from city to city, country to country on his tour, you both have your respective lives. It was so painful just thinking about when the next time you will be able to see him.

So, you just decide to enjoy every moment together, trying not to think about the cruel reality that is approaching. Tonight, you are about to go out, taking advantage of the fact that it’s Felix’s short break and his concert is tomorrow. So you’re getting all dolled up, trying a soft and subtle makeup, pretty enough to take pictures with your boyfriend and calm your hair as best as you can, while choosing a cute, modest and inconspicuous outfit, since you’ll be wearing a cap anyway, because you have to go incognito all the time with Felix, plus Seungmin and Jeongin would join your date, just to have them as the perfect excuse if someone recognizes your super star boyfriend, so their eyes would go to the super star trio and not you and Felix only.

Night is just falling, painting the sky a beautiful color and reflecting in the huge window of the hotel room. Felix is face down on the bed, using his brand-new cellphone, relaxed and happy, waiting for you to finish getting ready so he can call his friends and go out to explore the city.

“Wow, baby, the quality is insane.”

You hear Felix say, happy and excited, followed by the sheets shifting, indicating that he has stood up. You come out of the bathroom, with a smile as you put on your earrings and see your boyfriend, standing in front of the large window filming the view with his cell phone.

“Really? Let me see, love” you reply, moving closer to him.

As soon as Felix hears your voice and senses your presence, he turns his body with a tender smile and records you approaching him. Felix seems to be happy with the gift of his new cell phone, which he made a whole advertising campaign for. He records you standing in front of him for a few seconds, and then turns his body with his device towards the cityscape behind the window. You crane your neck to see the screen, but you turn your attention away when you see how cute your boyfriend looks, his tender smile and his carefree no-makeup look perfectly highlighting the smoothness of his skin with his visible freckles. You said nothing more than a simple:

“I’m almost ready… just let me put on my setting spray and gloss. You can call Seungmin and Jeongin already if you want.”

Felix keeps recording, motioning his arm gently, he gives you a quick glance along with a smile as a sign that he heard you, and you walk to complete your look so you can stroll with your boyfriend, one night before you leave and not see him for a month.

“Oh, almost forgot!” Felix exclaims, he stops recording and puts the cell phone back in his pocket quickly; you turn to look at him, confused since he got your attention. “I’ll help you pack so you don’t come from the date doing it.”

“Oh, Felix, you don’t have to…” you comment sweetly, touched that he feels he has to help you with everything.

He doesn’t listen to you, and you watch him tenderly take from one of the bedroom chairs the Louis Vuitton travel bag in its classic, signature print that he gifted you, and places it on the bed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, sweetheart. Go finish getting ready, I’ll help you with this real quick.”

You chuckle softly, and in less than two minutes, you’re completely ready. You approach your boyfriend, playfully and plop down on the bed, close to him and your bag, as you watch him tenderly folding your clothes that were lying on the bed and arrange them inside the bag.

“I’m ready” you say, with a sigh.

The truth is, you don’t want the day to go on as it means it’s getting less and less time before you have to go and leave him.

“I’m almost done, princess. You look beautiful, by the way” he replies, focused on your clothes.

You let him do it because you know he’s a bit stubborn, and then he’d go and complain to you that you need to get your act together. You watch him, nonchalant, in no hurry for him to finish, staying with him like this, even in the silence, feels so good, so right, and calm.

Felix can’t help but blush, though, realizing that this is the fifth set of lingerie he’s had to pack for a trip you’ve only been with him for three days. So he jokes a little with you about it.

“Mmm… you kind of packed a lot of lingerie, don’t you think, princess? I’ve seen more pretty panties than blouses of yours.”

Felix raises his gaze, watching you with a playful, suggestive look and a mischievous smile as he carefully folds one of your blue panties, a part of the full set. You smile broadly, you can’t help it, still feeling a smoldering embarrassment with mischief.

“I know. I’m sorry… I didn’t know which one was the best, so I brought several options.”

“Whatever you wear looks beautiful on you” he whispers softly, causing heat to your cheeks.

Felix takes another pair of cheeky panties and spreads them out, teasing you with a smirk.

“Can I keep one?” his eyebrow twitches, cheekily.

“Felix!” you laughed, your eyes widening in surprise and playfully snatching the garment from him to drop it into your purse, your cheeks burning hot, as if he hadn’t seen all of you before. “The boys are going to think they’re your panties... but it’s okay, you can keep them, you’re the one who buys them for me, anyway.” You tilt your head, “Do you want something sweet to remember me?” you joke, teasing him.

He laughs, licking his lips, staring at you as he instinctively bites his bottom lip. “Which one will you wear tonight for me, huh? You have plenty of options, doll…. You should have modeled all your options for me, I’d have loved to see that.”

His voice sounds rough, a confession somewhere between a joke and a tone of absolute truth. You know perfectly well how much he loves to dress you in pretty lingerie, tease you in it and then end up naked, or just fucking you with it on. Felix stops his action, waiting for a response from you, but with the intensity of his gaze, you were already short of breath. There is a feigned innocence in his sweet face that contrasts with that look and soft grin you know so well. He is trying to start something.

“I can do it tonight… but can you handle it?” you raise your eyebrows, subtly teasing him further.

Your intentions are not to start something sexual just now, you were just about to go out on the town… two of his best friends are waiting to be given the signal to go out the four of you… but the way he smiles, superficially running the tip of his tongue across his lips to then catch his muscle between his teeth, is giving you another kind of impression... A subtle, cheeky, kind of dirty impression.

He looks at you for a few seconds, doesn’t respond, and lowers his gaze back to your clean clothes, ready to pack, and that’s when you notice his true intention.

“Oh look at this one, it’s too pretty, why didn’t you wear it for me?”

Felix changes the subject, still using his flirtatious and suggestive tone. You watch his hands take from the small pile of clothes a tiny piece of clothing, a white thong so sheer it covered practically nothing and, he subtly shows it to you.

You feel warmth in your cheeks again. Somehow you find it slightly embarrassing when he shows it to you like this, so suddenly. But what’s slowly ruining it for you is knowing exactly what your boyfriend wanted.

“Although I confess… there’s not much to wear with this so small” he laughs, examining the garment.

You watch your boyfriend’s face, his gaze lingering on that garment you packed when you thought of him, when you thought of all the nights you couldn’t be together and how much you wanted to make up for all that time. The shame leaves your body as you notice how obviously excited Felix is now, you know him so well, despite him wearing an oversized shirt, you can notice so clearly the change in his breathing, the change in his gaze, his more serious expression.

He looks back at you, almost guilty that his thoughts have been discovered and you find his reaction adorable, quickly looking away from you and sighing subtly in halting breath as he puts the thong in your bag, pretending nothing happened.

You examine him. The silence speaks for itself, in a way it’s loaded with adorable tension, because you love him too much, because you know what he wants but you both don’t know how to say it… at least the first few seconds. You smile happily, thinking it’s cute that he’s most likely already hard from just imagining you in that little garment… and you find it ridiculous… because Felix had you right there, now, in front of him, willing and madly in love with him, if your boyfriend wants to fuck you right now, he can. Now, while he still can.

“Felix” you call his name softly.

Now you’re the one looking at him intently.

“Mhumm?” he hums softly, unable to look you in the eye.

It’s true. You know him so well. Felix is terribly and helplessly aroused. Just with the power of his thought, with your closeness, with the intoxicating smell of your perfume that drives him crazy… at the same time he is just as, if not more, sad than you as he tries to pretend that everything is fine, but he is going to miss you deeply. Not seeing you until further notice… until you both can match… is killing him alive.

“You want me to wear it… for you?”

“Wear what, my love?” he pretends not to know, but his erection grows each time in his pants.

He doesn’t know what he’s thinking clearly… maybe that he’ll just get over the feeling, that he’ll be fine and have you all to himself after your nice date. But who is he fooling, he is never casual about you, neither takes you lightly. You on the other hand, know exactly what state his body and mind is in… but you can’t confirm it due to the bag blocking your view of his bulge a bit.

“The… thong you said was pretty.”

You feel slightly embarrassed. You find the word thong immaturely amusing.

Felix dares to look at you, notices the seriousness of your face, your cheeks slightly pink naturally beyond the blush you’re wearing. So what if you both want it? He’s your boyfriend and can tell you anything with confidence. Still, he responds demurely:

“Yes, when we come from the date. You’ll look beautiful in it.”

Felix flashes a smile and remains determined to finish your travel bag. You find it nerve-wracking, for a few seconds, as you’re getting impatient… and slightly horny at the thought of tasting your boyfriend right now, right there.

“Are you okay?” you ask more curtly.

He nods, making a nonchalant grimace. You can’t believe it.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Your smile widens, more brazenly. You don’t know if he’s tentatively playing with you, faking that innocence so he can get closer to you.. either way, it’s already starting, you can feel it in the air, it’s undeniable, deep and tangible.

“Because I think you got so worked up from just imagining me in those panties… do you want me to wear them for you, right now, baby?” you drop, slowly and seductively.

A sultry voice and piercing gaze that made Felix shudder and swallow nervously. Felix’s breath shortens, and his world stops for a second, and the silence speaks for itself once again. No matter how many times he makes you his, each time it impresses him and sends his feelings into overdrive as if it’s the first time he’s going to touch you; he adores you with that intensity.

“C’mon, baby, you know you can take me right now if you want. I’m always ready for you” you almost beg.

The corners of his lips quiver at your confession, trying to contain a flirtatious, nervous smile of utter glee. This time, he’s really playing with you as he says more confidently, trying to keep his sanity.

