Untitled

Smut Oneshots

Aespa:

Escort (Sakura & Giselle x M Reader)

Dorm Mate (Karina x M Reader)

Hookup Hotshot (Ningning x M Reader)

Mutual Understanding (Giselle x M Reader)

Prada (Karina x M Reader)

Birthday Gift (Karina x M Reader)

BabyMonster:

Adidas Adventures (Ahyeon x M Reader)

Blackpink:

The Model (Jennie x M Reader)

Act (Jennie & Ryujin x M Reader)

Noona's Friends (Lisa x M Reader)

A Night in Bang-Cock (Lisa x M Reader)

Blacked (Jennie x M Reader)

Shhhhh (Jisoo x M Reader)

OnlyFans (Jennie & Lisa x M Reader)

The Cold CEO Wife (Rose x M Reader)

Private Vacation (Lisa x M Reader)

Blackout (Jennie)

ITZY:

Act (Jennie & Ryujin x M Reader)

Roommates (Yuna & Wonyoung x M Reader)

Long Lost (Wonyoung & Yuna x M Reader)

Overnight Camping Trip (Ryujin & Yeji x M Reader)

IVE:

Game Night (Yujin x M Reader)

Roommates (Yuna & Wonyoung x M Reader)

Bratty GF (Wonyoung x M Reader)

Kitty (Wonyoung x M Reader)

(Quick)ie (Wonyoung x M Reader)

Long Lost (Wonyoung & Yuna x M Reader)

Bad Blood (Wonyoung x M Reader)

Kiss Of Life:

Bathroom Break (Julie x M Reader)

Le Sserafim:

Burgers & Pizza (Yunjin x M Reader)

Escort (Sakura & Giselle x M Reader)

Smol (Chaewon x M Reader)

Comeback Present (Yunjin x M Reader)

Glass Edge (Yunjin x M Reader)

NewJeans:

The Boy in the Crowds (Minji x M Reader)

Office (Hanni x M Reader)

Eternal Rivals (Minji x M Reader)

Wedding Getaway (Hanni x M Reader)

Back to You (Minji x M Reader)

NMIXX:

Mistress (Haewon x M Reader)

Red Velvet:

Dress (Joy & Yeri x M Reader)

Delivery (Seulgi x M Reader)

Pool (Yeri x M Reader)

Bad Habits (Joy x M Reader)

Twice:

Behind Closed Doors (Momo x M Reader)

Landlord (Jihyo x M Reader)

Contract Negotiations (Sana x M Reader)

Silence (Tzuyu x M Reader)

Friends with Benefits (Jihyo x M Reader)

Cherry Glaze (Sana x M Reader)

The Solo Performance (Momo x M Reader)

What Happens When your boyfriend has a smaller dick than advertised (Momo & Jihyo x M Reader)

The Private Bodyguard (Nayeon, Jihyo, Momo & Tzuyu x M Reader)

Soloist:

Rebound - Jeon Somi x M Reader

Sunbae-Hoobae - Kwon Eunbi x M Reader

The Assemblymen's mistress - Kwon Eunbi x M Reader

Girl Group Scenarios

Blackpink when having Car Sex

Mini-Series

The Queen (Yeri x M Reader)

The Queen (Yeri x M Reader)

The Queen Pt. 2 (Yeri x M Reader)

The Queen Pt. 3 - Final (Yeri x M Reader)

Backstage Fun (IVE x M Reader)

Backstage Fun (IVE Rei x M Reader)

Backstage Fun Pt II (IVE Wonyoung x M Reader)

Rivals at School? More Like on Bed (Karina Aespa x M Reader)

Rivals at School? More Like on Bed (Karina Aespa x M Reader)

Rivals at School? More Like on Bed Pt. II (Karina Aespa x M Reader)

Rivals at School? More Like on Bed Pt. III (Karina Aespa x M Reader)

Rivals at School? More Like on Bed Pt. IV (Karina Aespa x M Reader)

Medical Check-Up (Jihyo x M Reader)

Medical Check-Up (Jihyo x M Reader)

Medical Check-Up II (Jihyo x M Reader)

Leave Me Alone (Kwon Eunbi x M Reader)

Leave Me Alone (Kwon Eunbi x M Reader)

Leave Me Alone II (Kwon Eunbi x M Reader)

She finally turns, her gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes. The "enemies" narrative the fans love is easy to play up because the friction is real; it’s just born from a different kind of heat.

"Don't get cocky," she whispers, stepping into your personal space until the sequins on her bodice brush against your leather vest. "Just because we've... practiced... in private, doesn't mean you can slack off now."

The stage manager signals the two-minute warning. The muffled roar of the Fukuoka crowd begins to bleed through the heavy curtains. The opening notes of "Die For You" by The Weeknd and Ariana Grande begin to swell—a sultry, mid-tempo choice that the creative directors thought would be 'classy,' unaware of how literal the lyrics feel between the two of you.

As you both move toward the rising platform, you reach out, your hand hovering just above the small of her back—not touching, but close enough for her to feel the warmth.

"Try to keep up," you murmur in her ear.

She looks back over her shoulder, a predatory smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth as the platform begins to rise into the blinding light. "Try to keep your hands to yourself. Unless the script says otherwise."

The stage doesn’t just feel hot from the pyrotechnics; it’s the suffocating, familiar weight of her presence as the platform clicks into place. The roar of forty thousand fans in the PayPay Dome hits like a physical wall, but your focus is narrowed down to the sharp line of Sooyoung’s shoulder and the way she’s already slipped into character—or perhaps, just slipped back into us.

The slow, thumping bass of "Die For You" ripples through the floorboards. You lead the first verse, your voice dropping into that gritty, melodic register NCT fans crave, but your eyes are locked on hers. You move toward her with a calculated, predatory grace, closing the gap until you’re stalking a circle around her. The "enemies" concept is supposed to be theatrical, but the way she pulls back when you reach for her chin—only to lean into your palm a second later—feels like a jagged memory of every argument you’ve had in a parked car at 2:00 AM.

When the chorus hits, the choreography shifts into something dangerously intimate. You hook a hand around her waist, pulling her flush against you. There’s a sharp intake of breath from the front row that mirrors the one she hitches against your neck.

"Even though we're going through it," you sing, the lyrics vibrating against her skin.

She responds by sliding her hands up your chest, her nails catching slightly on the leather of your vest. She pulls your head down, her lips inches from yours, teasing a kiss that the script says shouldn't happen. The big screens catch the flicker of genuine hunger in her eyes—the kind that isn't in the idol handbook.

For the bridge, the lights dim to a deep, bruised purple. You’re supposed to spin her away, but she lingers, her fingers trailing down your arm until the last possible second. The tension is a wire pulled too tight. Every time your bodies collide in the synchronized movements, there’s a friction that has nothing to do with the silk and sequins and everything to do with the fact that you both know exactly how the other sounds when the cameras aren't rolling.

As the final notes swell, you spin her back into your arms, dipping her low. Her hair spills over your arm like dark water. You’re hovering over her, chest heaving, the microphone caught between your faces.

"You're shaking," you breathe, too quiet for the head-mics to catch.

"Shut up and finish the set," she whispers back, her smirk defiant even as her pulse thrums against your thumb.

The lights cut to black on the final beat, leaving you both in the sudden, ringing silence of the dark stage. For five seconds, before the transition lights come up, neither of you moves. You can feel her heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that says she hates this as much as she wants it.

"Same time tonight?" you mutter, your voice lost in the darkness.

You don't see her nod, but you feel the way her hand tightens on your shoulder before she pulls away to vanish into the wings.

The adrenaline of the Fukuoka stage is still humming under your skin, a restless, jagged energy that makes the quiet of the backstage corridor feel deafening. You don't even wait for your stylists; you push through the heavy door of the private dressing room you’re sharing for this unit stage, the click of the lock snapping shut behind you.

Sooyoung is already there. She’s standing in front of the vanity, her back to you, already struggling with the intricate silver fastenings of her performance bodice. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead catch the sweat glistening on the curve of her shoulders, mapping out the elegant, athletic lines of her frame.

"You’re late," she breathes, her voice smoky and uneven as she catches your eyes in the mirror.

"Stage door was crowded," you mutter, crossing the room in three strides. You don't ask for permission. You reach out, your fingers brushing against the cool skin of her spine as you take over the task of unzipping the stiff fabric.

As the zipper slides down, the bodice gives way, revealing the soft, creamy expanse of her back. She’s all long lines and dangerous curves—the kind that look delicate until she’s pinning you to a mattress. You can see the faint, rhythmic thrum of her pulse in the dip of her waist. She lets out a low, shaky exhale as the garment loosens, her head tilting forward to give you better access, a silent surrender that contradicts the "enemy" glare she gave you an hour ago.

"The fans are going to lose their minds over that bridge," she says, though her voice lacks its usual bite. She turns around slowly, holding the front of the loosened top against her chest, but the gap is wide enough to reveal the lace of her bra and the soft rise of her breasts, heaving with every shallow breath she takes.

She looks at you—really looks at you—taking in your disheveled hair and the way your NCT leather vest is hanging open. Her gaze is heavy, tracing the sweat-dampened column of your throat.

"You were staring on stage," she accuses, a small, predatory smirk tugging at her lips. She steps closer, the scent of her sweat mixed with that expensive floral perfume filling your lungs. "I could feel you looking at me like you wanted to tear this outfit off right there on the platform."

"Maybe I did," you growl, your hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her flush against you. The friction of your denim against her bare skin sends a jolt through you that’s more electric than any pyrotechnic.

She drops the pretense of the bodice, letting it drape precariously as she hooks her arms around your neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. Her body is warm, supple, and entirely too familiar.

"The hotel is forty minutes away," she whispers, her lips brushing against yours, teasing the contact until you're seeing stars. "I don't think I want to wait for the van, Y/n."

The lock on the dressing room door feels like the only thing keeping the rest of the world from imploding. You don’t give her a chance to finish the thought. Your hand slides from the small of her back, winding firmly into her hair to tilt her head back as you crash your lips against hers.

It’s not a soft kiss. It’s a collision of teeth and tongue, tasting of salt and the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the Fukuoka stage. She lets out a muffled moan against your mouth, her fingers digging into your shoulders, pulling you closer until there isn't a single millimeter of air between your leather vest and her damp skin.

You back her up until her spine hits the edge of the vanity, the jars of makeup and hairspray rattling behind her. Your hands find the hem of that loosened stage top, finally shoving the fabric aside to reveal the black lace of her bra.

Sooyoung is breathtaking like this—flushed, breathless, her chest heaving against the restrictive lace. You trail your thumb over the swell of her breasts, watching the way her eyes flutter shut, her head falling back against the mirror.

"Y/n," she gasps, her voice breaking on your name.

You slide your hands beneath the lace, your palms cupping the heavy, soft weight of her. She’s incredibly warm, her skin silken and sensitive under your touch. When you thumb her nipples through the thin fabric, she arches her back, a sharp, needy sound escaping her throat that would make any fan in the PayPay Dome faint.

She looks down at you, her gaze dark and hazy with a hunger that has nothing to do with their "enemies" script. She reaches down, grabbing your wrist to press your hand harder against her, her nails leaving crescent marks in your skin.

"Don't stop," she commands, the old spark of her arrogance flickering even now. "You owe me for that stunt you pulled in the second verse."

You smirk against the sensitive skin of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her perfume and sweat. Your other hand finds the clasp of the bra, the metal giving way with a satisfying click that leaves her completely bare to you in the harsh dressing room light.

The sight of her—the perfect, pale curves of her breasts tipped with a deep rose—is enough to make your head spin. You lean in, your tongue tracing the valley between them before taking one peak into your mouth. Sooyoung lets out a wrecked, high-pitched sob of a moan, her legs winding around your waist to pull you into the cradle of her hips.

The van might be waiting outside, but here, the only thing that matters is the way she’s shaking under your hands.

The air in the small dressing room is thick with the scent of hairspray and the heavy, musky heat of two bodies that have spent the last three hours under stage lights. Sooyoung doesn't wait for you to move; her fingers are already frantic at your waist, fumbling with the heavy silver buckle of your NCT stage trousers until they hiss down your legs, pooling around your boots.

She’s just as fast with herself, kicking her shimmering performance skirt aside until she’s standing before you in nothing but the dark lace of her stockings, the pale, silken curve of her hips glowing under the fluorescent hum of the vanity. You look at her—the sharp intake of her breath, the way her thighs tremble slightly—and the "enemies" script feels like a lifetime ago.

You lean back against the edge of the heavy equipment trunk, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the fire in your veins. You pool a bit of saliva into your palm, the slickness glistening as you wrap your hand around yourself, stroking a few times to prepare for her. The sight makes her eyes darken, her tongue darting out to wet her own lips as she watches the rhythmic motion of your hand.

"Come here," you growl, the command leaving no room for her usual backtalk.

She doesn't hesitate. She turns around, bracing her palms against the cluttered vanity table. The mirrors reflect the view back at you—her arched back, the deep dip of her spine, and the plush, inviting curve of her ass highlighted by the harsh overheads. You step up behind her, your chest pressing against her bare back, and she lets out a choked, needy sound as she feels the heat of you.

You reach down, your slicked fingers guiding yourself to her center. She’s already agonizingly wet, a soft gasp escaping her as you find the mark. With one hand firmly on her hip to anchor her, you drive home in one smooth, deep thrust.

The sound she makes is wrecked—a high, sharp cry that she immediately tries to muffle by biting her own lip as she stares at your combined reflection in the mirror. The position is clinical and raw, your bodies slamming together with a rhythmic, wet slap that echoes off the tiled walls.

"Look at me, Sooyoung," you mutter into the crook of her neck, your teeth grazing her skin.

She forces her eyes open, locking onto yours through the glass. Her face is flushed, her hair a chaotic halo of dark waves against the marble countertop. Every time you bottom out, her fingers claw at the edge of the vanity, sending a bottle of foundation rolling onto the floor, but neither of you cares.

"You're... such a bastard," she pants, her voice breaking as she pushes back against you, seeking more of the friction.

"And you're still screaming my name," you retort, picking up the pace until the only thing audible in the room is the frantic cadence of your breathing and the desperate, rhythmic creak of the table under her weight.

The heavy equipment trunk in the corner of the room becomes the only thing keeping you both upright. You reach around her waist, lifting her bodily from the vanity as she lets out a startled, airy gasp, her legs instinctively locking around your hips to keep from falling. You turn her in mid-air, pinning her back against the cool, industrial surface of the trunk so you can finally see the wreckage in her eyes.

Now that she’s facing you, the "enemy" facade is completely shattered. Her arms wound tightly around your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads are pressed together, your shared breath hot and erratic. You slide back into her, a slow, agonizingly deep push that makes her back arch off the metal and her toes curl against your calves.

"Y/n," she whimpers, her voice lose and honey-thick.

You don't let her finish. You capture her mouth in a kiss that’s surprisingly tender compared to the violence of the performance, your tongues dancing in a slow, rhythmic mimicry of what’s happening below. Your hands aren't clawing at her now; they’re cupping her face, your thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones as you move inside her with a steady, torturous deliberation.

Every thrust is punctuated by a soft, wet sound, her body molding to yours as if trying to merge into your skin. You can feel the flutter of her internal muscles gripping you, a silent plea for you to break the rhythm and give her what she wants, but you hold back. You want to feel every vibration of her pulse, every hitch in her throat.

"Stay with me," you murmur against her lips, pulling back just enough to watch the way her hooded eyes struggle to stay open. "Look at me while I do this."

She lets out a broken, frustrated moan, her fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of your neck to pull you back down for more. She’s glowing, a fine sheen of sweat making her skin glisten like silk under the dressing room lights. You slow down even further, grinding your hips against hers in a circular motion that draws a long, keening sound from her chest.

She buries her face in the crook of your neck, her breath hot against your collarbone as she shudders. You're right on the edge, the pressure building behind your teeth, but you keep the pace agonizingly sweet, savoring the way her heart hammers against your own like a trapped bird.

The muffled sound of staff members laughing in the hallway outside filters through the door, but it feels like it's happening in another dimension. In here, there is only the slow, rhythmic heat and the way Sooyoung is currently clinging to you as if you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

The heavy equipment trunk groans as she suddenly plants her palms against your chest, her strength surprising you as she shoves you back just enough to break the connection. You stumble back a step, breath hitching in the sudden cold air, but Sooyoung doesn’t let the distance last.

She drops to her knees on the hard dressing room floor, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like silk. The "Red Velvet’s Joy" the world knows is gone; in her place is the woman who knows exactly how to break your composure. She looks up at you through her lashes, a defiant, predatory glint in her eyes before she leans forward.

She takes you in all at once, her mouth hot and demanding, bypassing any teasing. The sensation is a physical blow, sending a jolt of white-hot electricity straight to your spine. You grip the edge of the vanity behind you so hard your knuckles turn white, your head snapping back as she works with a frantic, rhythmic intensity. She’s deep, her throat tight and welcoming, moving with a practiced hunger that tells you she’s just as close to the edge as you are.

As she works on you, her own hand slides down. Through the reflection in the low mirrors, you watch her fingers disappear into the damp, dark silk between her thighs. She’s moving fast, her own friction matching the pace of her mouth, her eyes blown wide and hazy as she stares up at you. The sight of her—vulnerable yet completely in control, pleasuring herself while she takes all of you—is the final straw.

"Sooyoung, wait—" you groan, your voice a wrecked, low-frequency vibration.

She doesn't wait. She picks up the pace, her thumb working double-time against herself as she swallows the sound of your desperation. The friction, the heat, and the visual of her own undoing collide. You reach down, your fingers tangling in her hair to anchor yourself as the tension in your thighs snaps.

You find your release with a choked, muffled shout, pouring into her as she hitches her own breath, her body convulsing in a silent, toe-curling climax of her own. She stays there for a long moment, keeping you held tight even as the world stops spinning, her forehead eventually resting against your thigh as you both breathe in the heavy, salt-tinged air of the room.

The silence that follows is broken only by the distant, muffled sound of the stadium cleanup crew. She finally pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and looking up at you with a smirk that’s equal parts exhausted and triumphant.

"I told you," she whispers, her voice a gravelly rasp. "Don't ever slack off on me."

The heavy, saturated silence of the dressing room is broken only by the synchronized, ragged sound of your breathing. Sooyoung stays on her knees for a moment longer, her forehead resting against your thigh as the last of the tremors leave her body. When she finally looks up, the smudged eyeliner and the damp strands of hair clinging to her neck make her look less like a K-Pop icon and more like the woman you’ve spent too many sleepless nights trying to forget.

"Help me up," she murmurs, her voice a gravelly friction.

You reach down, your fingers hooking under her arms to pull her to her feet. Her legs are visibly shaky, and she leans into your chest for a heartbeat—a rare, unguarded moment of softness before the "Joy" mask starts to slide back into place.

The cleanup is a silent, clinical ritual. You grab a handful of damp paper towels from the vanity, and without a word, you help her wipe the stray moisture from her inner thighs. She returns the favor, her touch lingering just a second too long on your skin, a silent acknowledgment of the heat that’s still simmering just beneath the surface.

You pull your leather trousers back up, the silver buckles clinking with a finality that feels heavier than it should. Sooyoung turns to the mirror, her expression shifting into one of cold, professional focus. She re-fastens her bra with a sharp snap, tugs her silver bodice back into place, and begins the meticulous task of fixing her makeup.