“No, love… I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m fine.”

You raise your eyebrows, incredulous, inviting him to keep challenging you.

“Oh yeah? Then stop that and call Seungmin and Jeongin already to leave, now” you mention, more impatient, challenging him.

Felix runs his tongue along the inside of his cheeks, amused, finding it amusing the way you’ve figured him out, that you’ve won, that you know exactly his next move, it’s obvious he can’t do it, he has an uncontrollable erection caused by you. You take your garments from his hand, approaching him slowly and dangerously, finally pushing aside the bag, in effect revealing the noticeable bulge in his shorts.

You smirk nervously, watching his notorious erection and then directing your gaze until you fix it on his eyes, his nice, dark, big eyes, changing in seconds, from soft domination, to needing to be touched.

You move closer to him without standing completely, dragging your bottom across the bed until you are finally facing him, his vulnerable aroused body, his bulge in front of you, begging for your strokes and attention, causing in you the sweet throbbing of your sex, your body rushing rapidly, heart pounding, breath hitching and the sublime, dominating sight of your aroused boyfriend clouding your judgment, your judgment to keep your temper.

“Well… you’re indeed fine…” you look down at his bulge brazenly and return your submissive eyes to him, your mouth salivating loudly, “But what kind of girlfriend would I be if I don’t take care of my needy boyfriend?”

He gives you a half smile and strokes your hair with his right hand gently. You place your hands on either side of his thighs and bring your face close to his body, close enough to brush against his erection, teasing him, tensing him, raising your gaze to convey to him through your gaze all that you may be capable of right now. You maintain eye contact, your body squeezes his erection tighter, causing him to bite his lip hotly, holding in a moan… You are both being painfully patient with each other; it kills you in a way that is both ardent and pleasurable at the same time. His grip on your hair becomes more consistent, heavy, and intense. You let your chin rest on his abdomen and your hands seek to caress his thighs, finding the feel of his cell phone in his pockets. You’re so fucking turned on that anything slightly incoherent would come up in your mind.

You smile mischievously, in the way only Felix knows, in the way that brings out your deepest, hottest side that he knows as a map by heart. You pull away from him, grab his cell phone out of his pocket suddenly and wiggle it in your hand; your boyfriend looks at you in confusion. Felix knows you so well that, in his voice exquisitely thicker, and excited, than usual, he murmurs a soft,

“What’s on your mind, my pretty baby?”

He watches you from above, gently lowering his head to look at you because of your angle. You find him so fucking attractive, every faction of his face, of his agitated body trying to appear to be at ease, you suddenly needing him so badly that you could suck him off right there, suffice it to just pull down his shorts and underwear. But no, your heat was so intense that, with intense joy, your boyfriend’s new cell phone in hand, your core throbbing and your heart pounding with aggression, you said almost passionately:

“Is the quality that good?” Felix squints his eyes, inviting you to continue, still not fully understanding your idea, but extremely immersed and excited at whatever it is. “Why… don’t you put it to the test one more time…. By recording something so exclusive to you… Something to help you, Lix. Why don’t I give you something for when I’m not there for you? Who’s going to take care of you after all the euphoria you experienced on stage, huh? And you have to go back to your lonely, quiet hotel room...”

“Y/n…” he whispers, confused, breathless, almost in a soft moan, still letting himself be carried away by your words that sweetened and shivered every inch of him.

“Record me, Felix. Do it for the nights when we can’t be together.”

A sextape. The idea warms his virile, weak body wrapped in desire and love for you. Nudes… are a bit of a touchy subject, as you are somewhat paranoid, you live in fear that for some reason they might hack you, and Felix will be severely affected, you don’t even care if your nudes are exposed, it’s him you fear the most. So you’ve spent nights… long and lonely, when you’re away, living on phone sex, stimulating yourself only with his voice, remembering and imagining the feel of him, of the image of his body against yours.

Still, the idea worries Felix, that his reaction seems tender to you, because, despite being extremely horny and accepting at first without reneging, he had to make sure first, reflecting in his handsome face concern.

“A video? Princess, are you sure? Is that what you want?”

He knows how you approach a subject that the two of you have already touched on. But you nod deeply and submissively without taking your eyes off him.

“Just record me…. Lix, you don’t have to be on frame… It’s for when you get lonely and miss me.”

He sighs and seems to be slightly perplexed.

“Come on, Felix. Don’t you want to? Your body tells me otherwise...”

You begin to tease him, stroking his stiff cock over the thin fabric of his shorts. He moans, closes his eyes and nods. He needs you. Now.

“All right, princess. Let’s do this.”

Your face reflects soft victory. You leave his cell phone next to you on the bed and stand up abruptly, reaching into your purse for that little thong that caused this whole effect on both of you. Felix watches you, you are impatient, you act fast, so fast that you start undressing right in front of him. Felix blinks incredulously and in one swift movement, boldly and dirtyly grabs his phone, not wanting to miss a moment of what he is experiencing. His cock throbs hard, thinking in the future how painfully pleasurable it will be to masturbate to an obscene video of you, thinking of the dirty, exquisite fantasy that is this experience. He begins to videotape you, this time without shame, your clothes falling to the floor. Both sexes beg desperately to be touched and the silence of the room is so tense that you feel that your loud heartbeat can be heard, that was the disturbingly exciting thing about the hotel rooms you spend so much time in with Felix, the silence, the distinct sound of your heavy breathing.

Felix licks his lips, losing himself in the image of his phone capturing your body, then watching you. He sighs again, half-heartedly.

“Can I… at least talk?” he says. “If I’m not going to be fully part… if this ever comes out… can I say my voice is AI?”

You giggle. “Of course you can talk… this video is completely just for you.”

You look into the camera and then straight into your boyfriend’s eyes. Felix is disturbingly horny, impatient, but something in his expression expresses that he can resist, that he’s enjoying all of this more than anything.

You take off your blouse, the pants you were a little sick of because you couldn’t wear a skirt or a nice dress, since you were incognito. You stay in your underwear and appreciate the concentrated expression on Felix’s face.

“Baby, you’re beautiful. Let me capture absolutely everything I have to remember while I’m on tour…”

His voice is husky, needy. He directs his phone’s camera first to your face. Capturing every soft angle of your pretty face. You giggle somewhat nervously and shyly… and then, the show finally begins, Felix slowly lowers his cell phone, recording your breasts, your abdomen, your panties. He gasps again, feeling more and more excited and desperate, which as proof is the sensation of his guilty precum staining his underwear. You are everything to him.

He can’t help himself and with his free hand he begins to caress you delicately, to squeeze your waist, to caress your ass, to subtly turn you over to get the perfect shot of how very lovely and round it looks.

“I’m going to wear… the panties you want” you whisper.

Felix stops touching you, and you quickly pull off your panties, making him audibly sigh. Your breasts look better in person than the quality of his cell phone; still, on both sides, he loves them. You pull down your panties carefully, slowly, and seductively, feeling your temperature rise, you are incredibly aroused, and at this point, you regret a little bit to propose between you a game of seduction, patience, and provocation.

Your boyfriend keeps biting his lips hard, feeling the great need to gasp every time you tease him more and more. He shamelessly records your panties going down your legs, of the thin fabric slowly clearing from your vaginal lips and finally, the soft and cute shot of your mons pubis, slowly zooming out to get the great shot of your naked body, for him and him alone.

“Fuck, baby… I don’t know if I can resist anymore. Let’s do a porno at this point” Felix teases, each word lower than the other, clearly altered in desire.

You chuckle. “You’re cute.”

You continue with your thing, with the original plan to tease your boyfriend and drive him to madness, but this is proving extremely difficult for you too; you need him badly too. Still, you slowly put on yourself the tiny little garment that Felix fantasized about from the second he saw it.

He is breathless. You moan softly, the new underwear starts to tease your pussy and cling hotly to your ass. The tiny thong fits you even better than he would have imagined, the sheer fabric barely even covers your pubic area, the triangle figure is so small… it’s such a damn provocative and useless garment.

“You like it?” you question, proudly.

“I love it” he confesses with a piercing gaze into yours. “Now… lie down, darling… show me how wet you are for me. What are you going to do, my naughty little girl?”

You bite your lip. Felix’s gentle dominance drives you uncontrollably crazy. He apparently adapted quickly to the purpose of your idea. You obey him at once, lying your body comfortably on the bed. He follows your movements, crawling onto the bed next to you on his knees.

“I’m… I’m going to touch myself for you.”

You are helplessly aroused, lying back on the bed. You fondle your breasts, flex your knees and finally spread your legs, letting out a soft moan on the spot. Felix records your soft breasts, your hands playing nervously with them and moves down to your juicy lips, your labia glossy, lightly stimulated, your throbbing sex exposed.

“Fuck” Felix grunts, aggressively stroking his cock, adjusting himself a little. “Oh yeah? What do you think about when you touch yourself like that, princess?”

His rough voice turns you on even more, and his lustful gaze almost makes you tremble. Your fingers slowly slide down your skin until they reach your pussy. Felix begins to be possessed by his role: recording every single detail of your dripping pussy, every tremor of your body, he is fascinated.

You play with your clit, your middle finger tracing the thin fabric of your panties, you wiggle your pelvis and moan softly. You’re so horny, so surrendered, you’re completely his.

“Tell me, tell me, how does it feel, oh, look at you, you’re so fucking wet, all that pretty pussy for me... do your fingers feel as good as mine?” Felix continues, his phone capturing every moment of your docile, weak but energetically aroused reclining body.

You begin to tremble with pleasure, with nervousness, and it’s even difficult to speak.