"My manager is going to ask why we took forty minutes to change," she says to your reflection, her voice regained its sharp, melodic edge.

"Tell him the zipper got stuck," you retort, leaning against the doorframe as you adjust your vest. "It’s not technically a lie."

She scoffs, a small, genuine smirk playing at the corners of her mouth as she blots her lips with a fresh coat of red. "You’re a terrible liar, Y/n."

"And you're a terrible enemy," you shoot back.

She turns, throwing her discarded stage skirt into her bag and smoothing out the lines of her silhouette. She looks perfect again—untouchable, polished, and ready for the cameras. She walks toward you, her heels clicking rhythmically against the linoleum. When she reaches the door, she stops, her shoulder brushing yours as she reaches for the handle.

"Don't get used to this," she whispers, her eyes flashing with that familiar, competitive fire. "We still have the Seoul show next week. If you miss that cue again, I’m not being this nice."

"I'll hold you to that," you murmur.

She twists the lock and pulls the door open, the sudden rush of the hallway’s cold air and the frantic energy of the SM staff hitting you both at once. She steps out first, her chin tilted high, her gait effortless as she falls into step with her waiting security detail.

You follow a few paces behind, stuffing your hands into your pockets. As you walk toward the NCT van, you catch her catching your eye in the reflection of a glass trophy case in the hall. She doesn't wave, and she doesn't smile—she just adjusts her bag and disappears around the corner, leaving you with the fading scent of her perfume and the ghost of her touch still burning on your skin.

The leather interior of the blacked-out NCT van feels suffocatingly quiet after the chaos of the PayPay Dome. Your members are scattered across the other rows, most of them passed out with their bucket hats pulled low or staring mindlessly at their own screens. The blue light of your phone is the only thing tethering you back to reality as the vehicle pulls away from the venue.

You feel your pocket buzz—a sharp, insistent vibration that makes your pulse spike. You already know who it is.

Messages: Sooyoung (RV)

Sooyoung: My manager thinks I’m "decompressing." Sooyoung: I’m actually just thinking about how much I hated that vest you were wearing. Sooyoung: It was in the way.

You smirk, leaning your head against the cool glass of the window. Your thumb hovers over the camera icon. You wait until the van passes under a stretch of highway lights, providing just enough shadow to hide what you’re doing from the member sitting two seats over.

You slide your hand into the waistband of your trousers, pulling the fabric down just enough to expose the v-line of your hips and the dark ink of the tattoo creeping up your side. You snap the photo—low-angle, grainy, and undeniably suggestive—and hit send without a second thought.

You: It’s off now. Happy?

The "Read" receipt appears instantly. A few seconds later, the typing bubbles dance on the screen, making your stomach tighten.

Sooyoung: Better. Sooyoung: But I’m still bored. And the hotel bed is too big.

Then, a file starts loading.

The image pops up, and you have to cough to cover the sharp intake of breath. It’s a mirror selfie, likely taken minutes ago in her hotel suite. She’s dropped her robe to her elbows, the silk pooling around her waist. She’s completely bare from the waist up, her back arched as she holds the phone, one hand cupping her breast to tease the camera. Her expression is a challenge—flushed, arrogant, and devastatingly beautiful.

Sooyoung: [Image Attached] Sooyoung: Don't let your manager see that, Y/n. It might ruin your "Golden Boy" image.

You stare at the photo, your thumb tracing the curve of her waist on the screen. The friction from the dressing room is still a dull ache in your lower back, and seeing her like this, knowing she’s only a few floors away in the same hotel, is a special kind of torture.

You: You’re playing a dangerous game, Sooyoung. You: What floor are you on?

Sooyoung: 24. Sooyoung: The side elevator doesn't have a camera. Sooyoung: If you’re fast, I might even leave the door unlocked.

You lock your phone, the screen going black, but the image of her is burned into your retinas. You glance at the driver’s mirror, then at your sleeping teammates.

"Hey," you mutter to the manager in the front seat as the van pulls into the hotel underground. "I forgot I promised to drop something off for a friend in the other unit. I’ll go up the back way."

He grunts an affirmative, too tired to care. You step out of the van before it’s even fully parked, your heart hammering against your ribs.

(Timeskip)

The elevator ride to the 24th floor feels like it takes a lifetime, the mirrored walls reflecting a version of you that looks far too restless for a post-concert wind-down. You pull your hoodie up, shadowing your face as the doors chime open. The hallway is silent, carpeted in a deep navy that swallows the sound of your boots.

You find room 2408. You press your hand to the heavy wood, and as promised, the latch clicks open with the slightest nudge.

The suite is bathed in the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. Sooyoung is lounging across the king-sized mattress, still wearing that same silk robe from the photo, though it’s hanging precariously off one shoulder. She’s scrolling through her own phone, the light catching the sharp angle of her jaw, but she doesn't look up when you lock the door behind you.

"You’re three minutes slower than I expected," she says, her voice a low, melodic purr. "Stuck in the lobby?"

"Ran into a couple of staff members in the stairwell," you mutter, shedding your hoodie and tossing it onto a nearby armchair. You crawl onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight as you hover over her. "You’re going to get us both exiled from the industry, Sooyoung."

"Only if we get caught," she counters, finally dropping her phone to the silk sheets and wrapping her arms around your neck. She pulls you down until your noses are brushing. "And I don't plan on being loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Unless you give me a reason to be."

You reach down, your hand disappearing into the folds of her robe to find the warm, bare skin of her waist. She’s already arching toward you, her breath hitching as you find the damp heat she’s been nursing since the dressing room.

"Round two," you whisper against her lips, your thumb tracing the lace of her underwear. "No cameras, no stage mics. Just us."

She smirks, her eyes dark with a hunger that matches your own. "Then stop talking, Y/n. Prove to me you’re actually as good as the fans think you are."

You capture her mouth in a kiss that tastes like a secret, the heavy silence of the hotel room amplified by the frantic rhythm of your heartbeats.

The amber glow of the bedside lamp casts long, flickering shadows across the silk sheets as you settle between her legs. There’s no rush now—no stage managers hovering in the hallway, no transition cues to hit. The silence of the 24th floor is heavy, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic catch of Sooyoung’s breath.

You lean down, capturing her lips in a kiss that starts slow and honey-thick, tasting of the mint she must have just used and the lingering electricity of the concert. She hums into your mouth, a low vibration that travels straight to your chest, as her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer until your noses brush.

"You're still wearing too much," she whispers against your mouth, her eyes hooded and dark with a localized fever.

You pull back just enough to look at her, your hands sliding to the lapels of her silk robe. You peel it back slowly, an inch at a time, watching the way her skin pebbles in the cool air. The robe slips off her shoulders, pooling around her elbows like liquid gold, leaving her bare under the soft light. She’s breathtaking—all soft, ivory curves and the sharp, elegant line of her collarbones. You trace the dip of her waist with your thumbs, your touch light, almost reverent, before your palms cup the heavy, warm swell of her breasts.

She lets out a shaky exhale, her head falling back into the plush pillows. "Y/n..."

You don't stop. You move your mouth to the sensitive hollow of her throat, suckling just enough to leave a mark she’ll have to hide with concealer tomorrow. Her hands move to your shirt, her movements frantic as she fumbles with the buttons, desperate to feel your skin against hers. You help her, shrugging out of the fabric and tossing it blindly to the floor.

When your chests finally meet, the contact is electric. The friction of your skin against hers draws a sharp, needy gasp from her lungs. You work your way down her body, your kisses trailing over her ribs to the silk of her underwear. You hook your fingers into the elastic, sliding the last barrier down her long, tapered legs until she’s completely open to you.

She reaches for you, her nails grazing your back as she pulls you back up for another devastatingly deep makeout. The "enemies" trope feels like a distant, faded memory; in the quiet of room 2408, the only reality is the way she arches her back to meet your touch and the way your name sounds like a prayer when she gasps it into the crook of your neck.

The silence of the room is thick, broken only by the sound of your shared, heavy breathing as you reach for the nightstand. You pull a foil packet from the drawer, the metallic snap of it tearing open sounding unnervingly loud in the quiet suite. Y/n, you catch Sooyoung watching you with hooded eyes, her chest heaving as she tracks your movements.

You roll the latex down the length of your hardness with a steady, practiced hand, the friction of your thumb against yourself making you grit your teeth to keep from rushing. Sooyoung reaches up, her fingers grazing your hip as she pulls you back toward her, her legs already falling open in a silent, desperate invitation.

"Finally," she whispers, her voice a ragged, honey-thick rasp.

You move between her thighs, the heat radiating off her skin making your head swim. You don't just dive in; you linger, the head of your cock brushing against her soaking entrance, teasing the friction until she let out a frustrated, high-pitched whine. You grab her hips, anchoring her against the silk sheets, and slowly sink into her.

The sensation is overwhelming—the tight, velvet heat of her clenching around you as you bottom out. Sooyoung’s eyes snap open, her fingers digging into the muscles of your arms as she lets out a long, shaky exhale that shudders through her whole body.

"Y/n... god," she gasps, her head falling back into the pillows as you begin to move.

You start in a deep, slow grind, your chest flush against hers so you can feel every hitch of her heart. The position is agonizingly intimate, your bodies fused together from chest to mid-thigh. Every time you push forward, the wet, rhythmic slap of your skin hitting hers echoes off the headboard. You lean down, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tastes of salt and desperation, your tongues tangling in the same frantic rhythm as your hips.

She winds her legs around your waist, pulling you even deeper, her heels digging into your lower back to keep you from pulling away. The "enemies" fire that usually fuels your bickering has morphed into something far more volatile—a raw, wordless need to consume each other before the sun comes up and you have to go back to pretending you don't care.

"Faster," she commands against your lips, her nails scratching down your spine. "Don't stop, Y/n. Just... give it to me."

You pick up the pace, the bed frame groaning under the sudden, violent shift in momentum as you drive into her with everything you have.

The friction of the silk sheets against your skin is starting to burn, a physical manifestation of the heat coiling between you. You pull back for a breath, your forehead resting against hers for a fleeting second—a quiet, unconscious linger that neither of you acknowledges.

"Turn over," you rasp, your voice sounding like gravel.

Sooyoung doesn't argue. She shifts with a fluid, weary grace, pushing herself up onto her hands and knees in the center of the vast king bed. The sight of her arched back and the dip of her waist in the amber light is enough to make your vision swim. You move behind her, your knees sinking into the mattress as you grip her hips.

Before you slide back in, your hand wanders up her spine, your thumb tracing the small mole near her shoulder blade—a detail you only know because of nights like this. It’s a tender, quiet gesture that betrays the "enemies" script, and for a heartbeat, she leans back into your touch before you drive forward, filling her completely from behind.

The sound she makes is wrecked—a sharp, vocal cry that she tries to bury in the pillows. You reach forward, your fingers tangling with hers, interlacing your hands against the headboard to anchor her. It’s an intimate grip, your palms pressed flush against hers, grounding her as the pace turns violent.

"Y/n," she gasps, her voice breaking as you hit that specific spot over and over. "Don't... don't you dare stop."

You’re moving with a frantic, rhythmic intensity now, the heavy thud of your hips against hers echoing in the quiet suite. Every time you bottom out, you lean down to press a searing kiss to the nape of her neck, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. You find yourself pulling her closer, trying to eliminate every millimeter of air between you, your chests heaving in a synchronized, desperate battle for air.

Neither of you notices the way you’re holding onto each other—not just for leverage, but as if letting go would mean falling off the edge of the world. The "hate" you carry for her in the practice rooms has fermented into this: a raw, wordless possession that makes the rest of NCT and Red Velvet feel like they exist in a different universe.

The tension in the room is a wire pulled to the breaking point. You can feel her internal muscles clenching around you in rhythmic, desperate waves, her head tossing from side to side as she nears the peak.

"Look at me," you groan, reaching around to tilt her chin back so you can see her blown-out, hazy gaze in the bedside mirror. "Look at what you’re doing to me, Sooyoung."

She catches your eyes in the glass, her expression a mask of pure, unadulterated want. She lets out a jagged, high-pitched moan that fills the room, her body shuddering as she starts to go over the edge.

The tension in the room snaps. You aren't just hitting a rhythm anymore; you’re chasing the very air out of her lungs. You reach around, your arm hooking firmly under her chest to pull her back flush against you, eliminating every last millimeter of space. The heat radiating between your bodies is suffocating, a private furnace in the middle of the 24th floor.

Sooyoung’s head falls back against your shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut as she let out a broken, continuous whimper. You can feel the precise moment her body begins to betray her—the rhythmic, desperate clenches of her internal muscles tightening around you like a vice. It’s a physical plea, a wordless demand for you to follow her over the edge.

"Y/n... please," she brokenly sobs, her fingers tangling in the silk sheets until they’re white-knuckled and trembling.

You don't pull away. Instead, you lean into the crook of her neck, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as you drive into her one last, soul-shattering time. The friction, the scent of her sweat-dampened skin, and the raw vulnerability of her voice in the dark collide.

You find your release with a low, guttural growl that’s lost against her skin, your body jolting as you pour everything into the latex. At the exact same heartbeat, Sooyoung’s back arches off the mattress, a high, thin cry escaping her throat as her entire frame convulses in a long, staggering climax.

For a solid minute, the only sound in Room 2408 is the frantic, jagged symphony of your lungs fighting for oxygen. You don't pull out immediately. You stay there, slumped over her, your chest heaving against her damp back. In the heavy, post-adrenaline haze, your hand moves of its own accord—fingers brushing through her tangled dark hair, tucking a stray lock behind her ear in a gesture so tender it would terrify both of you if you were fully conscious of it.

She reaches back, her hand finding yours and squeezing, her palm slick with sweat. There’s no witty retort, no "enemy" barb, and no reminder of the morning's schedule. There’s just the slow, steady cooling of your skin and the way her pulse eventually syncs up with yours.

"Don't move," she whispers, her voice barely a thread of sound in the amber light. "Just... stay like this for a second."

You close your eyes, burying your face in the scent of her shampoo and the lingering heat of the night, letting the rest of SMTown Fukuoka fade into a distant, irrelevant blur.

Morning After

The 6:00 AM sunlight filters through the heavy blackout curtains, casting a cold, gray light over the wreckage of the suite. You’re already standing by the door, your hoodie pulled low and your mask back in place.

Sooyoung is sitting up in bed, the silk robe pulled tight around her once more, her expression unreadable. The "Red Velvet Joy" mask is back—sharp, professional, and slightly distant.

"The van for the airport leaves in twenty minutes," she says, her voice steady, though there’s a faint huskiness to it that only you recognize. "Don't let the NCT staff see you coming out of this wing."

"I know the drill, Sooyoung," you mutter, your hand on the door handle. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, looking back at her. "See you at the Seoul rehearsals?"

She looks at you, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of her red-stained lips—the only evidence left of what happened. "Only if you can keep up, Y/n."

You slip out into the silent hallway, the click of the lock signaling the end of the truce until the next time the lights go down.

The Kwangya Club practice rooms in Seoul are a far cry from the high-octane adrenaline of Fukuoka. Here, the lighting is clinical, the mirrors are floor-to-ceiling, and the air smells of industrial floor cleaner and the collective exhaustion of two dozen idols.

You’re leaning against the barre, heart hammering a rhythmic thud against your ribs as you watch Red Velvet finish their "Cosmic" run-through. Your NCT 127 members are scattered behind you, joking around, but your eyes are fixed on Sooyoung. She’s wearing oversized grey sweats and a tight white crop top, her hair pulled into a messy, high ponytail. She looks effortless, but every time she catches your reflection in the glass, the temperature in the room seems to drop five degrees.

"Alright, special stage unit—NCT Y/n and Red Velvet Joy, center floor," the performance director barks, clapping his hands.

You push off the wall, your boots squeaking on the polished wood. As you approach the center, Sooyoung doesn't even look at you. She’s busy adjusting her kneepads, her expression stony and professional. The "enemies" narrative is back in full force for the benefit of the staff and the juniors watching from the sidelines.

"You're late on the mark again," she mutters, her voice barely audible over the chatter of the room. She finally looks up, her eyes narrowing. "Did Fukuoka make you lazy, Y/n?"

The bite in her tone is sharp, but you see the way her gaze flickers down to your lips for a microsecond—a tell she doesn't even realize she has.

"I’m exactly where I need to be, Sooyoung," you retort, stepping into her space until you’re close enough to smell the faint, lingering scent of that same floral perfume. "Maybe you’re just rushing because you can’t handle being this close to me without a script."

A few of your members whistle and "ooo," thinking it's just the usual banter. The director chuckles. "Save that fire for the bridge, you two. Music!"

The intro to "Die For You" fills the studio. The choreography is supposed to be "theatrical tension," but as you reach out to grab her waist for the first lift, the muscle memory of her skin under your palms in Room 2408 hits you like a physical blow. You can feel her breath hitch against your neck as you pull her flush against your chest.

When you spin her, your hand lingers on the small of her back—just a second too long, a thumb grazing the spot where you left a faint bruise she’s definitely hiding under those sweats. She stiffens, her fingers digging into your bicep with a grip that says shut up but a look that says more.

During the floor sequence, you’re hovering over her, your face inches from hers. The director is shouting notes about "eye contact," but all you can see is the way her pupils are blown wide, mirroring the haze from the hotel.

"Don't," she breathes, so quiet the mics wouldn't even catch it. "Not here."

"Don't what?" you whisper back, your smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth as you pull her up from the floor. "Don't remember how you sounded when you were begging me to go faster?"

She trips—just a tiny, almost imperceptible stumble—and the director blows the whistle.

"Joy! Focus! Y/n, stop distracting her with the trash talk," the director groans. "Take five, then we do the bridge again. With feeling this time!"

Sooyoung turns her back on you immediately, heading for her water bottle, but you see the way her hand is shaking as she reaches for it. You grab your own towel, walking past her.

"Dressing room 4 is empty during the lunch break," you mutter, not looking at her as you pass. "If you want to finish that argument."

You don't wait for an answer. You just walk toward the exit, knowing exactly what the click of heels behind you in three minutes is going to sound like.

The heavy door to Storage Room 4 clicks shut, the sound swallowed by the thick foam padding and the muffled bass of a neighboring practice room. It’s cramped in here, the air smelling of rubber mats and stale ozone, but as soon as the lock snaps, the "professional" distance between you and Sooyoung evaporates.

She doesn’t even let you turn around. She shoves you back against a stack of folded gymnastics mats, her palms hitting your chest with enough force to make you grunt. "You’re an absolute bastard, Y/n," she hisses, her face inches from yours, her eyes blazing with a mix of genuine fury and starving desire. "Doing that in front of the director? In front of my members?"

"You're the one who couldn't keep your footing," you retort, your hands finding the hem of her damp white crop top. You don't wait for her to stop scolding you; you lift the fabric over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto a pile of stray knee pads.

She’s breathing hard, her sports bra straining against her chest as she glares at you. You reach out, your thumb dragging across her lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the faint mark you left there in Fukuoka. The sight of her—half-clothed in the dim, flickering light of the storage room—is a jagged reminder of why you keep coming back to this fire.

"Shut up," she whispers, her resolve crumbling as she reaches for your belt.

You don't give her the chance to fumble. You hoist her up, her legs wrapping around your waist as you pin her against the wall of mats. The rubber is cool against her skin, but the heat between your bodies is a physical weight. You've already got a condom ready—habit at this point—and you roll it on with a frantic, shaky hand while she tugs at your hair, her mouth searching for yours in the dark.