“Mmmm, it feels so good... but not as good as you...” you pant, circling your clit, gently moving your legs.

“Oh yeah? Are you going to miss me, baby? How much, huh? How much are you going to miss me, sweetheart?”

You nod. Your fingers begin to slide down your folds, losing themselves in their warmth and wetness. There is something so obscene about the way your sweet boyfriend mercilessly records you, his impatience and constant licking of his lips, wanting you. His stiff member is slowly bothering him.

“A lot, Felix, a lot... I'm gonna miss you a lot...”

“Is this how you touch yourself when I’m not with you, baby? Show me how you do it, you can’t stop thinking about me?”

You shake your head. You find it funny, the way you suggested the idea, how you started teasing him, but now he’s the one pushing you to the limit. You tease yourself more, touching your weak spots that you know make you tremble, but the sensations are a thousand times better and more intense when your boyfriend does it. You tempt your entrance, arching your pelvis, wanting to insert your fingers inside you. Felix is breathing heavily, and you’re almost certain that his need can be heard even through his cell phone.

Finally, you slip your hand inside the small piece of fabric covering your pussy and while you play with your breasts, your nipples erect from the touch of your other hand, with the other you caress with painful patience the skin of your pubis, your clit, your juicy labia, all of which is killing you.

“Oh, yeah. Just like that, baby. Stick two fingers inside you... touch yourself for me, do it, imagine it’s me filling you up...”

You obey instantly and whimper, letting out a sigh as you feel your fingers slide easily into your entrance. You feel your tightness, the length of your fingers teasing you but not filling you completely the way Felix’s cock does.

You gasp, slowly thrusting to increase your rhythm, moving your hips, desperately caressing your clit with your other hand. Felix notices and speaks again, his voice so dark that he sounds like a damn villain about to destroy you, yet there is a certain playfulness in his tone:

“Look at you acting like this, so desperate, baby... you’re not being gentle with yourself at all. Is this how you want me to fuck you? Do you imagine me fucking you hard?”

Felix refrains from touching you. His hands begin to tremble, he has a voracious hunger for you that he has never felt before, his cock begins to come to life, throbbing to the rhythm of your violent thrusts with your fingers in your stimulated entrance.

“F-Felix...” you whimper, dragging out your words, biting your lip and looking him straight in the eyes the whole time.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, you gasp in desperation and... he seems to be there, sadistically enjoying the show. At this point, Felix himself is surprised at his resistance, at not cumming right there just by looking at you, but one thing is certain, his genitals are so fucking sensitive from not being stimulated at all, and he was going to take that out on you in due course... in the meantime:

“Use your words, baby, tell me anything. Remember that this video is for when I’m alone, missing you.”

“Fuck, Felix. I want you to fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me, please be here with me. Mmm...”

“You’re going to miss my cock, aren’t you, you little cunt? If only you could see yourself now, so needy, making a mess on the fucking hotel bed, you’re a very, very bad girl, princess.”

His accent becomes thicker and more defined, his desperation speaks for itself as he begins to sound aggressive with you, no longer soft, no more purring and sizzling teasing tone. He is being demanding with you now.

You wanted to ask him to touch you. Your fingers are quick, your caresses soft, but nothing like him, you’re so close and yet so far away. You have him there, watching you masturbate, his big bulge throbbing, his pupils dilating with fantasy. You were so needy that you even begged him in a gasp,

“Felix, please, touch me.”

He clicks his tongue, amused to see your body writhing in pleasure. He’s enjoying it to the fullest.

“No, no, no, sweetheart. I can’t be in the shot, don’t you remember? Just touch yourself for me, give your best show for when your boyfriend needs it most. Damn, you have no idea how much you turn me on, I’m going to jerk off so hard to this, baby” he groans.

“Do it, now, touch yourself,” you beg.

He smiles, showing his teeth, “You want to see my cock that badly, don’t you, hunny? You’re just a fucking little slut, you better cum on your fingers or I swear to God I’ll leave you like that. All fucking needy and horny for me. You started it, now you finish it.”

Your vision starts to blur, your pussy starts to sound obscenely wet, you bury your fingers deeper, but it’s not enough, it’s not him. It’s a real torture to have him in front of you and not be able to touch him.

“Then talk to me, talk to me more.”

He laughs. “Ha. I almost forgot how naughty you are, love. Of course, you have a thing for my voice.” He turns his phone away from you and leans dangerously close to your ear, his body hovering over yours, his soft shirt brushing against your bare chest, and whispers, his voice so seductively deep that it makes you tremble, “It turns you on, doesn’t it? Do you think you’ll cum faster if I talk dirty to you?”

You both maintain intense, penetrating eye contact. You’re so close, feeling this needy puts you in a state of mind where you want to surrender, where you want to cum; you wonder if you do... what can Felix give you, does he really plan on keeping his hard erection the whole time?

He pulls away from you.

“Come on, baby, I know you’re close, aren’t you? God, you don’t know how many times I fantasized about you touching yourself all those nights we had phone sex. Are you really this horny and slutty? Every time I tell you all the things I want to do to you... how I want to touch you and make you feel...”

Felix lets out an arrogant chuckle and gently caresses your clit. You react, sighing and tensing your body. You’re so sensitive, as if he’s pressed a button inside you.

“Do you want me to touch you, princess? Tell me what you want...”

You sigh and go back to working on your pussy with soft, delicate, slow movements... suddenly you feel a little embarrassed, being so sensitive to him. You swallow, and your throat is so dry and empty.

“Felix, I need you, please. You can touch me... Did you get a good video, already? Please, come here and make me cum.”

“Do you need me that much? I’m the only one who knows how to take good care of your little pussy. But I told you I’m not going to stop until you come for me,” he orders you harshly.

He raises his eyebrows mischievously, an idea popping into his head. You sigh, resigned to the fact that you’ll have to bring yourself to orgasm on your own, so that maybe he’ll touch you afterwards and take out his burning energy on you. But you watch as Felix leans over the nightstand next to the bed, opens the drawer, and pulls out the new vibrator he bought you, compact and very useful. Felix loves to make things hotter in bed, to have you wear lingerie, to use toys, everything to give you endless, long, intense pleasure.

“You wanna cum faster, baby girl?” he shows you the vibrator. “I bet you use it imagining that it’s me making you feel good when I’m not around.”

You don’t even have time to process it or respond when he turns on the toy and presses it hard against your already stimulated clit, having the obscene take of his hand using the sex toy on your used pussy. You whimper and instinctively close your legs, but he acts quickly, grabbing your knees to prevent you from doing so.

“Ah, ah,” he warns you, “Hold the vibrator and play with your pussy, baby.”

You look him in the eyes. Your makeup is a little smudged, your gaze pleads for mercy, it’s bright, and your eyes look slightly larger. You’re suffering, you’re enjoying it, and Felix is going crazy.

You take the toy and let it vibrate violently against your clit. The vibrations are exquisite, encompassing your entire wet vulva. You moan in pleasure, feeling so close. Felix quickly and tentatively runs two of his fingers over your pussy, dipping his fingers shallowly into your entrance, a reaction that makes you whimper even louder. He is mesmerized, consumed by flames, so damn spellbound by you and his immense need to have you that he attractively brings those two fingers to his mouth, licking them deliciously, tasting you a little. He moans and enjoys it, as if you were something so delicious. That action alone increases your horniness level.

“You always taste so fucking sweet. Just like that, baby, just like that,” he coos, “You’re doing so well, my good girl.”

You’re enjoying it, despite feeling his great absence, you let yourself go, you think you can reach an intense orgasm soon, after pushing yourself to the limit and overstimulating yourself... when suddenly you let out a big sigh as you see your boyfriend pull down his shorts and underwear, Felix’s cock pops out, wriggling, fully erect, so perfectly stimulated that its tip is bright pink. He whimpers and begins to rub his hard shaft. That’s when you prolong your orgasm a little longer, because every part of you needs him.

Your gaze is lost on his cock, on the roughness of his freshly shaved pubic area, small, faintly pigmented freckles visible on his skin that you already know by heart, on the softness of the skin of his cock, that vein that drives you crazy running along its length, his medium-sized hand moving up and down on it, masturbating gently.

“Hey, eyes on me, you little slut,” he orders you, bringing you out of your trance and back to maintaining eye contact with him. “I know you want my cock, angel. Beg for it and you may get it. But now, c’mon, put the vibrator inside you... let me see you scream,” a mischievous and wicked smile appears on his tender and attractive face, which is anything but tender right now, he’s eager.

You bite your lip and obey your boyfriend’s command, almost collapsing from the sensation of the intense vibrations inside you. You want to beg for him. His phone camera zooms in depravedly on your vulnerable area, and Felix closes his eyes as his hand fills him with pleasure.

“Lix, please—”

“Now turn around,” he interrupts you and orders in an eerily harsh voice, “Let me see your pretty ass while your pussy takes the vibrator, my sweet good girl.”

It’s the little phrases and his voice that bring your orgasm forward and make you want to collapse. You obey him again, moving your body completely and lifting your ass gently for the camera and for your boyfriend. Your hand doesn’t stop holding the vibrator, and in a desperate attempt, you start pushing it in and out of your pussy.

Felix pants heavily. He has the perfect view of your round ass and juicy, stimulated pussy. At this point, you were both a mess; the thin fabric of your thong was soaked, your labia majora practically stained with your juices. Felix gives you a gentle spanking that makes you sigh.

“You take the vibrator so fucking well, princess. I want to ruin that fucking useless piece of thong you’re wearing.”