You enter her with one sharp, deep thrust that draws a muffled, high-pitched scream from her throat—one she immediately buries against your shoulder to keep from alerting the staff in the hallway. The position is raw and unstable; you’re holding her entire weight, your muscles screaming as you drive into her with a rhythmic, desperate violence.

"Y/n... faster," she whimpers, her nails digging into the meat of your shoulders.

You don't just hit the rhythm; you punish it. Every time your hips collide, the stack of mats groans behind her. You lean in, your teeth grazing the shell of her ear as you whisper things that would get you both blacklisted—reminders of the hotel, promises for the Seoul stage, and the raw, unfiltered truth of how much you need this friction to feel alive.

She’s shaking, her internal muscles pulsing around you in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm. You can feel her nearing the edge, her breath coming in short, jagged hitches against your neck. You adjust your grip, one hand cupping the back of her head to pull her into a searing, desperate kiss that tastes of salt and adrenaline.

"Look at me," you groan, forcing her to meet your gaze in the shadows.

She opens her eyes, and for a second, the "enemy" is gone. There’s only Sooyoung—vulnerable, wrecked, and completely yours. She lets out a broken, vocal moan as she shudders through a peaking climax, her body locking tight around you. You follow her a second later, a low, guttural sound escaping you as you hit your own limit, pouring everything into her while the muffled music from the hallway continues to play, a world away.

You stay like that for a long moment, chest to chest, the only sound the frantic thrum of your hearts against each other.

"The director is going to wonder why we're out of breath," she pants, her head resting on your shoulder as you slowly let her feet touch the floor.

"Tell him the choreography is just that intense," you mutter, reaching for her discarded top.

(Timeskip)

The atmosphere inside the Seoul Olympic Stadium is electric, a pressurized keg of eighty thousand fans screaming as the lights dim to a deep, bruised purple. This is the final night of the tour, the "Encore" that everyone has been waiting for. The "enemies" narrative between you and Sooyoung has reached a fever pitch online; fans have analyzed every frame of the Fukuoka footage, convinced there’s a real fire behind the staged glares.

They have no idea how right they are.

The opening bass line of "Die For You" thrums through the stage floor, vibrating up through your boots. You’re standing at the top of the rising platform, the wind whipping at your loose black silk shirt—unbuttoned dangerously low, revealing the faint red marks on your chest that Sooyoung left in the storage room only hours ago.

As the platform levels with the stage, you see her. She looks like a lethal vision in a crimson lace bodysuit and thigh-high leather boots. The look she gives you isn't just "stage acting"—it’s a predatory, knowing challenge.

You start the verse, your voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that sends a wave of screams through the front rows. You stalk toward her, your movements fluid and aggressive. When you reach her, you don’t just circle her; you crowd her space, your hand sliding firmly around the back of her neck to pull her close.

The choreography calls for a "near-miss" kiss, but tonight, you linger. Your lips brush against hers, the taste of her gloss and the scent of her skin hitting you like a physical blow. The big screens zoom in, catching the way Sooyoung’s eyes flutter shut for a fraction of a second—a break in character that sends the stadium into a deafening roar.

During the bridge, the "intimacy" you’ve been practicing in secret spills over. You lift her, your hands cupping the back of her thighs as she wraps her legs around your waist. It’s a move you’ve done a hundred times, but tonight, the friction of her lace against your silk feels like a match being struck. You can feel her heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm.

"You're making them scream," you murmur against her ear, the head-mics barely catching the low vibration of your voice.

"I'm making you sweat, Y/n," she whispers back, her nails digging into your shoulders as you set her down.

The finale is a blur of pyrotechnics and raw tension. You spin her into a deep dip, your body hovering inches above hers. The stadium light catches the sweat glistening on her collarbones and the sheer hunger in your gaze. Instead of the scripted "breakaway" ending where you walk in opposite directions, you stay. You reach down, your thumb dragging across her bottom lip, smearing the red tint as you stare her down.

The lights cut to black, but the roar of the crowd doesn't stop. In the three seconds of darkness before the stage hands rush out, you feel her hand find yours, her fingers interlacing with yours in a tight, crushing grip.

"Hotel," she breathes, the word a command and a promise. "Half an hour."

You let go of her hand just as the transition lights come up, walking off opposite wings. You don't look back, but you can feel her eyes on your back the entire way to the dressing room.

(Timeskip)

The 24th floor of the Seoul hotel feels like a different universe compared to the screaming fans at the stadium. The door to Sooyoung’s suite hasn't even clicked shut before you’ve pinned her against it, your mouth crashing onto hers with a hunger that’s been building since the first beat of the encore.

"Y/n," she moans into the kiss, her hands frantic as she claws at the silk of your stage shirt.

You don't bother with buttons. You rip the shirt open, the black fabric fluttering to the floor, leaving you bare-chested and heaving against her. She matches your energy, her fingers digging into your shoulders as you reach for the zipper of her crimson lace bodysuit. With one sharp tug, the lace gives way, and you peel it down her body, exposing the pale, sweat-slicked curves of her breasts and the sharp dip of her waist.

She’s panting, her eyes dark and wild as she shoves your leather trousers down your legs. You both kick your clothes aside, standing in the center of the dim suite completely bare, the only light coming from the city skyline bleeding through the window.

Sooyoung doesn't wait. She drops to her knees on the plush carpet, her hands sliding down your thighs to pull you toward her. She looks up at you—a defiant, possessive glint in her eyes—before she takes you into her mouth. The heat is instantaneous, a white-hot jolt that makes your knees weak. She’s deep and demanding, her tongue swirling around you with a rhythmic intensity that makes you grab the back of her head, your fingers tangling in her dark hair to steady yourself.

"God, Sooyoung," you groan, your head snapping back as she picks up the pace, her throat tight and welcoming.

After a few minutes of her torturous focus, you gently pull her up, only to push her back onto the edge of the unmade king bed. You spread her legs wide, the sight of her flushed and open making your pulse thunder in your ears. You dive down between her thighs, your tongue finding her sensitive center with a precision that draws a sharp, melodic scream from her throat.

You eat her with a desperate, starving hunger, your hands cupping her ass to pull her closer. She’s soaking, her body arching off the silk sheets as you flick against her, her fingers winding into your hair and pulling hard.

"Y/n... please," she sobs, her voice a wrecked rasp. "I can't... I’m going to—"

She convulses against you, her internal muscles clenching in a violent, shivering climax that leaves her gasping for air. You don't let her recover. You move up her body, hovering over her as you reach for the nightstand to find a condom, your eyes locked on hers.

The "enemies" facade is long gone, replaced by a raw, undeniable Need that neither of you can put into words.

The foil packet is in your hand, the crinkle of the plastic sharp in the quiet of the room, but as you look down at Sooyoung, you see the same reckless, defiant hunger in her eyes that you feel in your gut. There’s a silent, dangerous understanding that passes between you—a total abandonment of the rules that usually govern your lives. With a flick of your wrist, you toss the unopened condom across the room, watching it vanish into the shadows of the suite.

Sooyoung lets out a low, shaky exhale, a predatory smirk tugging at her lips as she pushes you back onto the plush pillows. She straddles you, her skin silken and hot against your thighs, and for a moment, she just stays there, her hands resting on your chest to feel the frantic, heavy thrum of your heart.

"No more scripts, Y/n," she whispers, her voice a bruised, honey-thick rasp.

She reaches down, her fingers guiding you to her entrance. She’s agonizingly slick, her body already trembling with the aftershocks of her climax. She sinks down slowly, an inch at a time, her eyes never leaving yours. The sensation of being completely unshielded inside her is a physical blow, a raw, electric connection that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

She bottoms out with a long, shuddering moan, her head falling back as she takes all of you. The intimacy is absolute; you can feel the rhythmic, internal pulse of her muscles clenching around you in a desperate, welcoming grip. She doesn't start with a frantic pace. Instead, she begins a slow, torturous grind, her hips moving in a circular motion that draws a low, guttural growl from your chest.

You reach up, your hands cupping her face, your thumbs tracing the damp line of her cheekbones. You pull her down for a kiss that isn't about hunger or fire, but a deep, wordless possession. It’s the kind of kiss that ruins people—soft, lingering, and terrifyingly real.

"Sooyoung," you groan against her lips, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck.

She responds by picking up the pace just a fraction, her internal heat intensifying as she moves with a fluid, weary grace. Every time she rises and falls, the wet, rhythmic sound of your bodies meeting fills the room, a private symphony for the two of you. She leans forward, her breasts pressing against your chest, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

The "enemies" facade has been burned to ash. In the amber glow of the Seoul skyline, there is no NCT, no Red Velvet, and no labels. There is only the way she’s looking at you—vulnerable, beautiful, and completely undone—as you both move toward a shared, staggering finish that feels like the start of something neither of you is ready to name.

The slow, rhythmic grind shifts into something more desperate, a frantic scramble to stay anchored as the world outside the 24th floor ceases to exist. Y/n, your hands move from her face to her waist, your fingers digging into the soft skin of her hips to guide her, pulling her down harder with every rise.

The "hatred" you’ve carried for months—the sharp barbs in the hallway, the competitive glares during dance practice, the cold shoulders in the wings—it all feels like it’s being compressed into this single, humid space between your bodies. It’s a volatile friction, a jagged need to possess the one person who gets under your skin more than anyone else. But as Sooyoung leans down, her sweaty forehead pressing against yours, the mask slips entirely.

"Y/n," she whimpers, her voice breaking, no longer the untouchable idol. She sounds small, breathless, and terrifyingly close.

You look into her eyes, blown wide and hazy, and you see it—the hidden side of the grudge. It’s not just lust; it’s a recognition. You’re the only one who can keep up with her, the only one who knows the sharp edges of her ambition, and in this moment, the only one she trusts to see her like this.

The tension in her body coils tight, her internal muscles pulsing around you in rhythmic, demanding waves that signal the end. You feel the snap of your own control, the white-hot pressure building behind your teeth.

"Sooyoung, look at me," you groan, your voice a wrecked, guttural vibration.

She locks her gaze onto yours, her fingers interlacing with yours and pinning your hands into the pillows. As the first wave of her climax hits, her back arches, a long, vocal cry escaping her that vibrates through your entire chest. You follow her instantly, a low shout muffled against her neck as you drive deep into her one last time.

Without the barrier, the sensation is overwhelming—a raw, liquid heat as you release everything inside her. You can feel every contraction of her body as she takes you, her pulse thrumming against yours in a synchronized, frantic rhythm. It’s a total surrender, a chaotic spill of emotion and adrenaline that leaves you both hollowed out and overflowing at the same time.

For a long, heavy minute, neither of you moves. You stay buried inside her, your chest heaving against her damp breasts, the only sound in the suite the ragged symphony of your lungs fighting for air. You find yourself pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the side of her temple—not because it's in the script, but because you can’t help it.

She doesn't pull away. She hides her face in the crook of your neck, her breath hot and shaky against your skin. The "enemies" will return when the sun comes up; you’ll go back to the snide comments and the professional distance in front of the cameras. But for now, in the cooling quiet of the room, you both know the truth.

The opposite of love isn't hate—it's indifference. And after tonight, there isn't a single indifferent bone in either of your bodies.

(Timeskip)

The fluorescent hum of Incheon International Airport at 7:00 AM is a brutal transition from the amber haze of Room 2408. The air is thick with the scent of roasted coffee and the frantic energy of fansites already perched behind their heavy lenses, waiting for the departure of the SMTown units.

You’re standing near the gate, a black face mask pulled high and a bucket hat shadowing your tired eyes. Your NCT members are slumped in the plastic terminal chairs, scrolling through their phones in a post-concert daze. You’re doing the same, but your screen is dark—you’re just using it as a mirror to check the collar of your hoodie. You can still feel the faint, stinging ghost of her nails on your shoulder blades.

Then, the familiar, sharp click of heels echoes across the marble floor.

Red Velvet is moving toward the VIP lounge, a small army of security flanking them. The fans erupt into a coordinated roar, camera shutters clicking like rapid gunfire. You don't look up. You keep your gaze fixed on your shoes, your heart hammering a rhythmic thud against your ribs that has nothing to do with the caffeine in your hand.

As they pass your seating area, the group slows down for a brief check-in with the staff. Sooyoung is at the back of the line, looking impossibly polished in a tan trench coat and oversized dark sunglasses. She looks untouchable—the "Ice Queen" the media loves to pair against your "Golden Boy" image.

"Watch it," she mutters, her voice a cool, sharp edge as she brushes past your outstretched legs.

It’s the classic "enemy" move—a public snub that the fansites are already frantically uploading to Twitter with captions about your "ongoing feud." But as she passes, her hand drops for a fraction of a second, her fingers grazing the back of your hand where it rests on your knee.

It’s a brief, searing contact—a hidden, electric spark that only the two of you feel. In that moment, she leans in just enough for the scent of her floral perfume to hit you.

"Your hoodie is inside out, Y/n," she whispers, so low it’s lost in the screams of the crowd. "Try to look like you didn't roll out of my bed five minutes ago."

Before you can retort, she’s already five paces ahead, her chin tilted high as she adjusts her bag. She doesn't look back. She doesn't have to.

You reach up, fumbling with the hem of your hoodie, and feel the heat creeping up your neck. You catch her reflection in the glass of the departure gate—she’s checking her own phone, a tiny, triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of her lips before she vanishes into the lounge.

In 2021, Momo is TWICE’s Main Dancer—a global icon of perfection. In this penthouse, she is yours. She isn't the client; she’s the object you get to use, the quiet submissive who paid top dollar to forget the stress of a ten-city tour. And you’re not the bodyguard; you’re the "property" she uses to feel grounded.

"They're too quiet," Momo says, her Japanese accent thickening now that the cameras are off. She gestures with her chin toward the street below, where a small crowd of Paparazzi and fans are still lingering by the side entrance. "Your team says they've been there for hours. They just... wait."

"Waiting is what they're good at, Momo," you reply, your voice a deep, neutral vibration. "My job is to make sure that's all they do."

"And what about your waiting, Y/n?" she challenges, pushing off the railing and taking a slow, measured step toward you. She lowers her sunglasses until they rest on the end of her nose, her dark eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, predatory intensity. "You've been standing there since we got back from the pier. Your heart rate is high... I can feel it from here."

"I’m analyzing threats," you counter, the earpiece crackling with a status update from your team, which you ignore.

"The only threat on this balcony is me," she breathes, moving into your space until her heat is radiating against your black suit jacket. She reaches up, her small, manicured hand brushing against your lapel, her fingers tangling in the silk lining. "You know the clause in our contract, Y/n. 'Total discretion.' That means you don't talk, you don't ask, and you don't stop until I tell you to. You're my property until we leave LA."

"And right now, I’m in a mood," she continues, her voice dropping to a low, demanding rasp as her hand moves down to rest over the front of your trousers, her eyes widening as she feels the immediate, heavy response of your body. "The sunset is almost gone, and I’m tired of waiting."

The Santa Monica breeze pulls at the loose strands of her hair as Momo drops to her knees on the balcony’s cold stone floor. From this height, the distant lights of the Pacific Park Ferris wheel begin to glow, but her focus is entirely on the space between your legs.

"The team is still on the perimeter," you mutter, your voice a low, gravelly warning that vibrates in the quiet air. "If someone has a long-lens camera on the pier—"

"Let them watch," Momo interrupts, her voice muffled as she focuses on the task. "They’ll just see their 'Dancing Machine' doing exactly what she was born to do: performing."

She doesn't hesitate. Her small, nimble fingers—the same ones that execute the most complex choreography in the industry—work with a cold, practiced efficiency. She undoes your leather belt, the buckle clinking softly against the railing, and drags the zipper of your black suit trousers down. When she peels back your silk boxers, your 9-inch length springs free, thick and pulsing with a heavy, rhythmic demand that seems to dwarf her small frame.

Momo’s breath hitches. She lowers her sunglasses to the bridge of her nose, her dark eyes wide and glazed as she takes in the reality of the "equipment" she’s hired. She reaches out, her manicured nails ghosting over the thick, violet vein that runs the length of your shaft, before her hand closes around the base. She can barely get her fingers halfway around the girth.

"It’s... it’s even bigger in the California sun," she whispers, a dazed, triumphant smirk touching her lips.

She starts a slow, agonizingly firm stroke, her grip tight and technical. She uses her other hand to support your weight, her thumb rhythmically swiping over the broad, weeping head of your cock. Every time she reaches the top, she twists her wrist slightly, mimicking a move she’s perfected in a hundred dance studios, but here, the stakes are physical.

You look down at her—the global icon, the woman who sells out stadiums, kneeling at your feet in her black knit top and linen shorts, her face inches from your heat. You reach down, your large hand tangling in her ponytail to tilt her head back, forcing her to look up at your 6'4" frame while she works.

"You’re being very thorough, Momo," you growl, your voice a dark, predatory vibration. "Is this how you treat all your security detail?"

"Only the ones who can actually handle the pressure," she breaths, her tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of moisture from the tip of your cock.

She picks up the pace, her movements becoming a blurred, rhythmic friction that sounds like a series of wet, soft slaps in the twilight. She’s focused, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tries to find the exact frequency that will break your professional composure.

The Santa Monica breeze chills the sweat on your neck, but the heat radiating from Momo is a localized furnace. She doesn't wait for your permission. She reaches up, sliding her designer sunglasses into the neckline of her black knit top, and leans forward.

Her mouth opens in a wide, trembling 'O' as she takes the broad, weeping head of your 9-inch length into her throat. The transition from her hand to the wet, velvet heat of her mouth is a shock to your system, a heavy, technical pressure that makes your hands tighten instinctively on the white balcony railing.

Momo is a "performance" specialist for a reason. She doesn't just take you; she masters you. She uses her tongue to swirl around the thick, violet vein running the length of your shaft, her eyes rolled up to watch your professional mask finally begin to crack. Every time she bottoms out, she makes a low, muffled sound—a vibration that travels straight through your core.

"Momo... the perimeter," you rasp, your voice dropping into a dark, guttural warning.

She doesn't pull back. Instead, she reaches up, her small, manicured hands gripping your thighs to anchor herself as she picks up the pace. It’s a rhythmic, relentless demolition of your composure. She knows exactly how to use the suction to mimic the heavy, pulsing beat of the music she dances to every night. The wet, soft slaps of her lips against your skin are the only sound on the eighth-floor balcony.

You reach down, your large hand tangling in her ponytail, not to pull her away, but to guide the depth. You’re 6'4" of pure, trained restraint, but Momo is systematically dismantling every layer of your defense. Your heart rate—the one she joked about earlier—is now a frantic, pounding thud in your chest.

"You're going to take every drop, Princess," you growl, your hips starting an involuntary, rhythmic thrusting that pushes her to the absolute limit of her capacity.

The "Sunset Clause" is reaching its breaking point. The sky has turned a bruised, deep purple, and the Ferris wheel is a spinning halo of neon in the distance. You feel the snap hitting the base of your spine—a white-hot, snapping point that you haven't felt since the tour started.

You pulse once, twice, the heavy pressure mounting as you prepare to erupt.

The sky over the Pacific has turned a deep, bruised purple, the neon lights of the Santa Monica Pier reflecting off the glass of the penthouse behind you. Your breath is coming in jagged, heavy rasps, the 6'4" frame of your body finally hitting its breaking point.