And then, you feel him, his cock teasing you, taking the string of your thong to pull it tight and rub his stimulated cock between your ass cheeks and into your ass. It’s a bit narcissistic, the way he loves how his cock looks on camera, rubbing against your ass and his balls subtly grazing your center.

You can’t resist any longer, you whimper and start begging for him.

“Please, please, Felix, fuck me.”

“I can’t hear you, baby,” he teases, rubbing against you.

But you can’t hold it anymore, you want to beg him harder, but your orgasm is close. You roll your eyes back slightly, Felix can tell you’re close to climaxing, so he pulls his cock out of you skin and lets you pant intensely, screaming his name:

“Fe-fe-felix, Lix, I-”

You collapse breathless and orgasm intensely, tensing every muscle.

He is more than happy, his ego swells, and he quickly takes the vibrator from your now weak grip. Your limbs are fragile, trembling. He turns off the toy and leaves it far from your agitated body, in a state of absolute use, wet. Felix grabs you by the waist with both hands, and you realize that the show is over. He finishes recording and puts his cell phone aside. He turns you back over, laying you down with your legs spread.

“Good girl.”

Felix has an adorable smile on his face, and as soon as you are recovering, speechless and still slightly collapsing from your orgasm, he leans down and begins to eat your pussy, savoring your climax. You moan, impressed that this is his next move. His long hair tickles your thighs. His licks are slow, his tongue thick and hot, flicking his tongue along your labia and entire vulva, he is savoring everything, gently sucking your clit. Building excitement in you quickly.

He starts using his fingers too and works on your pussy, worshiping you. He does this for a few long moments, long enough to have you panting again. He thrusts two fingers inside you and begins to penetrate you with them. You couldn’t believe it.

Felix pulls away from you, just when he feels you are needy enough again, still thrusting his fingers inside you and releasing you arrogantly, his full, shiny lips of you.

“We’re not done yet, beautiful. Not until I fill your pretty pussy with all of me.”

Finally, you watch his fingers move away from your cunt, he takes off his shirt in one swift movement and adjusts his body over you, teasing you with his wet tip between your folds, rubbing his erection over your mons pubis and under the fabric of your panties, so he can pull aside the thin thread that was stimulating your entrance and thrust his cock into you, slowly at first, then quickly and abruptly all the way in with a single thrust. You gasp loudly, clutching the sheets tightly; it was what you had been longing for.

Felix approaches you, making the act intimately dirty, it’s a mess, you’re so wet, and you both need each other so desperately that he starts to whimper as he moves inside you. Your legs seek to wrap around his body, and your hands finally touch your boyfriend. His thrusts are deep, desperate, filling you completely, moving inside you perfectly in a delicious rhythm, fucking you with impatient need. You both sigh, babbling each other’s names into the air.

“You feel so fucking good,” he pants, pounding into you. “I’m going to miss this so much,” he confesses between gasps.

You dig your nails into his back, begin to arch your back, you love this so much. You love being under his body, being nothing and everything at the same time, fading into him. Felix presses his forehead against yours and stares at you for a few seconds before taking your lips, desperately sweet, fierce, passionate, a long-lasting, wet kiss full of secrets that only the two of you know. You separate for lack of air... you are so focused on the sensation of your pussy being attended to, enjoying his body rubbing against your vulva, him filling your insides and the friction of his hard cock sliding inside you, that you are completely surprised when he pulls away a little and takes his penis out of you. The beautiful moment and the magic are over for a second.

“Turn around again, love. I’m going to fuck you hard now.”

He orders and grabs your waist desperately. He turns your body around, grabbing your ass and making you arch your back; you see him pick up his phone again and whisper, “Fuck it.”

Felix places his cell phone horizontally on a pillow, leaning back against the headboard. You notice that he is recording from the frontal camera and your face is completely visible, along with his bare chest, but his face isn’t in the frame. Your heart races. It’s terribly obscene, you love it.

“I want to remember your beautiful face while I fuck you hard.”

Felix sentences and, without further ado, slides his cock into you brutally, making you let out a muffled scream. You feel it deep inside you, throbbing, penetrating you with force. He grabs your waist tightly and starts thrusting into you intensely, sliding his cock into you, piercing and wrecking you completely. The room fills with your moans and his grunts, with both of your skins colliding intensely. You cling to the sheets again, being fucked helplessly. Felix feels you close, as close as he is.

“I want to remember your face when you come for me, please. Smile for the camera, baby.”

You look at your reflection on his cell phone screen. You’re whimpering, slightly disheveled, your makeup smudged, completely cock-drunk. You wonder if you’re disturbing your neighbor’s peace. You’re so close, your eyes almost teary, your walls squeezing Felix’s cock perfectly, enough to make him reach orgasm with intensity, making him scream. You feel his cock tremble inside you and semen fill you completely, your guilty pleasure, you love when Felix creams you. Felix continues with messy thrusts, collapsing on top of you faintly, and that’s when you climax too, your heart beating intensely, your body agitated and trembling.

“I love you, dear,” he confesses, breathless, collapsing beside you.

You look at him with a smile, feeling the absence of his warm cock inside you, but you understand that it must be too sensitive. You look at him with loving eyes, about to answer him, when you hear someone knocking on your door. It’s Seungmin.

“Heeeey, guys. Are you there? Did you fall asleep?”

Felix and you smile at each other in complicity, with heavy breathing.

taglist: @rylea08 @iovecb97 @armystay89 @lolareadsimagines @ayyonoona @do-you-remember-summer-127 @wildtokay @korthbum @oddracha @hyune-sssne @choso4u

note !! : hey guys, ik i havent been really active, sorry if im tagging u and somethings wrong, so pls let me know if you want to be removed from the taglist by dm or an ask, or update ur user, or if i missed your user, or literally anything plss !!, the link is right up, or again, my messages and inbox are open to anything :) luv ya

#stray kids #skz #stray kids smut #skz smut #lee felix #lee felix smut #felix smut #stray kids x reader #stray kids x you #skz x reader #skz x you #felix x reader #felix x you #lee felix x reader #lee felix x you #stray kids felix #lee yongbok #𐙚wen writes♡₊˚⊹#ybklix♡₊˚⊹

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fayelero · 13 days ago

Text

To the world, Itoshi Sae was everything they wanted in a star: talented, stoic, untouchable.

A football prodigy.

He had the weight of a nation behind him, the eyes of Europe on him, and a press machine that couldn’t stop printing his name. There were photos of him in luxury brand campaigns. Editorials asking about his type. Viral clips of him brushing off attention with the kind of sharp, elegant indifference that only made them want him more.

And yet, for all the women who screamed his name in stadiums and slid into his DMs—models, influencers, actresses, even athletes—Sae had eyes for only one person.

You.

Not the girl from a magazine. Not someone verified. Not someone with a massive following or backstage access.

Just… you.

You, who wore simple tennis skirts and kept your hair up with pins when you played.

You, who folded his laundry without asking.

You, who beat him at chess once and never let him live it down—your sweet smile hiding a steel-trap mind.

You, who spoke three languages, drank tea instead of coffee, and never bragged about any of it.

You weren’t famous. You didn’t even want to be.

But to Sae?

You were his.

His treasure. His peace.

The one thing in his life that felt earned, not handed over with talent or status.

He remembered the first time he saw you clearly—on a quiet Tuesday evening, at a tennis court near a Tokyo training facility. You weren’t flashy on the court. Your movements were precise, fluid, controlled. Your footwork was surgical. The kind of elegance you didn’t need to scream about.

You barely noticed him.

That alone intrigued him.

Most women tried to orbit him. You didn’t even look in his direction.

And when you did talk to him—it wasn’t with awe or flirtation. It was polite. Intelligent. Measured. You challenged him. Made him think. And he hated how much he liked it.

He didn’t even know how he got you.

Maybe it was because he showed up at your matches.

Maybe it was because when he asked questions, he listened to your answers. Not just to impress you, but because he wanted to know what you thought.

Maybe it was the way he drove out to your place after late games just to lie on your lap and listen to you read.

But whatever it was, you chose him.

And it stunned him every time.

Because you weren’t a fan. You weren’t chasing status. You weren’t using his name to get into parties or sponsors.

You were content being the woman behind the scenes—the one who packed him onigiri in real Tupperware, not aesthetic lunchboxes.

You were the one who took his iced ankle and wrapped it without a word, pressing a kiss to his knee.

You were the one who texted, “Win or lose, come home safe.”

And he never looked at anyone else the way he looked at you.

Not even close.

The models in his DMs blurred together. The actresses who flirted with him in interviews? Forgettable. They didn’t know his favorite color. They didn’t know how he took his eggs. They didn’t know he liked his socks folded a certain way or that he sometimes couldn’t sleep after bad games unless you rubbed his scalp with lavender oil.

Only you knew.

And you never asked for anything in return.

That drove him crazy.

Because Sae had the kind of wealth most couldn’t imagine—and still, you didn’t expect gifts. You didn’t ask for expensive jewelry or first-class flights. You wore your old tennis sneakers until the sole peeled, until he replaced them without asking.

And still, you just smiled, tucked your hand into his, and said, “Thank you, Sae.”

Soft. Grateful. Like he hadn’t just dropped 800 euros on a pair custom-fitted for your arch support.

He spent his football money—money earned with blood, sweat, and an ice-cold work ethic—on you without blinking.

Because you were worth every euro. Every yen. Every hour of recovery. Every lonely night in a hotel room before you.

You were the one he’d keep forever.

He didn’t say much about it. That wasn’t his style.