"Momo... look up," you growl, your voice dropping into a dark, guttural command.

You reach down, your fingers tangling firmly in her ponytail to pull her back just as the first surge of heat hits the base of your spine. She obeys instantly, her head tilting back, her lips parted and swollen from the friction of your 9-inch length.

You pulse with a violent, rhythmic intensity, the first thick wave of the "service" she paid for hitting her right across her cheekbone. You erupt again and again, the heavy, stinging saltiness coating her pale skin, splashing over the bridge of her nose and catching in her dark lashes. One stray drop hits the lens of the sunglasses tucked into her black knit top, a shimmering mark of exactly how much she broke her bodyguard tonight.

Momo doesn't flinch. She watches you through dazed, blown-out pupils, a small, triumphant smirk touching her lips as she feels the heat of your release cooling in the ocean breeze. She looks like a ruined masterpiece—the "Dancing Machine" of TWICE, kneeling on a balcony in California, wearing the evidence of your surrender like a trophy.

"You're a mess, Princess," you mutter, your hand finally relaxing its grip on her hair.

"I'm a client who got exactly what she wanted," she breaths, her voice a wrecked, sultry rasp. She reaches up, using one finger to swipe a bit of the mess from her cheek, bringing it to her lips to taste the salt before she looks back at the pier. "The fans think I'm untouchable. But you... you know better, don't you, Y/n?"

You don't answer. You reach into your suit pocket and pull out a clean silk handkerchief, handing it to her with a cold, professional efficiency as you adjust your trousers and zip up. The "bodyguard" is back, even if the air between you is still thick with the scent of sex and the Pacific salt.

"The motorcade leaves in twenty minutes, Momo," you say, your voice returning to its neutral, protective drone. "I suggest you head inside and fix your makeup before the lead car arrives."

Momo stands up, her legs a bit shaky as she brushes the dust from her linen shorts. She gives you one last, lingering look over her shoulder before sliding the balcony door open.

"Don't go too far, Y/n," she whispers. "I might need another 'security check' before we hit the airport."

(Timeskip)

The Gulfstream G650 cuts through the night at 45,000 feet, the cabin pressurized into a silent, pressurized vacuum of luxury. Outside the oval windows, the American Midwest is a dark void, but inside, the dim amber LED strips along the floor are the only thing illuminating the cream leather interior.

Momo is sprawled across the oversized captain’s chair in the main cabin, her black knit top still slightly damp from the balcony encounter. She’s staring at a lookbook for the Victoria’s Secret show in New York, her fingers tracing the lace of a set she’s scheduled to wear. The "Dancing Machine" is going from the stage to the runway, and the pressure is a physical weight in the cabin.

You’re standing by the galley, your 6'4" frame nearly brushing the ceiling of the jet. You’ve shed the suit jacket, your white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal the heavy, functional watch on your wrist.

"The pilot said we have four hours until JFK," you mutter, your voice a deep, vibrating rasp that carries over the low hum of the engines. "You should be sleeping, Momo. The fittings start at 8:00 AM."

"I can't sleep, Y/n," she whispers, her Japanese accent soft and jagged in the quiet. She closes the lookbook and looks up at you, her dark eyes reflecting the amber cabin lights. "My heart is still beating too fast from Santa Monica. And this plane... it’s too quiet. It makes me think about things I shouldn't."

She stands up, her linen shorts riding high on her thighs as she walks toward you. The jet tilts slightly into a pocket of turbulence, and she uses the movement as an excuse to stumble into your chest. You catch her by the waist, your large hands spanning the entire width of her torso, pinning her against the cold marble of the galley counter.

"You're supposed to be resting," you growl, your eyes tracking the way her pulse is jumping in the hollow of her throat.

"I'm resting my image," she breaths, reaching up to hook her fingers into the belt loops of your trousers. She pulls you closer until the 9-inch reality of your response is grinding into her stomach through the thin knit of her top. "But my body... my body wants to know if the 'security' on a private jet is as thorough as it is on a balcony."

She reaches around you, her small hand finding the "Do Not Disturb" switch for the cabin crew, flicking it until the small red light glows.

"We're over Kansas, Y/n," she mutters, her tongue flicking out to moisten her lower lip as she looks up at you. "No Paparazzi. No long lenses. Just 500 miles an hour and a bodyguard who doesn't know how to say 'no' to his client."

The hum of the Rolls-Royce engines is a low, hypnotic thrum that vibrates through the floor of the Gulfstream, but the real tension is in the air between the galley and the main cabin. A few feet away, behind the heavy silk curtains, the other TWICE members are dead to the world, buried under designer blankets and eye masks after a grueling week in LA.

The silence of the jet makes every sound feel amplified. You grab Momo by the waist, your large hands nearly meeting around her spine, and haul her back toward the tail of the plane. You move with a predator’s silence, navigating the narrow aisle until you reach the heavy wood-veneered door of the private master suite.

You pull her inside and click the lock, the sound swallowed by the thick carpeting.

The suite is a sanctuary of cream leather and ambient gold lighting, dominated by a queen-sized bed bolted to the airframe. You don't say a word. You just slam your palms against the door on either side of her head, pinning her against the wood.

"The walls on a G650 aren't as thick as the ones at The Huntley, Momo," you growl, your voice a dark, vibrating warning. "If you make a sound, the leader is going to be knocking on this door wondering why her main dancer is screaming in the middle of the night."

"Then make sure I don't have enough breath to scream, Y/n," she dares, her Japanese accent a jagged, sultry rasp.

You don't give her another second. You lean in, your mouth crashing against hers with a territorial hunger that has been simmering since the Santa Monica sunset. It’s a collision of teeth and tongue, tasting of expensive champagne and the raw, electric adrenaline of 45,000 feet.

Momo isn't passive. She wraps her arms around your neck, her fingers digging into the nape of your hair, pulling your 6'4" frame down until your chests are crushed together. The friction of her black knit top against your dress shirt is a sharp, static spark. She moans into your mouth—a low, frustrated vibration that you catch and swallow before it can drift toward the main cabin.

You shift your weight, pressing your thigh between hers. The linen shorts she’s wearing are thin, and the heat radiating from her center is already soaking through the fabric, meeting the immediate, heavy throb of your 9-inch response.

"You're already shaking, Princess," you mutter, breaking the kiss just long enough to nip at the sensitive skin of her jawline. "Is it the turbulence, or are you just that desperate for a 'security check'?"

"Shut up," she breaths, her head lolling back against the door as your hand slides down the curve of her hip, finding the hem of her shorts. "Just... show me what the Victoria's Secret runway is really for."

The cabin pressure seems to drop as the latch clicks, the low hum of the jet the only thing separating this sanctuary from the sleeping idols just a few feet away. You don't waste a second. With the practiced efficiency of a man used to high-stress transitions, you strip out of your white dress shirt and slacks. Your 6'4" frame is a map of hard muscle and functional scars in the amber glow of the suite, your 9-inch length springing free, thick and pulsing with a heavy, rhythmic demand.

Momo’s eyes go wide, her breath hitching as she watches the "security detail" disappear, replaced by the raw, physical reality of the man she’s hired. She doesn't let you lead. She reaches out, her small hands flat against your chest, and gives you a firm, commanding shove.

You hit the cream leather mattress with a heavy thud, the suspension of the jet absorbing the impact. You lie back, your head against the silk pillows, as Momo stands at the foot of the bed.

"You're off the clock, Y/n," she whispers, her Japanese accent a jagged, sultry rasp. "Now, you're just an audience."

She reaches for the hem of her black knit top, peeling it over her head in one fluid, dancer’s motion. Underneath, she’s wearing a piece from the upcoming Victoria’s Secret collection—a sheer, midnight-blue lace balconette bra with delicate gold hardware that catches the cabin light. The cups are dangerously low, barely containing the heavy, pale swell of her breasts, the dark centers visible through the intricate floral mesh.

Next, she slides her black linen shorts down her thighs, kicking them aside onto the plush carpet.

She’s wearing the matching high-cut lace thong, the silk straps sitting high on her hips to accentuate the athletic curve of her waist and the powerful, toned lines of her dancer’s legs. A delicate gold belly chain rests against her skin, shimmering with every shallow breath she takes. She looks like a high-end fantasy, a mix of global idol perfection and raw, predatory intent.

She doesn't just get on the bed. She starts a slow, agonizingly rhythmic crawl toward you, her knees sinking into the leather. She moves with the same hypnotic grace she uses on stage, her eyes locked on your 9-inch reality.

"Do you like the fitting, Y/n?" she breaths, her voice dropping into a low, American-tinged dare as she hovers over your lap. "Or should I tell the designers it's too... restrictive?"

She reaches out, her manicured nails ghosting over the thick, violet vein of your shaft before her hand closes around the base. She leans down, her hair falling around your thighs like a gold-flecked curtain, and presses a lingering, wet kiss to the broad, weeping head of your cock.

"You're shaking," she observes, a dazed, triumphant smirk touching her lips. "Is the air getting too thin for you up here?"

The vibration of the Gulfstream’s engines hums through the mattress, a rhythmic bassline to the high-altitude silence. Momo doesn't just crawl; she performs, every shift of her weight on the cream leather a calculated strike against your composure. The midnight-blue lace of her balconette bra strains with every breath, the gold hardware glinting like a promise as she hovers inches above your lap.

"You look like a doll, Momo," you growl, your voice a dark, gravelly vibration that seems to rattle the small cabin. "Like something they’d put in a glass case. But we both know what’s happening behind that curtain if I let go of this restraint."

Momo’s smirk widens, her eyes dark and predatory as she grips your 9-inch length, her small thumb tracing the thick, pulsing vein from base to head.

"Tell me," she breaths, her Japanese accent dropping into a sultry, American-edged rasp. "Tell me exactly what the 'Bodyguard' wants to do to his favorite client while the rest of the world thinks she’s an angel sleeping in the next room."

"I want to see if those dancer’s lungs can actually hold a scream when I’m buried to the hilt in you," you counter, your large hands flat against the bed, knuckles white as you fight the urge to just flip her over. "I want to see if that designer lace survives the next hour, or if I’m going to have to explain to your stylist why there are finger marks bruised into your hips before the New York fitting."

Momo let out a low, shaky moan, her head lolling back as she starts a slow, agonizingly firm stroke. She leans down, her breath hot and smelling of peppermint against the sensitive skin of your thigh.

"You talk too much for a man who’s supposed to be 'discreet', Y/n," she whispers, her tongue flicking out to catch the weeping head of your cock. "But I like it. I like knowing that under that suit and that earpiece, you’re just a beast waiting to break me. Do it. Break the 'Main Dancer'. Show me why I pay you so much more than the others."

She shifts her hips, the high-cut lace thong disappearing between the soft, ivory curve of her thighs as she lines herself up. She’s soaking—a localized furnace of heat that you can feel radiating against your skin even before she makes contact.

"Don't just watch, Y/n," she dares, her voice a wrecked plea as she lowers herself an inch, the broad head of your cock just beginning to stretch her entrance. "Take me. Take me before we hit the coast."

You keep your hands pinned flat against the cream leather of the mattress, your knuckles white, your chest heaving as you tower beneath her. The 6'4" frame of your body is a coiled spring of pure, disciplined restraint, and you’re forcing her to feel every agonizing millimeter of the distance between your power and her desire.

Momo’s breath hitches, a fractured, high-pitched sound that she immediately muffles by biting her lower lip. She hovers there, the broad, weeping head of your 9-inch reality just beginning to stretch the sensitive pink entrance of her center. The midnight-blue lace of her thong has been pushed aside, and the heat radiating from her is a localized furnace in the pressurized cabin.

"You... you’re not going to help me?" she gasps, her Japanese accent thick and jagged with a hunger she usually masks behind choreography.

"I’m on the clock, Momo," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration that seems to rattle the very airframe of the Gulfstream. "If the 'Main Dancer' wants to be ruined at forty thousand feet, she’s going to have to work for it. Show me that athletic endurance the trainers are always bragging about."

Momo let out a low, frustrated growl of her own, her eyes darkening as she takes the dare. She grips your shoulders, her small, manicured nails digging into the hard muscle of your deltoids as she slowly, agonizingly lowers herself.

The displacement is immense. You watch the way her internal muscles have to fight to accommodate the sheer girth of you, the gold hardware on her balconette bra shimmering as her chest heaves. She takes three inches, then five, her head tossing back as her breath comes in short, sharp hitches.

"God... Y/n... you’re... you’re too big," she sobs, her voice a wrecked, sultry rasp. "It’s stretching me... all the way to my ribs."

"Keep going," you command, your voice a cold, mechanical weight. "I want to feel you bottom out before I even think about moving a finger."

She whimpers, a broken sound of pure overstimulation, but she doesn't stop. She pushes through the resistance, her ivory thighs trembling with the effort until she finally slams down against your hips, burying your full length to the hilt. The impact sends a jolt through both of you, timed perfectly with a sudden pocket of turbulence that makes the jet drop fifty feet.

Momo shivers, her back snapping into a rigid arc as she feels the broad head of your cock bottoming out against her cervix. She’s pinned there, her designer lace straining, her face flushed a deep, feverish pink.

"Now," she wails, her fingers clawing at your chest. "Now, Y/n... please! Move! I can't... I can't do it alone anymore!"

The discipline finally snaps. The 6'4" frame of your body uncoils with a violent, rhythmic urgency that matches the turbulence shaking the Gulfstream. You reach up, your large hands moving with a predator’s precision to find the gold clasp of that midnight-blue balconette bra. With a sharp, metallic click, the lace gives way, and the heavy, pale swell of her breasts spills out into the amber light of the cabin.

"You’ve worked enough, Momo," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration that drowns out the hum of the Rolls-Royce engines.

You hook your fingers into the ivory curve of her hips, pinning her down onto your 9-inch length as you pull her torso forward. You bury your face in the soft, lavender-scented heat of her chest, your tongue swirling around one dark, tensed nipple before you take the entire aching weight of her breast into your mouth.

Momo let out a high, fractured shriek that she immediately chokes back, her fingers tangling in your hair as she arches her back. The sensation of your mouth on her skin while you’re buried to the hilt inside her is a total demolition of her professional composure. You suckle her with a rhythmic, hungry pressure, your teeth grazing the sensitive underside of her breast until she’s sobbing your name into the quiet air of the suite.

"Y/n... oh god... it’s... it’s too much," she sobs, her Japanese accent a wrecked, sultry rasp.

You don't slow down. You start a punishing, high-altitude pace, your hips slamming against the cream leather mattress with a heavy, wet thud that rattles the suite’s hardware. Every thrust is a deep, technical invasion, the displacement of your girth stretching her to the absolute limit. You’re relentless, your body primed by the adrenaline of the flight, while Momo is already a beautiful, lace-clad ruin beneath you.

The high-cut lace thong is a discarded scrap of midnight blue against her thighs as you drive home again and again. You can feel her internal muscles clamping down on you in a series of frantic, desperate spasms—the "Main Dancer" hitting her peak at 45,000 feet.

"Look at me, Momo," you rasp, pulling back just enough to see her dazed, blown-out pupils. "Tell me exactly who owns this 'performance' tonight."

"You... you do," she sobs, her head tossing back as her breath comes in jagged, peppermint-scented gasps. "Always... always you, Y/n."

The altitude is high, but the pressure in the master suite is higher. You shift your grip, your large hand sliding down from the ivory curve of her waist to the tight, frantic heat where your bodies are joined. Momo is a gasping, lace-clad wreck beneath you, her head lolling back against the silk pillows as you maintain a slow, torturous grind that keeps your 9-inch length buried deep.

"You're already hitting your limit, Princess," you growl, your voice a dark, predatory vibration against her damp collarbone. "But we haven't even finished the 'full inspection' yet."

You reach behind her, your fingers tracing the dip of her spine until you find the puckered, sensitive entrance of her rosebud. It’s tight—a virgin heat that hasn't been touched since the tour began. You press your thumb against the center, the rhythmic friction of your entry below making her internal muscles clench around you in a desperate, pleading spasm.

Momo let out a high, fractured shriek, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of your forearms. "Y/n... no... it’s... it’s too much!"

"It’s exactly enough," you counter.

You work your thumb in a circular, punishing motion, stretching the delicate skin while your cock continues its deep, technical demolition of her center. The dual stimulation is a total system failure for her. You watch the way her athletic thighs begin to tremble, a fine sheen of sweat coating her skin as her breath turns into a series of jagged, high-pitched hitches.

"Look at me, Momo," you rasp, pulling back just enough to see her blown-out, glazed pupils.

She forces her eyes open, her face flushed a deep, feverish pink. Just as you drive home one last, bottoming-out thrust, you press your thumb deep into her rear, the sudden intrusion triggering a violent, involuntary reaction from her core.

Momo’s back snaps into a rigid, trembling arc. Her mouth hangs open in a silent, wrecked plea as a sudden, torrential surge of clear heat erupts from her, soaking the cream leather mattress and your own thighs in a frantic, rhythmic spray. She’s squirting—the "Main Dancer" completely losing control at 45,000 feet, her internal muscles milking you with a desperate, crushing hunger.

"That's it," you mutter, watching the way her chest heaves, the midnight-blue lace of her bra long forgotten as she sobs your name into the pressurized air. "Take it all, Momo. Every bit of it."

The snap hits you like a physical explosion. You can't hold back the "Sunset Clause" any longer. The first surge of heat hits the base of your spine, a white-hot, snapping point that signals the end of your professional restraint.

The "Fasten Seatbelt" chime pings through the cabin like a countdown, a sharp contrast to the primal, rhythmic thudding of your hips against the leather. You’re right on the edge, the 6'4" frame of your body vibrating with a tension that the Gulfstream’s stabilizers can’t compensate for.

"Time's up, Momo," you growl, your voice a dark, gravelly warning.

With a wet, heavy squelch, you pull out of her soaking heat just as the first surge hits the base of your spine. Momo let out a fractured, high-pitched whimper of protest, her internal muscles still pulsing in a desperate, empty rhythm. You don't give her a second to recover; you grab her by the ivory curve of her waist and haul her upright until she’s kneeling between your thighs.

"Finish the job," you command, your voice a cold, mechanical weight.

Momo doesn't hesitate. Her eyes are glazed, her face flushed a deep, feverish pink as she reaches for her own breasts. She uses her small, manicured hands to push the heavy, pale globes of her chest together, creating a deep, velvet cleavage that’s still damp with the lavender-scented sweat of her "performance."

You guide your 9-inch length into the tight, slick valley of her cleavage. The friction of her soft skin against your throbbing, violet-veined shaft is a total system failure. You start a fast, punishing rhythm, your hips snapping forward as you buried yourself between her breasts.

"Look at me, Princess," you rasp, leaning over her until your shadow swallows her whole.

She forces her eyes open, looking up through the haze of her own overstimulation. You pick up the tempo, the sound of your cock slapping against her chest echoing in the small suite. Every thrust is a heavy, technical reminder of exactly who she hired to protect her.

The snap hits you like a physical explosion. You erupt with a force that makes your spine snap straight against the headboard. The first thick surge of heat hits the center of her chest—a heavy, stinging saltiness that splashes over the midnight-blue lace of her discarded bra and coats the ivory curve of her throat. You pulse again and again, the "service" she paid for painting her skin in a frantic, rhythmic spray.