But when he curled around you in bed, hand on your stomach, face pressed to the back of your shoulder, and whispered a quiet “Mine” against your skin—what he meant was:

You’re the one I’d give it all up for.

And you?

You only ever smiled, turned to kiss his forehead, and whispered:

“I know.”

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ana-bananya · 2 months ago

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Help Ahmed Save His Father

Ahmed's account has been facing censorship, which is impacting the visibility of his posts and his campaign. He is rasing funds to help his father, who remains at the hospital in intensive care.

His father faces a variety of health complications, including hepatitis, kidney disease, and heart issues. He relies on machines and ventilators for life support and Ahmed has to keep up with medical payments in order to keep him connected. On top of life support, Ahmed's father also needs daily dialysis treatments and oxygen. Serious emergencies sometimes arise where his father needs surgery.

Ahmed and his father are the only survivors of their immediate family. They are all each other has left and they have no one else to turn to to help with medical bills.

If you can donate, please give to the paypal linked below. Ahmed has a chuffed as well, but he requests that people donate via paypal if possible so he can access the funds faster. If you donate through paypal, please include in the notes that the money is for Ahmed because Xana is collecting funds for different families.

Associated accounts: @ahmmad-mazen78 @mazen-fmaily

Vetting information

Proof that this is the paypal Ahmed shared with me

Donation incentives:

Art from @calmthings

Tagging for reach. Please share if you see this. Thank you

@mailmiocuoredipietratremaancora @wetthandss @patriciavetinari

@hinenihineni @shygirlsrule @snailsinmybrain

@topbastard @lesbianbrad @0x28 @xix-the-all @fucking-micheal @frazzledhare

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@ziispurple @livereater002 @a-brand-new-girl @yakofalltrades

@cephalomorph @5c0l0p3ndr4 @tolbachik @disabled-battlekukku

#Palestine #vetted fundraisers #palestine fundraiser #gaza fundraiser #gaza aid #gaza relief #Palestine aid #palestine relief #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #gaza genocide #Palestine genocide #medical expenses

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santaeofficial · 10 months ago

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Santae's Kickstarter Goes Live August 30th!

Our Official Pre-Launch Kickstarter Page has now been made live to preview! Watch our Kickstarter Trailer and see what we are bringing to Santae in Beta and Beyond! <3

youtube

Kickstarter Link

On-Site Kickstarter Tiers Preview Link Royal Knight Tier Contents Regal Harmony Tier Contents Dark Sovereign Tier Contents Grand Arcanist Tier Contents

Kickstarter Add-Ons

Kickstarter Stretch Goals

We are thrilled and excited to share with you our pre-launch page which has some of the details of what we're hoping to accomplish in the future with your direct support! In return for backing our Kickstarter, we are offering a wide range of rewards, such as; Animated HA-wearables, exclusive avatars and items, and magical pet species! From the honor-bound Royal Knight tier, through to the magical Grand Arcanist tier, we believe we have crafted an assortment of content bound to enhance your Santae experience!

We're also going to be offering limited-quantity tiers for you to have a direct influence of the content on Santae, by working with our Art & Development teams to create hair styles, Minimals, item sets and even an NPC in your image or design!

Our goal is $20,000, but we have planned an assortment of Stretch Goals that include some exciting features and updates that we want to bring to Santae, such as: Pet Backgrounds/Auras, Adventure Party System, and even.. Pet Plushies Merch (To name just a few!).

Our campaign launch date is 30th August and will run until 30th September!

With your help, we will hit the ground RUNNING in BETA, with a transition into FULL RELEASE in 2025, with continuous, ongoing updates (as you have seen during Alpha!) to make these features a reality. We still have our referral contest going on until August 25th, Sign up today <3

We thank each and every one of you for your support! Remember to hit the "Notify Me" button on our Kickstarter page and to tell your friends and family all about us! We are so excited to see what the future holds! Enter our Upcoming Kickstarter Contest being held onsite very soon! We are releasing a new pet species and a brand new pet color!

Thank you all so much for your continued support, we love you all and cannot wait to see what the future holds for all of us!

~The Santae Team

#santae #virtual pet site #pet site #pokemon #animal crossing #neopets #flight rising #upcoming kickstarter #kickstarter #Youtube

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deadpanjisung · 3 months ago

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♔ the monarchs’ quarrel ♔

pairing: versace prince!hwang hyunjin x versace princess!reader MDNI!!!!! genre: enemies to lovers, angst, smut

cw: y/n and hyune are both assholes (soz), swearing, insecurities, a lot of bickering, jealousy, references to monarchy but only inside versace, pet names (princess/prince), kinda roleplay-ish, unrealistic scenarios,etc.

wc: 6.6k smut cw: breast play, fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), missionary sex, unprotected sex, cre4mpie, cumplay, etc. (sorry if i missed any). feedback is encouraged ◡̈ i hope you enjoy♡ -˚₊‧꒰ა ginny ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Hotel, Milan, 2025, 5:30 p.m.

“Can you get me a pin, please?” You asked your makeup artist. She nodded and scurried over to the dresser.

You weren’t supposed to pin anything up by yourself, but your usual stylist was too busy assisting Donatella’s golden prince for his appearance in Milan Fashion Week. And your appointed stylist was recording an interview. Therefore, Yuri handed you the pin, you carefully folded a piece of fabric on the inside of your dress and pinned it up.

Your gown was regal, nothing less for Versace’s (now overlooked) princess. A stunning black lace gown with red and purple accents cascaded down your body. Your hair was tied up in a high ponytail in attempts to make your stunning gold tiara stand out. Golden, sapphire and amethyst beads adorned your neck, wrists and ears.

You loved this life, royalty at her finest. But you couldn’t resist feeling jealous of Hyunjin. You were Versace’s favorite ambassador before he came. Donatella used to flaunt you a year ago. You used to design your outfits with her for months before Hyunjin became an ambassador. Now she splits her time between you and Hyunjin. “Envy” was a more appropriate term for what you felt. You were casted aside when he came into the scene.

You couldn’t stand being next to him for the fashion show, you couldn’t stand to be the face of the new campaign along him, and you could barely digest the fact that your companies arranged him to be featured in one of your songs. Hyunjin was appropriating everything that you did. And he did it better than you. Being stuck next to him, pretending to be friends with your biggest opponent in the industry was psychological torture to you. But you loved Donatella even amidst your abandonment issues, you did it for her. You couldn’t be the person that burst her dream of having you and Hyunjin as the new faces of Versace. It wouldn’t be fair after how much she helped you grow. Of how she’s actively making your biggest dream come true.

“Y/N? Can I finish applying your lipstick?” Yuri asked, interrupting your internal monologue.

“Yes, of course.” You replied, sitting back down in your gorgeous, but uncomfortable, dress.

You didn’t expect Donatella to barge into your hotel room, but there she was, in all her glory. Your fashion role model since you could remember.

“My princess! You are stunning!” She exclaimed upon seeing you and sent a flying kiss towards your way. You blushed.

“Nothing but the best to represent you, the queen of the fashion industry.” You replied. Donatella laughed.

“You flatter me too much, princess! You are this brand’s future, you do know?” She said, “You and Hyunjin, of course. My little monarchs. My prettiest duo.” It took a lot of self-control for you to not roll your eyes at her mention of Hyunjin’s name. You smiled.

“You give us too much credit. The prince is certainly handsome and I, must be beautiful in your eyes, but we are just a speckle of the myriad that is your vision.” You added. She laughed once again.

“Thank you. My gorgeous, gorgeous girl. I will see you at the show.” She threw you another kiss and exited the room. Your makeup artist chuckled as she left.

“Yuri, c’mon!” You whined.

“What? I just think it’s funny that she’s completely unaware that you and Hyunjin don’t like each other.” Yuri commented. “Plus, it’s funny to see your princess act in real time.” You snickered.

And stared at yourself in the mirror. Your dark purple and gold makeup matched your dress and accessories. You looked beautiful, a version of yourself that would never again exist when you took off your makeup and your gown. You sighed at the thought of losing her, the best version of yourself. The only version you rendered worthy of being perceived.

“Okay, Y/N. You’re fabulous. Let’s go!” Yuri said, softly yanking at your sleeve.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Milan Fashion Week, 2025, 7:30 p.m.

You arrived at the venue, feeling nervous and bashful and everything in between. Paparazzi took pictures of you as you walked inside, slowly and confidently, as a mask for your insecurity.

You instantly spot Donatella; and next to her, Hyunjin, as expected. You hadn’t seen him since you shot your promotional pictures for the collection. You had heard that he had cut all of his hair off, but you didn’t expect him to look so… nice …with a buzzcut. You strode over to Donatella and Hyunjin.

“There she is!” Donatella exclaimed. Hyunjin looked back at you, his blue contacts burning into your eyes. “Absolutely breathtaking!”

“My princess,” Hyunjin bowed. “You look beautiful, as always.”

“My prince, you are truly a sight for sore eyes tonight.” You curtsied. “It is only my luck that I will be standing next to you.” You mostly hated this character, it did amuse you at times, but most importantly, Donatella loved it.

“It is my pleasure to be in the company of the most stunning person here.” He added. “Only after, our ethereal queen, of course.” He looked at Donatella.

“Oh! Hyunjin, you are too much!” She laughed. “The love you have for each other is perfection, my prince and princess. Make sure to show it at the carpet, okay?” You both nodded. She was dragged away by one of her assistants.

Once Donatella left, your demeanor changed completely. Neither of you smiled, you took out your phone.

“My princess…” Hyunjin mocked. “Do we have anything prepared to say tonight?” You rolled your eyes.