Momo doesn't flinch. She watches you through blown-out pupils, her breath coming in jagged, peppermint-scented gasps. She reaches up, using one finger to swipe a bit of the mess from her collarbone, bringing it to her lips to taste the evidence of your surrender before she looks at the window.

"We’re over New York," she whispers, her voice a wrecked, sultry rasp.

"Then fix your hair," you mutter, your hand finally relaxing its grip on her shoulder as you reach for your trousers. "The lead car is waiting at the hangar, and you have a runway to walk."

Momo gives you a dazed, triumphant smirk, her tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop from the corner of her mouth. She looks like a ruined masterpiece—the Victoria's Secret angel, christened by her bodyguard at 45,000 feet.

(Timeskip to before VSFS red carpet)

The hotel suite at the Edition New York is a frantic beehive of activity, but the bedroom is a dead-silent vault. Outside that door, a dozen stylists, publicists, and managers are screaming into phones, preparing for the Victoria’s Secret red carpet. Inside, there is only the hum of the air conditioning and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of your heartbeat.

Momo is standing in front of a full-length triptych mirror, doing a final check of the look that’s about to break the internet. She’s wearing a deep-cut, oversized black pinstripe blazer that hangs off her athletic frame with a masculine edge, but the "business" ends there. Underneath, she’s in a plunging black lace corset-style top that pushes the heavy, pale swell of her breasts upward, creating a deep, velvet cleavage that's impossible to ignore. Her hair has been dyed a rich, sultry cherry-wine red, falling in soft waves over her shoulders.

You’re standing by the door, your 6'4" frame blocking the entrance, still dressed in your tactical security suit. Your earpiece is chirping with the lead car’s arrival time, but your eyes are locked on the mirror.

"The pinstripes are a nice touch, Momo," you growl, your voice a dark, vibrating rasp. "Very professional. If people ignore the fact that you’re barely contained in that lace."

Momo catches your eye in the reflection. She doesn't smile. She turns slowly, the oversized blazer flaring out as she walks toward you. She stops an inch from your chest, the scent of her high-end perfume—something with notes of dark rose and sandalwood—hitting you like a physical blow. She reaches up, her manicured fingers ghosting over the knot of your tie, before sliding down to rest over the heavy, 9-inch response already straining against your slacks.

"The stylists think it's 'power dressing,' Y/n," she whispers, her Japanese accent a jagged, sultry rasp. "But I told them the corset felt a little... tight. I think I need my head of security to help me breathe before I have to go out there and smile for five hundred cameras."

She reaches for the single button of her blazer, popping it open to reveal the full, heaving reality of her chest. The lace is straining, the dark centers of her breasts visible through the mesh as she takes a shallow, deliberate breath.

"The car is downstairs, Momo," you mutter, even as your hands find the ivory curve of her waist, pulling her flush against you. "We have exactly six minutes before the 'National Center' is late for her global debut."

"Then you better be fast," she dares, her tongue flicking out to moisten her lower lip as she looks up at you through her lashes. "Because if I walk onto that carpet without being 'satisfied,' I might just tell the press exactly what my bodyguard does during international flights."

The red light on your earpiece flickers—the lead car is idling on 24th Street—but the world outside this suite has ceased to exist. You reach out, your large hands gripping the lapels of her oversized pinstripe blazer. With a slow, deliberate tug, you slide the heavy wool off her shoulders, letting it pool onto the plush carpet like a discarded shadow.

Next come the matching trousers. You kneel before her, the 6'4" frame of your body making the gesture look less like a service and more like a tactical dismantling. You undo the button of her slacks, the silver zipper rasping in the quiet room as you drag them down her toned, dancer’s legs.

Momo stands there in the center of the suite, a vision of high-fashion ruin. She’s left only in the plunging black lace corset-style top and a pair of matching lace-trimmed silk panties that sit high on her hips, accentuating the athletic curve of her waist. The cherry-wine red of her hair glows against the ivory skin of her shoulders, her chest heaving with a rhythmic, frantic energy that strains the delicate lace of her top.

"Better?" you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration as you stand back up, stripping out of your own suit and slacks until your 9-inch reality springs free, thick and pulsing against the New York air.

"Much better," Momo breaths, her dark eyes tracking the heavy, violet-veined length of you. She reaches out, her manicured nails ghosting over your chest before she gives you a firm, commanding shove toward the vanity table. "But I think the 'Power Dresser' still has too much energy. I need you to drain it, Y/n. Now."

She doesn't wait for an answer. She turns around, bracing her small, strong hands against the edge of the marble vanity. She arches her back, her gaze catching yours in the triple-mirrors as she looks over her shoulder. The black lace of the corset frames the deep curve of her spine, her cherry-red hair falling forward to expose the pale, sensitive nape of her neck.

"Five minutes, Y/n," she sobs, her Japanese accent a wrecked, sultry rasp. "Make sure the 'National Center' can't even remember her own name when she hits that carpet."

You step up behind her, your heat radiating against her back. You reach down, your large hand sliding between her thighs to find the soaking, localized furnace of her center. She’s already dripping, the scent of her arousal mixing with the dark rose of her perfume.

The ticking of the clock on the bedside table is the only thing keeping time as you reach into your discarded suit jacket. The crinkle of the foil is a sharp, metallic snap in the silent suite. You roll the latex down the 9-inch length of your shaft with a practiced, steady hand, your 6'4" frame looming over her like a shadow in the vanity's LED-lit mirrors.

Momo is still braced against the marble, her cherry-red hair a vibrant contrast against the cool white stone. She’s breathing in shallow, rhythmic gasps, her black lace corset rising and falling with a frantic energy.

"The car is idling, Y/n," she whispers, her eyes locking onto yours in the center mirror. "If you're going to ruin me, do it now."

You don't give her a second to breathe. You reach down, your large hands hooking under her ivory thighs, and haul her upward. She wraps her powerful dancer's legs around your waist, her heels digging into the small of your back as you settle her onto the edge of the vanity. The movement sweeps her discarded pinstripe blazer onto the floor, leaving her exposed in nothing but the lace and your grip.

"Hold onto the marble, Momo," you growl, your voice a dark, vibrating rasp.

You drive home in one deep, technical thrust, burying yourself to the hilt in her soaking, localized furnace. The displacement is massive; the air leaves her lungs in a high-pitched, fractured sob that she immediately stifles by biting her shoulder. The plunging lace of her top strains to the breaking point as you start a punishing, rhythmic pace that makes the heavy vanity table rattle against the wall.

"You're... you're too much," she gasps, her Japanese accent a wrecked, sultry rasp. Her head tosses back, her neck arching as she feels the broad head of your cock bottoming out with every heavy, wet thud of your hips.

"I'm exactly what you paid for," you counter, your hands sliding up to grip her waist, pinning her down onto your heat.

You're relentless, your body primed by the high-stakes pressure of the New York event. Every thrust is a deep, predatory invasion, the latex-slicked friction creating a heat that seems to melt the air in the room. You watch her reflection—the global icon, the "Main Dancer," reduced to a trembling, lace-clad ruin under the weight of her bodyguard.

"Five minutes, Princess," you mutter, your heart rate finally hitting the red line. "Let's see if those wings can actually fly."

The heavy, rhythmic thud of your hips against the marble vanity is the only sound in the suite, save for the frantic, shallow hitches of Momo’s breath. Outside, the muffled honk of a New York yellow cab cuts through the silence, but here, the 6'4" frame of your body is a pressurized furnace, and the "Sunset Clause" is reaching its absolute breaking point.

"Look at yourself, Momo," you growl, your voice a dark, vibrating rasp against the sensitive shell of her ear.

She forces her eyes open, her gaze locking onto yours in the triptych mirror. She’s a vision of high-fashion wreckage—her cherry-red hair tousled over her shoulders, her plunging black lace corset straining with every panicked heartbeat, her powerful dancer’s legs locked tight around your waist.

"The car is waiting," she sobs, her Japanese accent a wrecked, sultry plea as she feels the heavy, pulsing snap hit the base of your spine. "Y/n... please... now!"

You don't pull back. You reach down, your large hands hooking under her ivory thighs to pull her flush against you, burying your 9-inch length to the absolute hilt. You drive home one last, world-ending thrust that rattles the expensive perfume bottles on the vanity.

You erupt inside the latex, the first thick surge of heat hitting her core with a violent, rhythmic intensity. You pulse again and again, your forehead resting against her damp shoulder as you fill the condom to its limit. Momo’s back snaps into a rigid, trembling arc, her internal muscles milking you in a desperate, involuntary spasm that lasts long after the "Fasten Seatbelt" chime of your own self-control has faded.

"That's it," you mutter, your voice a low, gravelly vibration. "Carry that weight onto the carpet, Princess."

Momo let out a long, shaky exhale, her head thumping back against your chest as her legs finally lose their grip, sliding down your hips. She stays pinned there for a moment, her chest heaving, the black lace of her top damp with the sweat of her "pre-event" performance.

You step back, the wet, suctioning sound of your withdrawal the only thing breaking the quiet. You strip off the protection, tie it in a knot, and discard it with a cold, professional efficiency. The "Bodyguard" is back before the sweat has even cooled on her skin.

"Four minutes, Momo," you say, your voice returning to its neutral, protective drone as you reach for your discarded white shirt. "The stylist is going to need every second of that to fix your hair and re-pin that corset. Don't make me tell them why you're walking with a limp."

Momo stands up, her knees visibly shaky as she reaches for her black pinstripe trousers. She gives you one last, dazed, and triumphant smirk in the mirror, her eyes dark with the secret you both share.

"They'll just think I'm 'in character' for the show, Y/n," she whispers, her fingers tracing the edge of the marble where your hands just were. "But we know the truth. I'm an angel because you're the one who keeps me grounded."

(Timeskip to backstage before the show)

The chaos of the Victoria's Secret backstage is a sensory overload—shouting hair stylists, the smell of hairspray, and the distant, rhythmic bass of the opening set vibrating through the floorboards of the Lexington Avenue Armory. But the private dressing room assigned to Momo is a temporary island of silence.

Momo stands before the mirror, the "National Center" preparing for the walk of her life. She has shed the pinstripe suit, now dressed in her performance base: a leopard-print lace teddy that cinches her waist, topped with a pale pink, push-up feathered bra that forces her cleavage into a deep, inviting valley. Over it all, she wears the iconic pink and white striped VS robe, the rhinestone wings on the back shimmering under the harsh fluorescent vanity lights.

You are stationed just inside the door, your 6'4" frame acting as the final barrier between her and the world. You’ve tightened your tie, but your eyes are fixed on her reflection.

"The red carpet photos are already trending, Momo," you growl, your voice a low vibration that cuts through the muffled noise outside. "They’re calling you the 'Ethereal Angel.' If only they could see the 'Angel' right now."

Momo turns, the silk of her robe fluttering open to reveal the high-cut line of the leopard lace. She catches your gaze in the mirror, her expression shifting from focused professional to something much darker. She reaches out, her manicured fingers catching the lapels of your suit jacket, pulling you into the narrow space between her and the vanity.

"The wings are heavy, Y/n," she whispers, her Japanese accent a jagged, breathless rasp. She reaches behind her, untying the silk sash of the robe until it falls open completely, exposing the pale pink feathers and the way her skin is still slightly flushed from the New York heat. "I think I need a shot of adrenaline before I hit that runway. A 'security check' to make sure I don't stumble."

She presses herself against you, the soft feathers of her bra brushing against your dress shirt as she looks up at you. Her hand slides down, finding the 9-inch reality of your response already straining against your trousers.

"The show starts in ten minutes," you mutter, your large hands finding the ivory curve of her waist, your thumbs hooking into the high-cut lace of the teddy. "Your manager is right outside that door."

"Then don't let her hear me," Momo dares, a dazed, triumphant smirk touching her lips as she reaches for your belt. "Use that big hand of yours to keep me quiet while you remind me why I'm the one who gets to wear the wings."

The bass from the runway stage is a physical throb in the dressing room walls, a countdown to the moment Momo has to step into the light. You don't waste a second. You grab her by the waist, your large hands spanning the entire width of her torso, and spin her around to face the mirror.

"Look at the 'Angel' they're waiting for," you growl, your voice a dark, vibrating rasp against the back of her neck.

You reach down, hooking your fingers into the hem of the pink and white striped VS robe. You hike it up past her waist, exposing the leopard-print lace of her teddy and the powerful, ivory curve of her dancer's thighs. With your other hand, you make short work of your own belt and zipper, your 9-inch length springing free, thick and pulsing with a heavy, technical demand.

Momo's breath hitches, her hands flying to the edge of the marble vanity to brace herself. She watches your reflection in the mirror—the 6'4" frame of her bodyguard looming over her, a predatory shadow in a room full of lace and feathers.

"Y/n... the call time," she gasps, her Japanese accent a wrecked, sultry plea. "They're going to... they're going to come looking for me."

"Then we better be thorough," you counter.

You drive home from behind in one deep, bottoming-out thrust. The displacement is massive; Momo’s back snaps into a rigid arc, the pale pink feathers of her bra shivering as she let out a high, fractured shriek that you immediately smother by pressing your face into the side of her neck. You start a punishing, rhythmic pace, the heavy, wet thud of your hips against her glutes timed to the muffled beat of the show's opening track.

Every thrust is a deep, predatory invasion. In the mirror, Momo looks like a ruined masterpiece—her cherry-red hair tousled, her eyes glazed and blown-out, her hands white-knuckled as she grips the vanity. The rhinestone wings on the back of her robe shimmer with every violent jolt of your body, a frantic, shimmering strobe light in the dim room.

"You're shaking, Momo," you mutter, your hand sliding forward to cup one of the pale pink feathered cups, squeezing the heavy weight of her breast as you drive home again. "Is the 'National Center' getting stage fright, or is she just realizing she’s owned by her security detail?"

"I... I’m yours," she sobs, her head tossing back against your shoulder. "Always... just... don't stop! I need to feel it... before I go out there!"

The pounding on the dressing room door is frantic now, the stage manager’s voice muffled by the heavy wood but clear in its urgency: "Momo-san! Three minutes! Curtains up!"

The 6'4" frame of your body is a pressurized furnace, and the "Sunset Clause" is reaching its absolute breaking point. You don't slow down; you pick up the pace, the heavy, rhythmic thud of your hips against her glutes echoing in the small room.

"You're going to walk that runway with my mark on you, Princess," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration against the back of her neck.

With a wet, heavy squelch, you pull out of her soaking heat just as the first surge hits the base of your spine. Momo let out a fractured, high-pitched whimper of protest, her internal muscles still pulsing in a desperate, empty rhythm as she clutches the vanity.

You reach forward, your large hand tangling in her cherry-red hair to pull her head back, forcing her to watch her own reflection in the mirror. You erupt with a violent, rhythmic intensity, the first thick surge of heat hitting the center of her back, splashing over the rhinestone wings of her striped VS robe. You pulse again and again, the "service" she paid for painting the leopard-print lace of her teddy and the ivory skin of her lower back in a frantic, rhythmic spray.

Momo doesn't flinch. She watches the evidence of your surrender coat her "performance" gear, a dazed, triumphant smirk touching her lips. She can feel the warmth of your release soaking through the lace, a physical weight she’ll carry under the bright lights of the Armory.

"That's it," you mutter, your voice a low, gravelly rasp as you step back to adjust your trousers. "Now go be an angel for the world."

Momo stands up, her knees visibly shaky as she reaches for the silk sash of her robe. She doesn't wipe it off. She simply pulls the pink and white striped silk closed, the wetness of your mark acting as a secret layer between the high-fashion fantasy and the raw, physical reality of her bodyguard.

"The fans will wonder why I'm smiling so much during the finale, Y/n," she whispers, her fingers tracing the rhinestone wings on her back before she turns to the door. "But they’ll never know it’s because I’m still carrying your heat under my wings."

She gives you one last, predatory wink before sliding her designer sunglasses on and stepping out into the neon chaos of the backstage, leaving the scent of peppermint and sex lingering in the air.

(Timeskip to after show, still in the dressing room)

The heavy backstage door hasn't even fully clicked shut before the room is flooded with the rest of the "Angel" lineup. The air, already thick with the scent of your recent "security check," suddenly turns electric as Jihyo, Tzuyu, and Nayeon breeze in, their heels clicking sharply against the floor.

They’re a coordinated assault of high-fashion lace and pink fur. Jihyo is in a lethal black leopard-print corset that cinches her waist to an impossible degree, while Tzuyu and Nayeon are draped in various shades of soft pink lace and silk, their legs disappearing into massive, oversized pink fur boots.

"Momo-rin, you're late for the lineup," Nayeon chirps, her voice playful as she stops just short of you, her eyes immediately darting from your 6'4" frame to the slightly flushed state of Momo’s face. She sniffs the air once, her smirk widening. "And why does it smell like... 'hard work' in here?"

Jihyo leans against the vanity, her own black leopard lace straining as she crosses her arms. She looks at you, her gaze professional but with a dangerous, knowing glint. "We were wondering where our head of security went. The hallway was completely unguarded. Very unprofessional, Y/n."

"I was performing a final stress test on the client's equipment," you growl, your voice a deep, vibrating rasp that seems to resonate in the small room.

Tzuyu walks over to Momo, her height nearly matching yours as she reaches out to adjust the rhinestone wings on Momo's robe. Her hand pauses as she touches the damp, warm fabric where your surrender still clings to the silk. She looks at her fingers, then back at you, her expression a mix of shock and dazed curiosity.

"It's a very... intense stress test," Tzuyu whispers, her voice a low, melodic thrum.

"The show starts in five minutes," Nayeon says, walking closer until her pink lace top is brushing against your dress shirt. She reaches up, her manicured nails ghosting over your jawline. "But the runway is so long... and we're all feeling a little bit 'unsecured.' Don't you think the rest of the team deserves a quick check-up before we have to go out there and be perfect?"

Momo doesn't look jealous. She gives you a dazed, triumphant smirk, leaning back against the marble as she watches her sisters surround you. "He's very thorough, unnie," she breaths, her Japanese accent a wrecked, sultry rasp. "But I think even a 6'4" bodyguard might have his hands full with four Angels at once."

The high-octane adrenaline of the Victoria's Secret runway is still vibrating through the room, a mix of ozone, expensive hairspray, and the raw, electric hum of a successful global debut. But as the heavy deadbolt clicks shut in the private dressing room, the "Angels" aren't celebrating with champagne. They’re looking at you.

Momo, Nayeon, Jihyo, and Tzuyu are a vision of high-fashion wreckage. Their hair is artfully tousled from the runway wind machines, their skin glowing under a layer of shimmer-body oil and the sweat of a twenty-minute high-energy performance.

"The show is over, Y/n," Jihyo breathes, her black leopard-print corset heaving with every ragged breath. She walks toward the long vanity mirror, her heels clicking a rhythmic predatory beat. "But we’re still wound up. The cameras are gone, the fans are screaming outside... and we’re stuck in here with the only man who knows what we look like when the wings come off."

"Line up," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration that seems to rattle the framed mirrors.

You don't ask. You command. Your 6'4" frame looms over them as they obey with a dazed, hungry compliance. You line them up against the mirrors—a row of the world’s most desired women, draped in pink fur boots, leopard lace, and sheer silk.

Nayeon is first, her back arched against the glass, her pink lace top strained to the breaking point. Tzuyu stands next to her, her long, elegant limbs trembling as she watches your reflection. Jihyo is third, her hands already bracing against the marble, and Momo—still carrying the faint, drying mark of your pre-show "check"—takes the end of the line, a triumphant smirk on her lips.

"You wanted to know why Momo was walking with a limp?" you rasp, stripping out of your trousers until your 9-inch reality springs free, thick and pulsing with a heavy, technical demand. "Now you’re all going to find out."

You start at the end of the line, grabbing Nayeon by her tiny waist and hauling her back against you. You drive home in one deep, bottoming-out thrust, the displacement making her let out a high, fractured shriek that echoes off the vanity. You don't stay long; you give her ten punishing, rhythmic hits before moving to Tzuyu, her eyes blowing out as she feels the sheer girth of you stretching her internal muscles to the limit.

By the time you reach Jihyo, the room is a symphony of wrecked, multilingual pleas. You bury yourself in her black leopard-print heat, your large hands pinning her shoulders against the mirror.

"You're all going to carry this 'security' back to the hotel," you mutter, your heart rate hitting the red line as the dual scent of their perfumes and their shared arousal fills the cramped space. "Every single one of you."

The air in the dressing room is thick enough to taste—a heavy, humid haze of expensive floral perfume, ozone from the stage lights, and the raw, musky scent of four "Angels" completely unraveled. You back away from the mirrors, your 6'4" frame a towering silhouette of dark, muscular intent as you gesture toward the oversized, plush charcoal lounge sofa in the corner.

"On the sofa. All of you," you growl, your voice a deep, vibrating rasp that leaves no room for negotiation.

They move with a dazed, rhythmic compliance, a sea of pink fur boots, leopard-print lace, and sheer silk collapsing onto the deep cushions. Nayeon and Tzuyu are tangled together on the left, their long, shimmer-coated legs draped over each other, while Jihyo claims the center, her black lace corset heaving with every shallow breath. Momo crawls over to the right, her cherry-red hair a vibrant contrast against the dark fabric.

You don't sit. You stand over them, your 9-inch reality thick and pulsing in the dim, amber-tinged light of the backstage area.

"The show might be over for the cameras," you mutter, your heart rate hitting the red line as you look down at the four most famous women in Asia, "but the 'Sunset Clause' is just getting started. I want to see exactly how much of that 'Angel' energy you have left."

Jihyo reaches out first, her manicured nails digging into your thighs as she pulls you toward her. She takes the broad, weeping head of your cock into her mouth, her eyes locked on yours with a fierce, predatory hunger. Nayeon leans in from the side, her soft, peppermint-scented breath hot against your neck as she whispers jagged, breathless praise in Korean.

Tzuyu is a silent, elegant wreck, her long fingers ghosting over your tensed abs, while Momo—the one who started this high-altitude fever—reaches for your hand, pressing your palm against her own damp, leopard-covered chest.

"We're all yours, Y/n," Momo sobs, her Japanese accent a wrecked, sultry rasp. "No managers. No fans. Just... finish us."

You move with a relentless, technical efficiency, shifting from one to the next in a blur of lace and skin. You take Tzuyu first, her back snapping into a rigid arc as you bury yourself to the hilt, her pink fur boots kicking uselessly against the sofa. Then you move to Nayeon, her high-pitched, fractured shrieks muffled by the heavy dressing room walls as you drive home with a punishing, rhythmic pace.

The room is a symphony of wrecked, multilingual pleas. Every thrust is a deep, predatory invasion, the displacement of your girth stretching them all to their absolute limits. You’re the only thing keeping them grounded while the world outside is still screaming their names.

The snap hits you like a physical explosion. You can feel the first thick surge of heat hitting the base of your spine—a white-hot, snapping point that signals the end of your professional restraint.

The "Sunset Clause" is a physical weight now, a localized storm of heat and friction in the dim dressing room. You pull out of Nayeon with a wet, heavy suction, your 9-inch reality pulsing with a rhythmic, technical demand that seems to vibrate through the charcoal fabric of the sofa.

You turn your focus to Jihyo. The "Leader" is sprawled in the center of the cushions, her black leopard-print corset pushed down to her waist, leaving the heavy, pale swell of her breasts completely exposed to the harsh fluorescent light. Her chest is heaving, her skin coated in a fine sheen of shimmer-oil and sweat from the runway.

"You've been remarkably quiet, Jihyo," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration. "Let's see if that professional composure holds up under a real 'security check'."

You drop to your knees between her powerful, ivory thighs, your large hands spanning the entire width of her ribcage to pin her down. You bury your face in the soft, lavender-scented heat of her chest, your tongue swirling around one dark, tensed nipple before you take the entire aching weight of her breast into your mouth.

Jihyo let out a high, fractured shriek that makes Tzuyu and Nayeon jump, her fingers tangling in your hair as she arches her back off the sofa. You suckle her with a punishing, hungry pressure, your teeth grazing the sensitive underside of her breast until her professional mask completely shatters.

"Y/n... oh god... please," she sobs, her voice a wrecked, sultry rasp.

You don't slow down. While you maintain the suction on her chest, you reach down with your free hand, your fingers finding the soaking, localized furnace of her center. You work her with a relentless, rhythmic precision, your thumb tracing the swollen pearl of her clit while your fingers drive deep into her internal heat.

The dual stimulation is a total demolition of her system. You watch the way her eyes roll back, her breath turning into a series of jagged, high-pitched hitches.

"Look at them, Jihyo," you rasp, pulling back just long enough to see her blown-out, glazed pupils. "Show your team exactly how the 'Leader' handles the pressure."

Jihyo's back snaps into a rigid, trembling arc. Her mouth hangs open in a silent, wrecked plea as a sudden, torrential surge of clear heat erupts from her, soaking your hand and the charcoal sofa in a frantic, rhythmic spray. She’s squirting—the most composed "Angel" in the lineup completely losing control, her internal muscles pulsing in a desperate, pleading spasm around your fingers.

Momo watches from the side, a dazed, triumphant smirk touching her lips as she reaches out to stroke Jihyo’s trembling thigh. "I told you, unnie. He doesn't leave anyone 'unsecured'."

The snap hits you like a physical explosion. You can feel the first thick surge of heat hitting the base of your spine—a white-hot, snapping point that signals the absolute end of your professional restraint.

The "Sunset Clause" finally hits the red line. Jihyo is a gasping, leopard-clad ruin beneath you, her ivory thighs still trembling from the aftershocks of her release. You don't give her a second to breathe; you hike her hips up, pinning her spine against the charcoal cushions as you drive home in one final, bottoming-out thrust.

"Take it, Jihyo," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration that drowns out the muffled bass from the arena.

You erupt deep inside the protection, the first thick surge of heat hitting her core with a violent, rhythmic intensity. You pulse again and again, your 6'4" frame locking rigid as you fill the latex to its absolute limit. Jihyo’s eyes roll back, her fingers digging into the muscle of your forearms as she sobs your name into the salt-sweet air of the dressing room.

You step back with a wet, suctioning sound, the "Security Detail" returning to your eyes even as the sweat cools on your skin. You discard the evidence with a cold, mechanical efficiency, and turn your gaze to the rest of the squad.

Nayeon is sprawled on the left, her pink lace and fur boots a chaotic mess of silk and shimmer-oil. Tzuyu is sitting up, her long, elegant limbs tucked under her as she watches you through blown-out, dazed pupils. Momo is still the triumphant architect of this madness, her cherry-red hair tousled as she leans back against the vanity.

"Jihyo is 'secured' for the night," you mutter, your voice a low, gravelly rasp as you reach for your white dress shirt. "But we still have the flight back to Seoul, and I haven't even started on the 'International Protocol' for the rest of you."

Nayeon crawls forward, her manicured nails ghosting over your tensed abs. "I think the 'Center' needs a more personal debriefing, Y/n. Jihyo-unnie might be the leader, but I'm the one who has to face the press tomorrow morning. I need to be... centered."

Tzuyu stands up, her height making her the most imposing "Angel" in the room. She walks toward you, her pink lace bra shivering with every step. She doesn't say a word, but she reaches out, her hand sliding down to find the 9-inch response already stirring again under the pressure of her gaze.

"The SUV is waiting at the service entrance," you rasp, looking from Nayeon’s playful hunger to Tzuyu’s silent, elegant demand. "We have a thirty-minute drive to JFK in a vehicle with tinted windows and a soundproof partition."

The stage manager’s voice is a distant, frantic ghost through the heavy oak door, but the interior of the dressing room is a pressurized chamber of high-fashion ruin. You ignore the "All-Clear" signal from your earpiece, your 6'4" frame pivoting toward the most silent, statuesque "Angel" in the room.

Tzuyu stands as tall as your shoulder, her long, elegant limbs shimmering with a fine coat of body glitter and the sweat of the finale. She’s draped in a pale pink lace bodysuit that leaves her long, athletic midriff exposed, ending in those massive, oversized pink fur boots. She doesn't say a word, but her dazed, blown-out pupils track the 9-inch reality of your response as it pulses against the New York air.

"You’ve been watching the whole time, Tzuyu," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration that seems to vibrate through the marble vanity behind her. "Waiting for your 'security clearance'."

You don't wait for her to move. You grab her by the ivory curve of her waist, your large hands spanning the entire width of her torso, and haul her back against the vanity. You spin her around, pinning her spine against the mirror. The pale pink feathers of her bra shiver against your dress shirt as you hike her lace bodysuit up past her hips, exposing the long, flawless line of her dancer's legs.

"The others... they're watching," she whispers, her voice a low, melodic thrum that breaks as you drive home in one deep, bottoming-out thrust.

The displacement is massive; the air leaves her lungs in a high-pitched, fractured sob. Tzuyu’s head thumps back against the glass, her cherry-red hair (matching Momo's tour style) splaying out like a halo. You start a fast, punishing, rhythmic pace that makes the makeup brushes on the vanity rattle in a frantic, metallic chorus.

"Let them watch," you rasp, your hands sliding up to grip her shoulders, pinning her down onto your heat. "Show the 'National Center' and the 'Leader' exactly why you're the one they save for the finale."

Tzuyu is a silent, elegant wreck. She doesn't scream; she just hitches her breath in a series of jagged, peppermint-scented gasps, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of your forearms until she draws blood. Every thrust is a deep, technical invasion, the friction of your girth stretching her internal muscles to the absolute limit.

In the mirror, Nayeon and Jihyo watch from the sofa, their eyes glazed and hungry, while Momo maintains her triumphant smirk, her hand ghosting over her own damp chest as she watches you dismantle the youngest member of the squad.

The snap hits you like a physical explosion. You can feel the first thick surge of heat hitting the base of your spine—a white-hot, snapping point that signals the end of your professional restraint.

The 6'4" frame of your body uncoils with a violent, rhythmic urgency as the "Sunset Clause" hits the absolute red line. You don't give Tzuyu a second to recover from the deep, technical demolition of her center. With a wet, heavy suction, you pull out of her soaking heat, the 9-inch reality of your response pulsing with a frantic, violet-veined demand.

"Down," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration that makes the vanity mirrors rattle.

Tzuyu doesn't hesitate. The "Angel" of the group drops to her knees with a professional, predatory grace, her pale pink lace bodysuit straining against her athletic frame. Her long, elegant neck arches as she looks up at you through blown-out, dazed pupils, her cherry-red hair splayed over her shoulders like a ruined halo.

You don't wait for an invitation. You grab her by the ivory curve of her jaw, your thumb forcing her mouth open as you drive the broad, weeping head of your cock past her teeth. The displacement is massive; she let out a muffled, high-pitched whimper of surprise as you bottom out against the back of her throat, your hips snapping forward with a relentless, rhythmic pace.

"Look at me, Tzuyu," you rasp, your heart rate hitting the red line.

She forces her eyes to lock onto yours, her manicured nails digging into the hard muscle of your thighs as she takes the entire aching weight of you. The sight of the world's most elegant "Angel" reduced to a trembling, lace-clad wreck at your feet is a total system failure for your restraint.

The snap hits you like a physical explosion. You erupt with a force that makes your spine snap straight against the edge of the vanity. The first thick surge of heat hits the back of her throat—a heavy, stinging saltiness that she swallows with a desperate, rhythmic gulp. You pulse again and again, the "security check" painting her tongue and the corners of her mouth in a frantic, localized spray.

Tzuyu doesn't flinch. She stays there, her breath coming in jagged, peppermint-scented gasps, as she tastes the evidence of your total surrender. She reaches up, using one finger to swipe a stray drop from her chin before looking back at the mirror.

Momo, Nayeon, and Jihyo are watching from the sofa, their eyes glazed and hungry, their own leopard lace and pink fur a chaotic mess of high-fashion ruin.

"The SUV is idling at the service entrance," you mutter, your voice a low, gravelly rasp as you reach for your discarded white shirt. "We have a thirty-minute drive to JFK, and I still have two 'Angels' who haven't been properly briefed on the international flight protocol."

Nayeon crawls forward, her tongue flicking over her lower lip as she watches Tzuyu stand up with shaky, shimmer-coated legs. "I think the 'Center' is ready for her turn, Y/n. The armored SUV has very... comfortable leather."

The heavy, armored door of the Cadillac Escalade thuds shut with a vacuum-sealed click, instantly killing the roar of the New York paparazzi outside. The interior is a cavern of charcoal leather, starlight headlining, and the faint, expensive scent of the girls’ mixed perfumes. The soundproof partition is up, and the tinted windows turn the neon blur of Manhattan into a muted, gray ghost.

You’re sitting on the bench seat, your 6'4" frame taking up nearly half the cabin. Your white dress shirt is unbuttoned halfway, your tie discarded on the floor mat.

Nayeon doesn't wait for the SUV to pull out of the hangar. She crawls across the plush carpet, her oversized pink fur boots shedding soft tufts against the leather. She’s still in her pink lace performance bra, her skin glowing with a feverish, post-show heat.

"The others are in the lead car, Y/n," she purrs, her voice a jagged, peppermint-scented rasp as she straddles your thighs. "It’s just us. And thirty miles of highway."

She reaches for your belt, her manicured nails snagging on the leather in her haste. When your 9-inch reality springs free, thick and pulsing against the climate-controlled air, she let out a low, needy whimper. She doesn't hesitate; she hooks her fingers into the waistband of her own lace panties and kicks them into the footwell.

"I watched what you did to Tzuyu," she whispers, her dark eyes locking onto yours as she guided the broad, weeping head of your cock to her entrance. "Now I want to see if the 'Center' can handle the same 'security' protocol."

You grab her by the ivory curve of her waist, your thumbs digging into the soft dip of her hips as you pull her down. You drive home in one deep, technical invasion, the displacement of your girth making her back snap into a rigid arc against the seatback. Nayeon’s mouth hangs open in a silent, wrecked plea, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of your shoulders as the SUV hits the bumps of the Midtown Tunnel.

"Keep your voice down, Nayeon," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration that matches the hum of the V8 engine. "The driver might not hear through the partition, but I want to hear every hitch in your breath while I dismantle you."

You start a fast, punishing, rhythmic pace. Every time the Cadillac brakes or accelerates, you drive deeper, bottoming out against her internal heat until she’s sobbing your name into the dark. Her pink lace top is a ruined scrap as you reach up to knead the heavy, pale weight of her breasts, your thumbs grazing her tensed nipples while you maintain a relentless, high-speed pace.

"Y/n... oh god... it’s... it’s too much!" she gasps, her head tossing back as her cherry-red hair whips against the tinted glass.

The hum of the Escalade’s V8 engine vibrates through the floorboards, matching the dark, rhythmic thud of your hips against the charcoal leather. You maintain your position, your 6'4" frame pinning Nayeon against the seatback as you drive home with a relentless, technical precision that stretches the pink lace of her bodysuit to its absolute limit.

"You're the 'Center,' Nayeon," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration against her damp collarbone. "Show me how you maintain focus when everything is falling apart."

You reach down, your large hand sliding between your joined bodies to find the swollen, soaking pearl of her clit. You start a fast, circular motion with your thumb, your fingers driving deep into her internal heat alongside your 9-inch length.

Nayeon let out a high, fractured shriek that she immediately chokes back, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of your forearms. Her cherry-red hair is a chaotic mess against the tinted window, her eyes blown-out and glazed as she watches the blur of the Van Wyck Expressway through the glass.

"Y/n... oh god... please!" she sobs, her voice a wrecked, peppermint-scented rasp.

"Don't stop," you command, your voice a cold, mechanical weight. "Finish it yourself. Right now."

Nayeon doesn't hesitate. She reaches down, her own manicured fingers joining yours in the frantic, wet friction of her center. The dual stimulation is a total demolition of her system. You watch the way her athletic thighs begin to tremble, the oversized pink fur boots kicking uselessly against the footwell as she hits her peak.

Her back snaps into a rigid, trembling arc. Her mouth hangs open in a silent, wrecked plea as a sudden, torrential surge of clear heat erupts from her, soaking the leather and your own thighs in a frantic, rhythmic spray. She’s squirting—the most famous "Center" in the world completely losing control in the back of an armored SUV, her internal muscles milking you with a desperate, crushing hunger.

The snap hits you like a physical explosion. You can feel the first thick surge of heat hitting the base of your spine—a white-hot, snapping point that signals the end of your professional restraint.

The hum of the tires on the JFK tarmac is a low, vibrating drone that matches the frantic thrum of your own pulse. You don't give Nayeon a second to recover from her own collapse. You reach out, your large hands hooking under her ivory thighs to pull her flush against your chest, burying your 9-inch length to the absolute hilt in one final, world-ending thrust.

"Carry this across the Pacific, Nayeon," you growl, your voice a dark, guttural vibration that seems to rattle the armored glass of the SUV.

You erupt deep inside the protection, the first thick surge of heat hitting her core with a violent, rhythmic intensity. You pulse again and again, your 6'4" frame locking rigid as you fill the latex to its absolute limit. Nayeon’s eyes roll back, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of your shoulders as she sobs your name into the cool, recycled air of the cabin. Her pink lace top is damp with sweat, her cherry-red hair a vibrant, tangled mess against the charcoal leather.

You step back with a wet, suctioning sound just as the Escalade pulls to a stop beside the gleaming silver hull of the Gulfstream G700. You discard the evidence with a cold, mechanical efficiency, the "Security Detail" returning to your eyes even as the heat still radiates from your skin.

"We’re here, Nayeon," you mutter, your voice a low, gravelly rasp as you reach for your discarded white shirt. "Adjust your lace. The ground crew is waiting."

Nayeon stays slumped against the seat for a moment, her chest heaving, the oversized pink fur boots still trembling. She gives you one last, dazed, and triumphant smirk, her eyes dark with the secret you’ve just branded into her. She reaches for her pink silk robe, wrapping it tight over the ruined lace.

"They'll think I'm just tired from the show, Y/n," she whispers, her fingers tracing the edge of the seat where you just held her. "But I'll feel you with every step I take up those stairs."

The door opens, and the crisp night air of the runway rushes in. You step out first, your towering frame a silent, protective shadow as the rest of the squad—Momo, Jihyo, and Tzuyu—exit their lead car, their eyes immediately finding yours.

The low hum of the Gulfstream G700’s engines transitions into a powerful, rhythmic roar as the jet lifts off from the JFK tarmac, banking steeply over the Atlantic. Below, the glittering lights of Manhattan begin to fade into a dark, oceanic void, leaving the cabin—and the four women inside—isolated in a pressurized world of silk, lace, and high-altitude heat.