“My prince.” You sighed. “Yes, deny a relationship between us, duh. Then, promote the campaign, tease our musical collaboration, take pictures together and, my favorite: avoid each other until the next event.”

“Well, princess. I don’t think that’s very loving of you.” He snickered and extended his arm to you. You apprehensively locked arms with him as you stepped into the carpet. Flashing lights overwhelmed you as you tried to keep a straight face for the cameras. Hyunjin was a natural at this. At times, you would just stare at him in annoying admiration for his beauty and talent.

“Prince and Princess! Is this what it looks like?” A reporter asked. “Are you hard launching a relationship tonight?” You both chuckled.

“It would be an honor, but I must deny that. My princess and I are undeniably together in soul, but in body just to promote our new collection that’ll be presented tonight!”

“It is so honoring for us to have worked on these designs with the one and only, Donatella. She is always the main event. My prince and I are just assistants to her genius.”

“I bet STAY will be relieved to hear that!” The reporter added. “Anything we should expect from this collection tonight?”

“A mix of our styles and personalities is the most characterizing thing.” Hyunjin replied.

“C’mon, anything else? For the viewers?”

“The prince and I do enjoy keeping some things in the dark, don’t we?” You teased. Hyunjin nodded.

“I’ll just say this… you should expect a lot from us very soon.” Hyunjin agreed.

“Oh! I’m intrigued now. I encourage you all to follow the prince and princess very closely, then.” The reporter commented. “You both look absolutely spectacular! Thank you for your time!”

You and Hyunjin recorded about ten more interviews along those same scriptures. You took countless pictures together, faking smiles, laughs and hugs. You sat next to each other during the runway show, but you paid no attention to each other unless someone else was talking to you as a pair.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Milan Fashion Week Afterparty, 2025, 11:00 p.m.

The club’s dimmed lights engulfed your vision, the bitter taste of alcohol flooded your taste buds. You changed into a shorter, purple dress, an outtake designed for the same campaign. Your body was sticky from dancing. You exchanged harmless gossip with your fellow ambassadors in amicable manner over some drinks.

You couldn’t anticipate that during the afterparty, Hyunjin would keep you at arm’s length. He left you for a few minutes at a time and eventually returned to your side during the entirety of the night. You didn’t even talk to each other, not even bickering. His hand lingered on your waist for pictures and friendly conversations with others. He asked you to dance, keeping your act for Donatella’s sake. Hyunjin fetched your drinks for you in a false attempt to look like your ever so chivalrous prince.

“Princess, you look tired.” He whispered, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. “It’s not a good look. Can I take you to your hotel?”

“Gee, thanks, my prince.” You replied, tipsiness making your speech slur. “I don’t need you to take me anywhere.”

“Princess. I mean it. You don’t really know anyone here. I’d rather take you; it’s on my way.” He said, sternly.

“Hyunjin. I basically don’t even know you either.” You spat. “This is only a gimmick.”

“Look, Y/N. JYP and Donatella would both kill me if anything happened to your bratty ass. Whether you like it or not, you’re coming with me. Complain all you want. Better safe than dead.” He argued. You rolled your eyes and wriggled away from his grip, only for Hyunjin to grab your wrist and yank you back towards him.

“Hyunjin.” You whispered, aware that whining would draw too much attention to you. “It’s fine. I can stay here. It’s okay, really. I’ll call a taxi when the party’s over.”

“Sorry, what kind of a gentleman would I be if I didn’t escort my princess to her chambers?” He snickered; you rolled your eyes in defeat.

Hyunjin dragged you away from the party, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, holding you close to his warm, sweaty body. You said your goodbyes distantly. Nobody questioned you, everyone must have assumed you and Hyunjin to be involved as well.

You managed to divert away from the paparazzi through a secret exit that Hyunjin’s bodyguard was barricading. You had realized why Hyunjin was so adamant for you to leave with him, you had no security with you for the night. An irrevocable mistake from your manager. In your tipsiness, you didn’t think this would be an issue, but you were thankful that he was insistent. You knew that Hyunjin was a pompous asshole, but you were also aware that he didn’t want anything harmful for you, either.

You entered the black, oversized SUV after him, its cold interior contrasted the heat and humidity of the Milan nightlife. You shivered and Hyunjin took his coat off, throwing it to your side. You didn’t actively accept its warmth, but you didn’t return it either. You didn’t speak to him. He knew where you were going. You had agreed to meet over breakfast the next day, before he returned to Korea, to coordinate the logistics to the music video for your song.

“Can we stop at my hotel first?” He asked the driver. “You can take her afterwards.” The driver silently nodded. You looked over at him. He stared at you blankly and returned to use his phone. You scrolled through social media, until the SUV came to a halt.

“Hyunjin, I need to pee. Can I use your bathroom quickly?” You asked.

“Wow, very princessy of you. You can use the bathroom in the lobby.”

“With this puffy dress? I wouldn’t fit in the stall.” You argued.

“Ugh. Fine. Wait a few minutes before you come in, though.” He negotiated. You nodded, rolling your eyes. He handed you a keycard.

“We will wait here.” His security guard said, looking back at you. You put on the coat that Hyunjin had left beside you and exited the car.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Hyunjin’s Hotel, Milan, 2025, 1:45 a.m.

You entered the hotel with the spare keycard in hand. It was fancy, way fancier than yours. It didn’t surprise you, though. Hyunjin had grown his fame a lot during the last few years. Which is part of why you agreed to this prince and princess gimmick and all of those collaborations despite loathing the guy. He kept you relevant in more ways than one. His fans made your name trend, for better or for worse. They bought your designs just because his face was next to yours in the cover. They streamed your music and sent you gifts and love, in the most part. You were grateful for that. You couldn’t stand the guy, but you admired how fiercely loyal his fans were. Even if you received the occasional death threat from them.

His floor was one of the last ones, having a gigantic suite all for himself, something that you shamefully saw on social media. When you arrived, there were security guards standing in front of the doors. The female guard patted you down.

“Not to be dramatic, but this is highly offensive to me.” You spat. “Hyunjin gave me access, you know?”

“Mr. Hwang, should I have her sign the NDA now?” The other guard asked, as he opened the door. You laughed.

“Ew, no! This is the Versace princess, Y/N. We’re just business partners.” He spoke.

“Oh! I am so sorry, Miss Y/N.” The guard apologized, a blush creeping into his serious demeanor.

“Don’t worry. That was hilarious.” You chuckled, patting his shoulder as you entered Hyunjin’s suite.

The dark night couldn’t even dim the suite’s brightness. The room was adorned with flower arrangements galore. You didn’t even notice Hyunjin’s suitcase, opened and messy next to the couch. The room smelled wonderful, of vanilla and various florals.

“Wow. This suite is so nice!” You said, looking around it.

“You’re here to use the bathroom and leave, remember?” He spat.

“Sheesh!”

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Hyunjin’s Suite, 2025, 2:00 a.m.

Once you washed your hands, you stared at yourself in the mirror. You had retouched your makeup before the afterparty, but it had smudged anyways. Your lipstick was barely visible, your foundation nonexistent and your mascara looked more like eyeliner.

“Y/N!!” You heard Hyunjin shout. You hurried out, ready to snap at him but you were met with a very preoccupied Hyunjin.

“Hyunjin, what happened?”

“Literally the worst possible thing. Fuck!”

“Need more info?”

“Fucking hell. We were followed.” He said. “There’s a swarm of paps out there.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah! Ugh. My manager’s talking to yours right now. It seems they didn’t recognize you with my coat on and your hat.” He announced.

“That’s good.”

“No, it isn’t!” He argued.

“Why?”

“Because they think I’m hooking up with some random girl now!”

“Would you rather they think that you’re hooking up with me?” You protested. “The paps know this isn’t my hotel.”

“Fuck no! I don’t know what’s worse, honestly.” He said, grasping his head. “Shit! If only you would’ve held your pee for like ten minutes! We could have avoided all of this!”

“You were the one who insisted on bringing me with you!” You argued.

“I didn’t want you here, though!”

“Okay. It’s okay. I’ll book a room, and I can leave tomorrow morning.” You added, trying to remain cool. “We can just say that I lost my room key at the hotel, and I was too tired or something. And I’ll have the evidence that I stayed here.”

“Wow, the beauty and the brains. You think a hotel like this has vacancy during fashion week?” He asked, sarcastically.

“I don’t know! Let me call my manager.”

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Hyunjin’s Suite, 2025, 2:45 a.m.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll let him know. Thanks. Good night. Sorry, again.” You told your manager before hanging up.

It took forty-five minutes from back-to-back calling your managers and the hotel and your companies to agree that your best move would be to stay the night at Hyunjin’s suite, and you’d have a plan for the morning. You feared the possible outcomes: you could get into a dating scandal and get cancelled, you could break your squeaky-clean reputation and lose all hype, you could lose all your contracts and ambassadorships. But, Hyunjin looked absolutely terrified, pacing back and forth in the living room.

“So?” He asked. “Do we have a plan?” You nodded.

“Well, kind of.” He sat down on the sofa and lowered his head. “I’m staying here for the rest of the night. So, you’ll have to let me borrow some clothes to sleep in. Our managers have a scheduled meeting in a few hours, and they’ll discuss what’s our best bet here. My manager said it’ll probably be one of these. So, he could bribe the hotel to fake a reservation but that could get too messy in the future. Or… we’ll have to play the drunk/sick card. Either I’ll be shitfaced and unable to go alone to my hotel or you be shitfaced and ask me to take care of you… That’s what they came up with. We’ll have the script in the morning.”