In the dim, amber glow of the main cabin, the "Angel" squad is a vision of coordinated exhaustion and lingering electricity. Jihyo is slumped in a leather captain's chair, her black leopard-print corset finally loosened; Tzuyu and Nayeon are tangled together on the long silk divan, their pink fur boots discarded on the plush carpet; and Momo stands by the window, her cherry-red hair caught in the moonlight as she watches the wingtip cut through the clouds.

You stand at the threshold of the master suite, your 6'4" frame a silent, dark silhouette against the galley lights. Your white dress shirt is unbuttoned to the waist, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the tensed, powerful muscle of your forearms.

"The flight plan to Seoul is fourteen hours," you growl, your voice a deep, vibrating rasp that seems to resonate through the cabin's frame. "The 'Sunset Clause' doesn't expire until we touch down at Incheon."

Momo turns, a dazed, triumphant smirk touching her lips as she catches your gaze. She reaches for the silk sash of her striped VS robe, letting it fall open to reveal the leopard-print lace that still carries the faint, drying evidence of your earlier "security check."

"Then I suggest you get some rest, Y/n," she whispers, her Japanese accent a wrecked, sultry thrum. "Because we have a lot of 'international protocols' to get through before the sun comes up."

"Quality takes time, Lisa," you retort, sliding into the booth beside her. You don't use honorifics; in this room, the power dynamic is a blurred line. You reach out, your fingers grazing the edge of her cap, tilting it up just enough to see the defiant, exhausted fire in her eyes. "Besides, I figured a world star like you would appreciate the anticipation."

She scoffs, a tiny, sharp sound that hides a deeper hunger. She sets the glass down with a definitive clink and turns to you, her face inches from yours. The scent of her expensive, smoky perfume mixes with the sterile smell of the club's air conditioning.

"I didn't come here for a conversation," she whispers, her hand reaching out to grip your tie, pulling you toward her with the same commanding strength she uses to lead a choreography. "I spent all day being told where to stand and how to smile. Tonight, I want you to make me forget I have a name."

You feel the familiar, predatory hum in your blood. You know exactly what she needs—a release that is raw, unscripted, and entirely private. You lean in, your lips brushing the shell of her ear, your voice dropping into a dark, suggestive register.

"You’re paying for the 'Premium' package tonight, Lisa. That means I don’t just make you forget your name. I make you forget how to breathe."

The shadows of the booth are thick, smelling of expensive leather and the remnants of Lisa’s smoky perfume. You don’t move to the suite; the risk of the semi-public setting, the muffled thumping of the bass through the velvet curtains, only adds a jagged, electric edge to the "service." You reach out, your hand sliding firmly around the back of her neck, pulling her closer until your foreheads touch.

"You want to forget?" you murmur, your thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw. "Then let’s start with that stage persona. Strip it off."

Lisa doesn't hesitate. She’s used to being the one in control, the dancer who dictates the rhythm of a stadium, but here, she surrenders to your lead with a desperate, hungry efficiency. She straddles you in the cramped space, her oversized hoodie bunching up around her waist. You reach down, your hands sliding under the heavy fabric to find the silk of her skin. She’s lean, all corded muscle and soft curves, a body honed for performance and now vibrating with a different kind of exertion.

"I’m so tired of being 'Lisa'," she gasps into the crook of your neck, her teeth grazing your skin in a sharp, demanding nip. "Just... make me feel like a person. A messy, ruined person."

You respond by hiking her up, your hands gripping her thighs to pull her flush against your chest. You find the zipper of her denim shorts and tug it down, the metallic sound lost in the low frequency of the club’s music. You slide your hand inside, your fingers navigating the lace of her underwear until you hit the soaking, honeyed heat of her. She’s drenched, her body already betraying how much she’s been thinking about this moment since she walked through the door.

"You’re a mess already," you rasp, your fingers diving deep into her, mimicking the sharp, rhythmic snap of a choreography. "Look at you. Global icon, and you’re dripping for a ghost like me in a dark corner."

She let out a high, broken moan, her head tossing back as she grips your shoulders, her nails digging into your suit jacket. You don't stop, your thumb finding her clit and grinding in a heavy, punishing circle that makes her knees buckle against the leather seat.

"I’m paying you... to shut up and work," she managed to choke out, her eyes rolled back as the first wave of a climax began to shimmer through her.

You lean in, gathering a pool of spit in your mouth and letting it drop onto her chest, the slick moisture trailing down to the lace of her bra. You follow it with your tongue, lapping at her skin with a rough, rhythmic intensity that makes her sob. You aren't being gentle; you’re treating her like the high-end client she is, giving her the raw, unpolished friction she can't find in the sterile world of YG.

"You want work?" you growl, reaching for your belt. "Then get ready to earn that blackout fee."

You free yourself, your cock thick and pulsing with a heavy, rhythmic demand. You guide yourself to her entrance, rubbing the broad, weeping head against her folds until she’s whimpering, her fingers fumbling with your shirt buttons to get to your skin. You don't sink in yet; you want her begging, the power dynamic shifting until she’s the one lost in the dark.

The bass from the main floor thumps through the velvet partition, a rhythmic vibration that matches the heavy pulse in your veins. You don't give her the release she’s looking for yet. Instead, you shift back into the corner of the leather booth, putting a deliberate inch of space between your heat and her aching center. You look at her—the girl whose face is plastered on billboards from Seoul to New York—and you see the crack in the facade.

"You’re too loud, Lisa," you rasp, your voice a dark, velvet command. "If you want to forget who you are, start by remembering where you are. On your knees."

She freezes for a heartbeat, her eyes wide and dark with a mix of shock and a soaring, illicit thrill. She’s spent her life being followed, pampered, and directed, but no one has ever talked to her like a debt to be collected. She slides off your lap, her knees hitting the plush carpet of the booth with a soft thud. She looks up at you through the fringe of her bangs, her chest heaving under the oversized hoodie.

"You're expensive, Y/n," she whispers, her voice shaking as she reaches out, her slender, manicured fingers wrapping around your thick, pulsing shaft. "You'd better be worth the premium."

"Prove you're worth the time," you counter, leaning back and lacing your fingers behind your head.

She doesn't wait for a second invitation. She leans in, her lips parting as she takes the broad, weeping head of your cock into her mouth. The heat is instantaneous—a wet, velvet furnace that contrasts sharply with the air-conditioned chill of the club. She’s a performer; she understands rhythm, and she applies it to you with a desperate, technical precision. Her tongue swirls around the ridge, licking away the pre-cum before she slides down, taking as much of your length as the cramped space allows.

You groan, your hips bucking involuntarily as she picks up the pace. The sound of her wet, rhythmic suction fills the small booth, competing with the muffled EDM outside. You reach down, your fingers tangling in her hair, not to pull her away, but to shove her deeper. You gather a pool of spit in your mouth and let it drop, a slow, viscous string that lands on the bridge of her nose and slides down to her lips.

"Swallow it," you growl, watching as she looks up at you, her eyes watering from the depth of your cock in her throat.

She does. She gulps it down along with the salty tang of your skin, her throat working in a series of deep, needy swallows. She starts to use her hands, pumping the base of your shaft while her mouth works the top, creating a vacuum-like pressure that makes your vision fractal. She’s aggressive, her teeth occasionally grazing your skin in a way that’s intentionally provocative—a reminder that even on her knees, she’s a lioness.

"God, you're a natural," you mutter, your breath hitching as you feel the pressure building in your gut. "Does YG know their main dancer has such a greedy mouth?"

She pulls back for a second, a long string of silver saliva connecting your cock to her swollen, red lips. She gives you a dark, triumphant smirk—the same one she flashes at the end of a record-breaking music video—before plunging back down. She’s relentless, her head bobbing in a frantic, messy rhythm that tells you she’s not just doing a job; she’s exorcising the stress of a world tour on your body.

You’re right on the edge, the friction of her tongue and the heat of her throat pushing you toward a snap. You grip her hair tighter, guiding her movements until she’s gagging slightly, her hands digging into your thighs for balance.

"I'm going to finish in your mouth, Lisa," you warn, your voice a shattered, gutteral wreck. "And you're going to take every drop of it like the good client you are."

The pressure in your lower back hits a critical, white-hot snapping point as Lisa’s tongue swirls around the sensitive ridge of your glans with a technical, rhythmic greed. She’s not just performing; she’s consuming you, her throat opening up to accommodate the thick stretch of your cock as she looks up at you with eyes that are dark, dilated, and entirely devoid of her "idol" persona.

"Take it," you growl, your fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her head flush against your groin so she can feel the violent, rhythmic pulsing of your veins.

You erupt with a force that makes your spine snap straight against the leather padding of the booth. The first surge of heat hits the back of her throat, a heavy, stinging saltiness that she meets with a desperate, rhythmic swallow. You pulse into her again and again, your body racking with the release as you fill her mouth with the evidence of your "service."

Lisa doesn't flinch. She’s a professional in every sense of the word—she grips your thighs, her nails digging into your skin to anchor herself as she takes every drop. She works her tongue around you, milking the last bit of friction out of your shaft until you’re trembling, your breath coming in jagged, alcohol-thinned gasps.

When you finally pull back, a long, viscous string of silver saliva and your own mess connects your cock to her swollen, reddened lips. She doesn't wipe it away immediately. She looks at you with a predatory, triumphant smirk, her tongue flicking out to taste the corner of her mouth before she swallows one last time, making sure you see the deliberate bob of her throat.

"Worth the premium?" she whispers, her voice a wrecked, sultry rasp that vibrates in the quiet of the booth.

You lean forward, your thumb catching a stray drop on her chin and rubbing it into her lip. The bass from the club is still thumping, a distant reminder of the world she has to return to in an hour. But here, in the dark, the "National Treasure" is just a girl with a heavy secret and the taste of you still on her breath.

"Every won, Lisa," you mutter, pulling her back up onto the seat beside you. "Every single won."

She leans her head on your shoulder, the adrenaline fading into a heavy, comfortable exhaustion. For a moment, the gigolo and the global icon are just two shadows in a city that never sleeps.

The atmosphere in the cramped booth has become too small for the electricity humming between you. Lisa pulls back, her chest heaving, the slick sheen on her lips catching the stray neon light from the hallway. She doesn't just want a release anymore; she wants the full "Arche" experience—the kind that costs more than a designer wardrobe and buys a man's soul for the night.

"This isn't enough," she whispers, her fingers curling into the lapels of your blazer, tugging you toward her. "I don't want a quick fix in a dark corner, Y/n. I want the VVIP suite. I want the door locked, the phones off, and I want you to look at me like I’m the only thing that exists in this world."

You don't say a word. You stand, adjust your clothes with the cold, practiced grace of a high-end ghost, and lead her through the hidden service elevator.

The VVIP suite is a cathedral of excess: silk-paneled walls, a sprawling circular bed, and a view of Seoul that makes the city look like a toy. As the heavy double doors click shut, Lisa drops the oversized hoodie, revealing a delicate, lace-trimmed slip underneath that costs more than most people’s rent. She stands in the center of the room, her posture shifting—no longer the global powerhouse, but something softer, hungrier, and infinitely more demanding.

"I want the 'Princess' treatment, Y/n," she commands, her voice a low, raspy velvet as she sinks onto the edge of the silk sheets. She looks up at you through her lashes, her eyes dark with a mix of ego and vulnerability. "But not the kind they give me at the labels. I want you to treat me like a princess who’s only purpose is to be used by you. I want your undying attention on every inch of my skin. I want you to make me feel... filthy."

You cross the room, your footsteps silent on the plush carpet. You stop right in front of her, your shadow looming over her small frame. You reach out, your hand sliding under her chin to tilt her face up, your thumb pressing firmly into the center of her bottom lip.

"A 'Slutty Princess', then?" you growl, your voice a dark, predatory vibration. "You want me to worship you while I ruin you. You want to be the center of my universe while I remind you exactly who’s in control."

You drop to your knees between her thighs, but you don't touch her center yet. Instead, you start at her ankles, your mouth pressing slow, burning kisses into her skin, moving upward with agonizing deliberation. You use your tongue to trace the cords of her calf, the back of her knee, the sensitive inner skin of her thigh—never once looking away from her eyes.

"You're going to stay awake for every second of this, Lisa," you mutter against her skin, your breath hot and demanding. "I’m going to focus on you until you can’t remember what a stage even looks like. You’re not a 'National Treasure' tonight. You’re just mine."

She let out a high, fractured moan, her fingers tangling in your hair to pull you closer, her body arching in a desperate, involuntary invitation. The "service" has officially begun, and tonight, the debt is going to be paid in sweat and surrender.

The silence of the VVIP suite is broken only by the hum of the city lights below and the increasingly frantic hitch of Lisa’s breath. You stay on your knees, your hands sliding up to grip her hips with a possessive, bruising force that grounds her to the silk sheets. You don’t rush. This is the "undying attention" she paid for—a slow, agonizingly thorough adoration of the body that usually belongs to the world.

You bury your face in her, your tongue swiping upward in one long, firm stroke that makes her entire frame shudder. She’s already slick, a nectar-sweet heat that tastes of expensive champagne and raw desire. You use your tongue with a rhythmic, heavy precision, lapping at her clit while your fingers dive deep inside her, stretching her muscles until she’s sobbing your name into the quiet room.

"Y/n... please," she gasps, her fingers tangling in your hair, her knuckles white as she tries to pull you closer. "I’m... I’m right there. Don't stop... don't stop."

She’s arching off the bed, her internal muscles beginning to pulse in that tell-tale, pre-orgasm rhythm. You can feel the tension snapping in her thighs, her toes curling into the silk. She’s seconds away from shattering, her voice rising into a high, broken wail—and that’s exactly when you pull back.

The sudden loss of friction makes her let out a wounded, indignant cry. She looks down at you, her eyes completely blown out, her chest heaving as she reaches for you with trembling hands.

"Why?" she whimpers, her voice a shattered wreck of its usual cool. "I was... I was almost—"

"I told you, Lisa," you growl, standing up and towering over her. "A princess doesn't get to decide when she’s finished. Not tonight."

You turn to the bedside console, pressing a button that slides back a hidden velvet-lined drawer. It’s filled with the high-end "amenities" the Arche provides for its most elite clients. You pull out a heavy, weighted glass plug, its surface polished to a mirror-like shine, and a pair of silk-lined restraints that match the gold accents of the room.

The sight of them makes her breath hitch, a flicker of genuine, delicious fear dancing behind the lust in her eyes.

"You want to be treated like my slutty princess?" you ask, your voice a dark, predatory vibration as you move back toward her. "Then you need to learn how to stay open for me. Even when you’re begging to close."

You grab her ankles, pulling her to the very edge of the circular bed until she’s completely exposed under the soft, amber glow of the chandelier. You reach for the glass plug, the cool weight of it a sharp contrast to the fever-heat of her skin.

"This is going to stay in you while I work on the rest of you," you command, your thumb pressing firmly against her entrance to prep her. "You’re going to feel every inch of it, and you’re going to thank me for it. Say it, Lisa."

"Thank you... Y/n," she whispers, her head lolling back as she prepares for the intrusion. "Please... just... fill me up."

The soft click of the gold-plated restraints against the headboard sounds like a final sentence being passed. You pull her arms up, stretching her lean, dancer’s frame until her chest is arched and her ribcage is prominent under the thin lace of her slip. She’s completely vulnerable now, a global icon tethered to a bed in a room that doesn't exist on any map, her breath coming in shallow, terrified hitches.

"Look at you," you purr, leaning over her until your shadow swallows her whole. "The most powerful woman in music, and you can’t even move your hands without my permission. This is what you paid for, isn't it? To be absolutely nothing but mine."

"Yes," she sobs, the word a broken, jagged thing as she tugs fruitlessly against the silk-lined cuffs. "Please... Y/n... I’m so empty."

You don't make her wait any longer. You reach for the heavy glass plug, the material catching the amber light of the chandelier. You don't use lube; you use the nectar she’s already produced, coating the broad, rounded head of the toy in her own frantic desire. You press it against her entrance, the cold glass a shock against her feverish skin.

"Open," you command.

You drive it in with one slow, steady motion. Lisa let out a high, strangled shriek that vibrates through the headboard, her back snapping into a rigid arc as the glass stretches her wide. It’s a heavy, intrusive sensation, filling the void you left behind and keeping her internal muscles in a state of constant, agonizing tension.

"It’s... it’s so cold," she gasps, her eyes rolling back as she feels the weight of the glass settling deep inside her. "God, Y/n... it’s too much."

"It’s exactly enough," you counter, your hands moving to her breasts.

You don't play. You grip them with a bruising, possessive force, your thumbs grinding into her rose-tipped nipples until she’s thrashing against the restraints. You lean down, taking one heavy bud into your mouth and suckling with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. You use your teeth, nipping at the sensitive skin until she’s wailing, her voice a shattered wreck of its usual melodic tone.

You move between her breasts, your tongue trailing a path of fire over her sternum, before dropping back down to her center. The glass plug is still there, pulsing with her heartbeat, keeping her open and ready. You use your fingers to find her clit, which is now a hard, throbbing knot of nerves peeking out from the stretch of the toy.

"You’re going to come on this glass, Lisa," you growl, your voice muffled against her wet heat as you start a frantic, vibrating friction with your thumb. "You're going to scream so loud the managers downstairs will wonder what I'm doing to their star."

She shatters. The climax hits her like a physical explosion, her body convulsing against the restraints in a series of violent, rhythmic shocks. She screams into the quiet of the suite, a long, ragged sound of pure, unadulterated release that seems to go on forever. The glass plug vibrates with the force of her internal contractions, milking the pleasure until she’s literally sobbing, her head lolling to the side as the aftershocks roll through her.

You pull back, breathless and triumphant, watching the way her chest heaves and the way her skin has turned a deep, delicious flush. She’s a beautiful ruin, a "Slutty Princess" who has finally found the bottom of her own desire.

The heavy glass plug remains deep inside her, a constant, unyielding weight that pulses with every dying aftershock of her climax. Lisa is a beautiful, broken landscape of sweat and silk, her chest heaving in shallow, jagged gasps as she strains against the gold-plated restraints. Her hair is a dark, tangled halo against the pillows, and the flush on her skin has deepened to a feverish rose.

You don't move to join her. Instead, you calmly step back, the cool air of the suite hitting your heated skin. You walk over to the mahogany sideboard, the amber glow of the chandelier catching the crystal decanter of 30-year-old Macallan. The sound of the glass stopper clicking open is sharp and clinical in the quiet room, cutting through the haze of her labored breathing.

"Y/n..." she whimpers, her voice a fragile, hoarse thread. She tries to lift her head, her eyes glazed and searching for you in the shadows. "Where... why did you stop?"

"I'm not stopping, Lisa," you murmur, pouring a double measure into a heavy crystal tumbler. "I'm appreciating the view. This is what the 'Premium' package looks like. Absolute, unhurried devotion to your surrender."

You walk back to the edge of the circular bed, the ice clinking softly against the glass. You take a slow, burning sip of the scotch, your eyes never leaving hers. You reach out with your free hand, tracing the line of her trembling thigh with the cold base of the tumbler. She flinches, a tiny, involuntary sob escaping her lips as the chilled glass hits her fever-warm skin.

"Look at yourself," you command, your voice a low, predatory vibration. "The girl who moves millions of people with a single glance. And right now, you can’t even close your legs because of a piece of glass and my permission."