You looked out of the window to see paparazzi standing outside with their cameras. You pulled the blinds down.

“Shit. I was so careful too. Fuck!”

“It’ll be okay, Hyunjin. Whatever plan they choose to go with will be the best for both of us. My manager said it’s no big deal and that it was actually good that I was caught alongside you and not some other person. The media thinks we’re really close so it shouldn’t be too hard to explain, okay?” You reassured, he nodded, unconvincingly.

“Fine. Let’s see what happens. We can’t do shit now, anyways. This is what I get for being nice to you.” He mumbled.

“God, you’re such a prick.” You rolled your eyes. “Look, prince, want me to be honest? In any possible outcome I’ll be faced with the major repercussions. Stop acting like a kid. If we go with the "I’m drunk and he helped me”, why would I get drunk in the first place? I’m a lady; a princess. And you’ll be a hero because you helped me. And, if it’s the other one: ‘Wow, Hyunjin is so sensible. He knows when to ask for help. He’s such a darling boy. And she stayed with him because he’s such a good friend to her.’. Or they’ll call me a whore. We’ll get dating rumors for like a month and everything’ll be alright, okay?”

“Will you just shut up for a second? I can’t even think with all your fucking nonsense.”

“Fine. Fuck you, Hyunjin. You’re an asshole. And I hate the fact that I have to share my place as Versace royalty with someone as superficial and narcissistic as you! I worked my ass off for this and you come in being all pretty and get everything you want!”

“Oh? So, you think I don’t deserve this? You think I haven’t worked myself to the bone to get to where I am? Princess, you’re so fucking wrong. I’m right where I should be. Stay in your lane. You aren’t any better than me.” He barked at you, with a tone that you had never heard him use. A tone that made you feel young again. It made you want to cry. That’s when you knew that you had gone too far. Your eyes welled up with tears.

His expression softened when he saw you tear up, as if he realized that he had gone to far as well. That you were in this together, whether you liked it or not. He sat back down and sighed. You sat on the floor in front of him, rubbing your glossy eyes and further ruining your intense makeup.

“Why don’t you go shower? We both need to cool off. I’ll get you something to wear.” He spoke up, his voice was gentle. You nodded and stood up, walking towards the bathroom again. “There’s a clean robe in there. You can wear that until I find something for you.”

You peeled your dress off and stepped into the shower. The warm water making you feel better almost instantly. You lathered your body with Hyunjin’s, appropriately convenient, lavender soap, which made you relax a bit. You cleansed your face with his expensive cleanser and washed your hair with the shampoo that smelled like him. A little citrusy for your taste.

You dried yourself off as quickly as you could, becoming aware that he probably needed to shower as well. You placed the soft, pink, fuzzy robe on your body and secured it with a knot. You were met with Hyunjin, sitting in the sofa.

“Uh… I left some clothes for you on the bed. I don’t have underwear for you so… uh… you can keep the sweats. Your manager called and said that he arranged for someone to bring you a change of clothes in the morning. You can use my skincare, if you want…” He said, awkwardly.

“Thanks.” You replied.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Hyunjin’s room, Milan, 2025, 3:45 a.m.

You changed into Hyunjin’s clothes and looked around his room. You spotted the skincare he told you about and smeared into your face; making sure you didn’t use too much. You looked your name up on social media and it seemed that people have caught up that you were, in fact, the person that arrived with Hyunjin. You sighed upon seeing people’s reactions. There were a lot of negative comments, usually about you but also about him. And you suddenly felt bad for him. Fans were asking to send protests to JYP premises against Hyunjin’s freedom to date or to interact with females. You felt guilty for asking to come into his room in the first place.

“Hey.” Hyunjin greeted, entering the room.

“Hyunjin, I’m sorry for being a bitch and for getting us into this mess. I didn’t mean to.” You sobbed. “I know we don’t get along, but I didn’t want anything to happen to you… or me… or the companies.” Your tears kept running down your cheeks.

“Sheesh, don’t get soft on me just because you feel bad for me.” Hyunjin smirked, in attempts to calm you down. You just kept crying. “Y/N, princess, we’re in this together. You said it, we’re friends to the public so we probably won’t have too many repercussions.”

“Hyunjin, I fucked up so bad.”

“It’s fine, Y/N. We’re basically even friends after this. Shit will work itself out.” He reassured. “We just need to have each other’s backs here. No fucking anyone up. We’ll own up to our mistakes and everything’ll go as planned. If this fucks things up, it’s fine. Whatever. We’ll keep going.”

You remained quiet.

“You’re really freaking annoying, I mean it…” He added, “but I’d rather be here with you than with anyone else. You’re savvy and things will be okay.”

“Ah… thanks for reassuring me, Hyunjin.” You smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m really grateful that you insisted that I left with you. I was too tipsy to reason at that moment.”

“It’s fine. I don’t want anything to happen to someone that I’m so strangely close to. Like, we’re not friends yet you’re my princess and we have a whole song coming out and a video. And we’ve designed campaigns together. It’s weird. I apologize too; I shouldn’t have screamed.” He chuckled. He sat on the bed beside you.

“I get it. You’re a dick but we’re basically, kind of, family…”

“Ew, no. We’re not siblings.”

“We don’t have to be siblings! I could be married to one of your siblings or something.”

“I’m an only child!” He corrected you.

“Oh… me too.” You said. “Maybe I could marry one of your members, then.”

“Gross, no.”

“Well, we’re back to siblings again.”

“Maybe you could be my ward, like Morgana.” He suggested.

“Morgana was supposed to marry Arthur, though. I think.” You countered.

“But… uh…okay. We’re engaged, then.” He joked. “But it’s an arranged marriage and we don’t get married in the end.”

“Fine by me, my betrothed.” You joked back. He laughed. “This is so stupid, my dearest princess. We’re so dumb.” He yawned.

“We are.” You agreed. “Truce? We’re friends now?” You extended your hand to him. He shook your hand in his, significantly bigger, hand.

“Friends and pledged to be married, don’t forget.” He reminded. You pulled your hand away.

“How can I forget? You’re very obnoxious.”

“We just called a truce, c’mon.”

“Sorry, force of habit.” You apologized. “So… can we sleep now?” He nodded.

“I’ll take the couch.” He volunteered.

“No, don’t worry. I’ll take it.” You said as you stood up.

“Please, as if I’ll let my betrothed, fake or not, sleep in an uncomfortable floral deathbed.” He said.

“Are you okay with sharing the bed, then, my prince?” You asked, he gulped.

“Y-yeah. But no funny business.” He smirked.

“Please. The bed’s big enough to fit your security guard in here with us. You won’t even notice I’m in the bed.”

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Hyunjin’s bed, Milan, 2025, 5:00 a.m.

You tossed and turned, being unable to sleep despite your body screaming for you to do so. You heard Hyunjin’s soft snores next to you, scooting closer to you with every passing minute until you could feel his warm breath against you. You were unable to turn because you’d be face to face with Hyunjin. You felt an arm snake over your waist, Hyunjin pulled himself closer to you, closing the gap between your bodies.

You stiffened upon feeling his touch. Your mind raced with questionings of how you despised and envied him the day before and now, you’re in his bed with Hyunjin cuddled up to you. His breath tickled your neck, making you feel goosebumps. When you started to relax into his touch, you felt a hardness press against your back, and you prayed that it was just Hyunjin’s knee. Until it throbbed. And your body stiffened once again. You knew it was normal for guys to get erections when they slept, but you definitely did not expect to feel Hyunjin’s erection pressed up against you any time soon.

You shifted a bit to look at him. Hyunjin was, in fact, still asleep, his plump lips were parted, you scanned his face. You knew why Donatella and every other woman in this planet was obsessed with him. He was beautiful, a beauty for the ages. It was hard to deny that, especially when he was even prettier up close. Not many people look that effortlessly gorgeous without a silver of makeup on. The type of beauty you hoped to be. Still, you knew that you needed to be decorated to achieve it.

Hyunjin stirred in his sleep, making you look forward again. You grabbed your phone from the night table and scrolled through your messages and emails. The reunion had already taken place, your manager updated you on a summary on the decisions they made. They would issue a notice about the situation, instead of having us talk to the press about it. He wrote that the situation would be taken care of before afternoon. And ended the text saying that he wants us to rest after such a stressful night. You dismissed the messages, relieved that they found a way to manage the situation. You didn’t mind if your reputation needed adjustments after the statement. You were just glad that things were handled.

“Princess?” Hyunjin whispered, his voice was deeper and raspy.

“Yes?”

“Is everything okay?” He asked, maintaining his sleeping position, cuddled next to you.

“Yeah. Just checking my messages. Our managers worked things out. They’re releasing a statement at noon.” You said. He buried his face into the back of your neck and sighed in relief.

You could still feel his boner pressing into you, but you tried to ignore it. However, when Hyunjin pressed his lips to the back of your neck, you couldn’t disregard it. You tensed up again.

“My bad, princess.” Hyunjin apologized. “You just smell really good; really comforting.” You shivered when you felt his breath as he spoke, the rasp of his voice rang in your ear.

“You’re just sleep deprived. Try to rest up.” You diverted.

“You know, I always imagined having you in my bed…” Oh. “Still, I didn’t think it would happen like this.”

“What are you talking about, Hyunjin?”

“I don’t know about you, but I think you’re magnetic, princess.” He explained. “You’re so quick-witted. That’s so hot.” O H. And, for the weird part, you were actually enjoying this. You felt goosebumps on your skin, you rubbed your thighs together in order to satiate the ache between your legs. “And… I think you feel similarly about me.” He pressed his bulge harder against your ass. You moaned at the feeling, quickly covering your mouth.

“Fuck, you’re annoying.” You said as you turned to face him. He laid there, staring at you expectantly with an annoying smirk. Checkmate. You crashed your lips against his, harshly.

“God, if you weren’t so hot. I think I’d hate you for real.” You said in between kisses.

“We both know that’s not true.” He interrupted the kiss. “You’re equally attracted to my personality. Admit it.”

“Shut up.” You said. “You look better when you’re quiet.” You continued to kiss him.

His plump lips against you made you feel electricity. He was a messy kisser, desperately biting your lip and dancing with your tongue. He moved his hands from your waist to your hips and up to your waist again.

“Now, I’ve seen you staring at my tits before…” You teased. A light blush perked onto his cheek. “You can touch them.”

He took no time in obliging, hands groping at your mounds in a harsh manner. You smirked into the kiss when he moaned at the feeling of your soft breasts and hard nipples below the fabric of your shirt.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” He moaned at the overstimulation of sensations he was experiencing. “Fuck. I’m so glad you got us into this mess.”

He resumed making out with you, chaotically and intricate, just like him. His mouth was hot against yours, making you both moan at the friction of your lips moving together. Hyunjin shifted to be on top of you, and you were able to see his beautiful face, illuminated by the dim lamp. He took his shirt off, leaving his lean yet muscular torso visible to you.

You took your time admiring him, and he seemed to enjoy the attention. His hands toyed with the hem of your shirt, silently asking to take it off. You indulged him, lifting up your arms so he was able to remove it from you. It was his turn to stare at you and you liked it too.

Hyunjin suddenly dove in, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth; both of you moaning at the contact. He ground his hips against yours and you followed suit, in search for some friction where you needed him most. His teeth softy nibbled on your pebbled bud. You moaned at the feeling of Hyunjin’s teeth tugging at your sensitive nipple. He released your bud with a pop and didn’t even say a word before giving you other breast the same treatment. You moaned louder than you should have, the feeling of Hyunjin’s delicious lips on your breasts, the cool air against your wet nipple made you a whining mess. After an agonizingly long time, Hyunjin released your other nipple.

“Fuck. I could do that all day.” He groaned. “Will you let me suck your tits every time we see each other, my princess?” You nodded desperately, instantly taking a liking to his pet name for you. “I can’t wait to eat you out.”

He trailed wet kisses down your stomach until he reached the waistband of your sweatpants. He looked at you and you nodded in approval. Your sweats and underwear were quickly pulled down by Hyunjin’s expert hands.

“You’re so wet, princess.” He teased your folds with two fingers. “I knew you wanted me as much as I wanted you.” You moaned when he inserted those two slender fingers inside of you, your damp folds sucked him in perfectly. He dragged his fingers in and out of you a few times before slipping them out. He licked your juices from his fingers.

“You taste heavenly, my princess.” He noted, lowering his head to be face your glistening folds. Hyunjin dove in as soon as he said that.

Hyunjin ate you out like a starved man, like nobody had ever eaten you out before. He was messy yet cautious, he listened carefully to your reactions and rapidly identified what made you feel good. Hyunjin took long, slow licks through your folds, making sure to savor you, making sure that you moaned as loud as you could. Hearing your moans satisfied him like nothing else. Hyunjin sucked your clit, earning spasms from you. He teased your folds with his tongue and fingers and held your hand as you came around them with a prayer of his name.

“Your moans are making me ascend.” He said, “I think I’m addicted to you.”

You could barely even speak; your emotions were running wild. You hadn’t felt raw pleasure in so long, your need to be in control didn’t allow you to let go like this.

“Let me take care of you, princess.” He asked, gesturing to his hard cock. You nodded.

“Y-yes, Hyunjin. Please. I want to make you feel good.” You moaned, as you reached to tug at his pajama bottoms. He stopped you.

“No, princess. I want to make you feel good.” He corrected. “This is about you.”

You watched as Hyunjin lowered his bottoms and underwear simultaneously, staring in awe at the breathtaking sight in front of you. Hyunjin’s cock was impressive, more so than you expected. He was long and girthy in an ideal way, one that wouldn’t hurt when he entered you. His cock was veiny, dripping a more-than-generous amount of precum. He spread the pre-cum through his shaft and pumped his cock a few times. He grabbed a condom from his bag to which you shook your head.

“Can I go in?” He asked once his cock was coated with precum.

“Of course, my prince.” You begged. “Please. I need you inside me.”

“How could I ever make you wait, then?” He asked, rhetorically, as he lined up with your entrance.

Your folds welcomed him, your wetness engulfed his cock so sweetly; despite that, he was still a stretch. Hyunjin went in slow, moaning as he bottomed inside you. You clenched around him impatiently, needing to feel some friction. His lips found yours again after what seemed like ages, more desperately than before. You could still taste yourself on his mouth and all he wanted to consume was you. He needed to feel you in every way possible, just as much as you needed to feel him. You kept clenching around him because he still hadn’t moved.

“Hyune, please move. I want to feel you.” You cried.

“Fuck, are you always this impatient?” He moaned as he thrusted in and out of you. You shook your head, barely even registering what he said. “Am I the only one that makes you this desperate, princess?”

You moaned at his words, feeling filthy for even being in this position in the first place. He kept a slow pace, groaning lowly every time he bottomed out, face buried in your chest. Hyunjin sat up and helped you put your leg up to his shoulder; making you feel every vein of his cock inside of you. You both moaned at the new feeling of him being impossibly deeper inside of you. Your bodies connecting like they hadn’t connected before. Even Hyunjin didn’t have any snarky comment to make about how that felt. Your moans grew more uncontrollable with each erratic thrust he made.

Hyunjin took his time to make you feel good, his thrusts were sultry and calculated one moment and harsh and erratic the next, always attentive to how you reacted. His hand sneaked between your bodies to rub soft circles on your clit. You moaned at the contact, begging him for more friction. He lowered your legs, and you wrapped them around his waist. His thrusts grew sloppy once your moaning increased, louder than he ever expected.

“I should have done this a while ago, huh?” He remarked while panting. His warm fingers felt glorious against your swollen bud. You couldn’t even form a coherent thought, let alone a comeback for him.

“Fuck.” You let out after a particularly deep thrust, that made your insides flutter. “Hyune, I’m going to cum.”

“Are you going to cum around me, princess?” He groaned, speeding up his thrusts.

“Y-yes.” Was the last word you let out before you came.

Your orgasm took over you in the form of a spasm, you clenched your cunt and simultaneously tightened your legs’ grip on Hyunjin’s waist. Hyunjin came right after you with a guttural moan of your name. Not even being able to pull out before he was shooting warm, thick spurts of cum inside of your cunt. You knew that you shouldn’t have had sex without a condom, and it was even more dumb of you to let Hyunjin come inside. But, in the moment, you weren’t really reasoning.

“Fuck, princess.” Hyunjin panted. He kissed your lips and looked down to your cunt. He stared at it in awe. “My cum looks so good inside of you.” He dragged his fingers through your wet folds. “Fuck. I think I might be in love with you.” He mumbled that last part before kissing you again and collapsing next to you.

You shifted to your side to stare at his beautiful features, so real and so raw next to you. He caressed your hand that laid on his stomach and sweetly placed a kiss on top of your head.

“Sorry for cumming inside. This is really not like me…” He said, reaching for some wipes on the night table.

“It’s okay. I could’ve stopped you if I didn’t want you to…” You reassured, flinching as Hyunjin wiped your cunt with the cold, wet wipe. He smiled at you and placed a kiss on your overstimulated, clean cunt.

“I liked this.” He said, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “I mean… ugh… I like us getting along instead of fighting.”

“Oh, yeah. I’d much rather do this than argue with you.” You chuckled.

“Glad to know we’re on the same page, my princess.” He grabbed your hand and placed a kiss on it.

“Crazy to think that we didn’t come here to have sex, and we still did.” He laughed, wrapping a protective arm around you, snuggling his face into your neck.

“Fate has some weird shit going on.” You replied. “If this hadn’t happened, we’d be eating breakfast and arguing over who’s Donatella’s favorite monarch.” He laughed.

“I’m just glad that it happened.” He spoke. “Can…we do this more often?”

“Like, having sex… or are you asking me out?” You inquired.

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Sure, then.”

“To which one?” He asked.

“To either.” You answered.

“Just to be clear, I’ve always wanted to get to know you. I’m not asking you out just because we had sex.” He clarified, staring into your eyes. You kissed him.

“Let’s see how things go, my prince.” You replied, cuddling up to him, basking in his warmth next to you.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・☆.。.:・°

Korea, 2025, 10:00 a.m.

“Breaking news: Versace Prince and Princess caught in a scandal! Hyunjin and Y/N were seen entering Hyunjin’s hotel after the Versace Fashion Week Afterparty last weekend. More interestingly, the couple were seen eating lunch the morning after. The pair were also spotted yesterday holding hands at a café near the idol’s workspace, right after their companies denied any romantic involvement between the two of them. Talk about relationship goals! We wish the Versace monarchs a life full of love and we cannot wait for their next move!” You read, snickering at the article’s writing. Hyunjin laughed.

“We’re in so much trouble, huh, princess?”

“Who cares?” You replied placing a kiss on his cheek, making him chuckle.

You received a call from your manager.

“I don’t know if you’re with Hwang or not but ratings on your songs are through the roof now! Keep it going!” He said excitedly. You chuckled.

Oh, how the tables have turned for everyone’s favorite monarchs.

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