She let out a high, fractured moan, her hips bucking weakly against the mattress, the plug shifting inside her with a wet, heavy squelch that makes her toes curl. The sight of her—tethered, filled, and utterly helpless—is more intoxicating than the alcohol. You watch the way her internal muscles try to fight the intrusion, the rhythmic twitching of her thighs, and the way her nipples remain painfully hard under the lace of her ruined slip.

"You look so much better like this," you purr, leaning over her until the scent of the scotch and your own musk overwhelms her. "No cameras. No choreographers. Just a princess in her cage, waiting for her master to decide if she’s had enough."

"I haven't," she gasps, her fingers clawing at the silk of the headboard as she looks at you with a raw, terrifying hunger. "I want... I want you. Please, Y/n. Take the glass out. Put yourself in. I’ll give you anything. Double the fee. Triple it. Just... don't leave me like this."

You give her a slow, dark smirk, taking another sip of the scotch before setting the glass down on the nightstand with a definitive thud. You reach for the base of the glass plug, your knuckles grazing her soaking folds.

"Everything has a price, Lisa," you growl, your thumb beginning to circle her clit with a slow, agonizingly light pressure that makes her vision fractal. "And tonight, the price is your dignity. You want me? Then tell me exactly what you are."

The amber glow of the chandelier reflects off the crystal tumbler as you set it down, the sharp clink punctuating the heavy, desperate silence of the suite. You don't take the glass out. Not yet. You want her to feel every cold, unyielding millimeter of it while you remind her that her body belongs to the house tonight.

"You’re in a rush, Princess," you murmur, your voice a dark, velvet rasp. "But the 'Arche' doesn't do fast. We do thorough."

You lean over her, your knees pinning her thighs wider apart as you reach down. You don't use your whole hand; you use two fingers, slick with the nectar she’s already produced, and start a slow, agonizingly light crawl over her skin. You trace the outer folds, the sensitive inner seam of her labia, circling the base of the glass plug without ever actually touching the knot of nerves that’s screaming for attention.

"Y/n... please," she sobs, her head thumping back against the silk pillows. Her wrists strain against the gold restraints, the silk lining the only thing keeping her skin from tearing. "It’s... it’s throbbing. I can feel the glass... it’s too much."

"It’s only too much because you’re fighting it," you counter, your fingers finally making contact with her clit.

You don't rub. You just press. A firm, rhythmic pulse that mirrors the heavy beat of the music downstairs. Each time you press, the glass plug shifts inside her, its weighted core rolling against her internal walls. Lisa let out a high, fractured wail, her back arching so far off the bed that her ribcage strains against the lace of her slip.

"Look at me, Lisa," you command.

She forces her eyes open, her pupils so dilated they’ve swallowed the amber of her irises. She’s completely gone, lost in a sensory overload that no world tour could ever prepare her for. You pick up the pace, your fingers starting a slow, wet friction that sounds like a series of soft, rhythmic slaps in the quiet room.

"You’re so sensitive," you purr, watching the way her internal muscles clamp down on the glass in a desperate attempt to find a release you haven't granted yet. "Is this what you think about when you’re center stage? Do you wonder what it would be like if the fans knew their 'Lalisa' was tied to a bed, begging a gigolo to ruin her with a piece of glass?"

"I... I don't care," she gasps, her voice breaking. "I don't care about them. I just want... I want to break. Please, Y/n... break me."

You respond by sliding a third finger inside, crowding the space already occupied by the plug. The stretch is immense, a heavy, intrusive fullness that makes her eyes roll back into her head. You start a hard, rhythmic pumping, your thumb never leaving her clit, creating a pincer move of pleasure that pushes her right to the jagged edge of a second, even more violent climax.

"You're going to stay right here," you growl, your voice dropping into a guttural, animalistic register. "On the edge. Until I decide you've paid your debt in full."

She’s wailing now, a long, rhythmic sound of pure, unadulterated need as her body begins to vibrate with the effort of holding back. The "Slutty Princess" is reaching her limit, her dignity completely dissolved in the heat of the VVIP suite.

The tension in the suite is a physical weight, thick with the scent of expensive scotch and the salt of her skin. You reach down, your hand closing around the base of the glass plug. You don’t pull it out immediately; you twist it slowly, once, twice, savoring the way her internal muscles clamp down on the cold surface in a desperate, rhythmic protest.

"You’ve been a very good girl, Lisa," you rasp, your voice dropping into a dark, final register. "But I think you’ve had enough of toys."

With one swift, firm motion, you draw the glass out. Lisa let out a high, broken gasp, the sudden void making her body convulse against the gold restraints. She’s weeping now, the overstimulation leaving her raw and twitching, her legs falling open in a heavy, involuntary invitation.

You don't waste another second. You strip out of your trousers, your cock springing free, thick and throbbing with a heavy, rhythmic demand. You don't use a condom; for the price she’s paying, she wants the skin-to-skin friction of a man who isn't afraid to leave a mark.

You grab her thighs, hoisting them up onto your shoulders so she’s completely folded, her center a soaking, swollen target under the amber chandelier. You line yourself up and drive home in one long, punishing thrust that buries you to the hilt.

The sound she makes isn't a moan; it’s a shattered, animalistic wail that fogs the glass of the VVIP suite’s windows. You’re filling the space the glass left behind, but you’re alive, pulsing, and hot. You start a hard, unforgiving pace—a blurred, violent rhythm that sounds like a series of wet, heavy slaps against the silk sheets.

"Whose princess are you?" you growl, your hands moving up to grip her throat, not to choke, but to ground her as you hammer into her. "Tell me who owns this center tonight."

"You!" she shrieks, her fingers clawing at the headboard, her knuckles white as she nears the edge for the third time tonight. "Y/n... it’s yours! Everything... it’s all yours!"

You pick up the speed, your movements becoming a frantic, technical demolition of her composure. The friction is white-hot, the scent of sex and sweat filling the air until you finally snap. You erupt deep inside her, your body racking with the force of the release as you groan her name into the crook of her neck.

You stay buried in her for a long minute, both of you gasping for air, the only sound the distant hum of the city below. When you finally pull out, she slides down the silk to the mattress, a beautiful, ruined mess of lace and spent passion.

You reach up and click the release on the gold restraints. Her arms drop to her sides, limp and heavy, the red marks on her wrists a silent testament to the night’s debt. You stand up, adjusting your clothes with a cold, professional efficiency, and walk back to the sideboard to finish your scotch.

Lisa looks up at you, her eyes glazed but still carrying that tiny, flickering spark of the woman who conquers the world. She reaches for the silk robe at the foot of the bed, her movements slow and shaky.

"Same time next month, Y/n?" she whispers, a tiny, satisfied smirk touching her lips despite the exhaustion.

"As long as the wire transfer clears, Lisa," you reply, setting the empty glass down. "As long as the wire transfer clears."

The elevator ride down from the VVIP level is a descent back into reality. The brushed gold doors slide open, and for a split second, the reflection in the mirrored walls is jarring: you, straightening a silk tie with cold, practiced precision, and Lisa, tugging her oversized hoodie back over her head.

The transition is instantaneous. She pulls the baseball cap low, obscuring the blown-out depth of her pupils and the faint, flushed bite marks on her collarbone. By the time she steps into the dim, neon-lit lobby of The Arche, the "Slutty Princess" has vanished. In her place is the untouchable enigma, the global icon who moves through the world as if she owns every shadow in it.

The club’s floor manager—a man who is paid six figures specifically to lose his memory every morning—bows deeply as you approach the exit.

"Your car is waiting at the side entrance, Miss," he says, his voice a neutral, professional drone.

Lisa doesn't look at him. She doesn't even look at you. She walks past the velvet ropes with a sharp, rhythmic stride, her boots clicking against the marble floor with a sudden, regained authority. But as she reaches the heavy soundproof doors, she pauses.

Without turning around, she reaches into the pocket of her hoodie and tosses a small, heavy object back toward you. You catch it out of the air—a custom-engraved lighter, gold-plated and smelling faintly of her smoky perfume.

"Keep the change, Y/n," she says, her voice regaining that cool, raspy edge that sells out stadiums. "I’ll expect a fresh 'itinerary' for next month. Don’t make me wait."

She pushes through the doors and disappears into the tinted windows of a waiting black sedan, the engine purring like a predatory animal before it melts into the Seoul traffic.

You don't answer with words. You bridge the gap in two steps, slamming your hand against the wall inches from her head. The vibration travels through the stone, and you watch her pupils dilate, the "It Girl" mask finally showing a hairline fracture. You’re close enough to see the shimmer of sweat on her collarbone, the delicate pulse jumping in her throat. You’re a member of 127; you don’t do subtle, and you don’t do polite. You reach out, your fingers tangling roughly in the perfect waves of her hair, tilting her head back to expose the elegant line of her neck.

"I’m not desperate, Wonyoung," you growl, your voice vibrating against her skin. "I’m just tired of the act. I want to see what happens when you’re not being paid to smile."

She let out a sharp, indignant breath, her hands coming up to push against your chest, but she doesn't actually shove. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt instead, pulling you closer even as her words bite.

"You think you can just break me? You’re just another idol who thinks he’s a god because he can dance in sync. You’re nothing but a brute."

You lean in, your lips brushing against the shell of her ear, your teeth grazing the lobe just hard enough to make her gasp.

"Then let's see how a brute handles a doll."

You crash your mouth onto hers, and it isn't a kiss—it’s a territorial claim. It tastes like cherry lip gloss and bitter gin. She moans into your mouth, a sound of pure frustration that quickly melts into a hungry, wet compliance. Her tongue tangles with yours, frantic and demanding, as her hands slide down to your waist, dragging you into her. You hike her skirt up, your palms sliding over the cool, silky skin of her thighs until you hit the lace of her underwear. She’s already damp, the heat radiating off her in waves that make your head swim.

"Right here?" she managed to gasp out, her head falling back as you trail your lips down to her throat, biting at the sensitive skin. "Someone... someone will see."

"Let them," you mutter, your hand cupping her firmly, your thumb rubbing through the lace with a rhythmic, punishing pressure that makes her knees buckle. "I want them to see exactly how much you like being ruined by me."

She lets out a high, broken sob of a moan, her fingers digging into your shoulders, her nails drawing blood through your shirt. The hatred is still there, simmering under the surface, but it’s being drowned out by a primal, intoxicating need to finally conquer the one person who thinks she’s above you.

You don't give her a choice, your hand sliding from her hair to the small of her back as you guide her into the narrow, dimly lit bathroom cubicle. You kick the door shut and lock it in one fluid motion, the metallic thud echoing against the tile like a starting gun. The space is cramped, forcing your bodies together until there isn't a single inch of air between your chest and her breasts. Wonyoung is breathing in ragged, shallow hitches now, her perfectly manicured hands trembling as they fly to the buttons of your shirt, tearing them open with a desperation that betrays every cold look she’s ever given you.

"Faster," she hisses against your lips, her voice losing its idol-sheen and turning into something raw and demanding. "I’ve spent three years hating your face, Y/n. Don't make me wait another second."

You respond by hoisting her up, her long, slender legs immediately locking around your waist. Her skirt bunches at her hips, and you reach down, hooking your fingers into the side of her silk thong and snapping the delicate fabric aside. She’s soaking, a slick, honeyed heat that coats your fingers the moment you touch her. You growl, a low, animal sound in your throat, as you use your thumb to circle her clit with a punishing, heavy friction. Her back arches off the cold plastic of the stall door, her head tossing back as a loud, wet moan escapes her—a sound that would ruin her career if it ever leaked, and the thought only makes you harder.

You fumble with your own belt, the leather creaking in the silence, before shoving your trousers and boxers down. You’re aching, a thick, pulsing weight that demands release. You guide yourself to her entrance, rubbing the broad, weeping head of your cock against her folds, teasing the opening until she’s whimpering, her heels digging into your lower back to pull you in.

"Please," she whimpers, her fingers digging into the meat of your shoulders. "Just... give it to me. Shut me up."

You don't sink into her yet. Instead, you set her down on the closed toilet lid, standing between her spread knees. You watch her eyes—glazed with lust and a lingering, stubborn defiance—as she reaches out, her hand wrapping around your shaft. She pumps you twice, a firm, sliding grip that makes your vision swim, before she stands up, pushing you back against the stall door.

The power shift is instantaneous. She wants to be the one to break you. Wonyoung hikes her skirt even higher, straddling you with a predatory grace that reminds you exactly why she’s the center of every stage she stands on. She lines you up, the tip of your cock twitching against her wet heat, and then she slowly, agonizingly sinks down.

She takes all of you in one long, sliding motion, her internal muscles clenching around your girth with a terrifying, rhythmic intensity. Her eyes fly open, pinning yours with a look of pure, unadulterated triumph even as her mouth falls open in a silent scream of pleasure. She starts to move, her hips rolling in a wide, grinding circle that maximizes the internal friction, her wetness acting as a lubricant that makes every slide sound like a rhythmic, dirty slap against your groin.

"My god," she gasps, her hands flat against the door on either side of your head as she begins to pick up the pace, her body bouncing on you with a violent, beautiful rhythm. "You’re... you’re actually as good as the rumors say, you bastard."

The rhythm is frantic now, the small cubicle filling with the sound of her thighs slapping against yours and the wet, squelching friction of her riding you. You reach up, your hands gripping her waist to hold her steady as she bounces, her long hair flying around her face in a mess of dark silk. You lean in, your face inches from hers, a dark, jagged grin pulling at your lips as you decide to remind her exactly who is in control of this wreck.

"Look at you," you rasp, your voice dropping into a low, degrading velvet. "The nation’s little princess, the perfect 'It Girl,' acting like a complete slut in a bathroom stall for a member of 127. If your fans could see the way you're taking this cock right now, they'd lose their minds."

She lets out a choked, high-pitched moan, her hips stuttering for a second before she grinds down even harder, her internal muscles clenching around you like a vice. You groan, your head thumping back against the door as you feel her pulsing heat.

"I’ve spent years thinking you were just a plastic doll," you growl, your hands sliding down to her ass, squeezing the firm, rounded cheeks until your fingers leave marks. "But God, I was wrong. You’ve got the hottest body in this entire industry, Wonyoung. This pussy is so tight, so fucking wet—it’s like it was made just to wrap around me and never let go."

Her eyes are rolled back, her breathing coming in jagged, desperate sobs of pleasure as you continue to talk. You don't stop, your words becoming more vulgar as the friction builds toward the breaking point.

"You’re so greedy for it, aren't you? After all that talk, you're the one begging for it. You’re soaking my lap with how much you’re leaking for me. Tell me, Wonyoung... does Starship know their prize girl is this much of a mess for an SM guy?"

"Shut up," she gasps, her voice breaking as she leans down to bite your shoulder, her teeth sinking into your skin to muffle her scream. "Just... keep going. Don't stop. I hate you so much, Y/n, God, I hate how good this feels."

She begins to pick up the pace even more, her movements becoming wild and uncoordinated as she nears her peak. Her walls are twitching around you, milking every inch of your shaft with a rhythmic, desperate intensity that tells you she’s seconds away from shattering.

You don't let her keep the high ground for another second. Just as her breath hitches into those thin, frantic pre-orgasm gasps, you reach up and grip her waist with bruising force, lifting her bodily off your cock. She lets out a wounded, indignant cry, her hands clawing at your shoulders as you set her feet back on the tile, her knees instantly buckling from the sudden loss of friction.

"Not yet," you growl, spinning her around and shoving her chest-first against the cold, graffiti-scrawled stall door.

You don't give her time to recover. You drop to your knees behind her, the sterile light of the bathroom highlighting the flush of her skin and the way her back arches in a desperate, involuntary invitation. You reach forward, your hands sliding between her thighs to pull her soaking folds open. She’s a mess—drenched in a mix of your cum-slicked shaft and her own nectar, the scent of it thick and intoxicating in the cramped space.

"Look at this," you mutter, your voice a dark vibration against the back of her thighs. "The most famous girl in Korea, dripping all over the floor for me."

You bury your face in her, your tongue swiping upward in one long, firm stroke that makes her spine snap straight. She let out a high, broken shriek that she tries to muffle against her forearm, her fingers scratching uselessly at the metal door. You aren't being gentle; your tongue is a heavy, rhythmic muscle, lapping at her clit with a punishing precision while your fingers dive back inside her, mimicking the thick stretch of your cock.

"Y/n... please," she sobs, her head lolling back as she looks at you over her shoulder, her eyes completely blown out, all the hatred replaced by a raw, terrifying hunger. "I’m going to... I’m going to—"

"Go then," you command, your voice muffled against her wet heat as you pick up the pace, your thumb pinning her clit down and grinding in a tight, merciless circle.

She shatters. Her entire body goes rigid, her internal muscles pulsing violently against your fingers in a series of deep, rhythmic contractions. She screams into the crook of her elbow, a long, ragged sound of pure release that vibrates through the entire cubicle. You don't stop, dragging your tongue over her sensitive skin until she’s literally sliding down the door, her legs turning to water as the aftershocks roll through her.

You stand up, your own blood thundering in your ears, and spin her back around to face you. She’s a beautiful ruin—mascara slightly smudged, hair a wild halo, her lips swollen and bruised from your teeth. You grab your cock, which is twitching and stone-hard, and line it up with her mouth.

"You're not done yet, Wonyoung," you rasp, tilting her chin up. "Clean me up. Show me how much you actually 'hate' this."

Wonyoung’s eyes flicker up to yours, a fleeting spark of that signature pride trying to ignite before it’s snuffed out by the sheer, heavy musk of the situation. She doesn't hesitate for long. The hatred is still there, simmering in the way she grips your thighs to steady herself, but it’s been transmuted into a dark, competitive hunger. She wants to prove she can handle you, even like this.

She sinks to her knees on the cold tile, her designer skirt pooling around her like a ruined gala gown. Her hands—those delicate, slender fingers that usually wave to thousands of screaming fans—wrap around your shaft with a firm, practiced possessiveness. She looks up at you through her lashes, a defiant, sultry challenge in her gaze, before she opens her mouth and takes the broad, weeping head of your cock inside.

The heat is instantaneous. Her mouth is a velvet furnace, her tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge of your glat in a slow, agonizingly wet circle. You groan, your head thumping back against the metal partition as she begins to slide down, taking more of your length than you expected. She’s remarkably efficient, her throat opening up to accommodate the thick stretch of you, her lips forming a tight, suctioned seal that pulls at your skin with every rhythmic stroke.

"Fuck, Wonyoung," you hiss, your fingers tangling in her hair, not to pull her away, but to guide the pace. "You're a natural at this, aren't you? All that 'pure' image, and here you are, choking on a rival."

She doesn't pull back. Instead, she looks up, her eyes watering slightly from the depth, and purposefully hums—a low, vibrating drone that travels from her throat directly into your nerves. It’s a dirty, calculated move. She picks up the tempo, her head bobbing in a frantic, messy rhythm, the wet sounds of her saliva and the friction of her lips filling the cramped stall. You’re right on the edge, the pressure in your groin building into a white-hot roar that threatens to snap your composure.

"I'm close," you warn, your voice breaking as your hips begin to thrust involuntarily against her mouth. "Don't you dare stop."

She doubles down, her hand pumping the base of your cock while her mouth works the top with a desperate, vacuum-like intensity. You feel the first surge, a violent, pulsing throb that signals the end. You grip her hair tighter, tilting her head back as you finally erupt, a heavy, hot string of semen hitting the back of her throat.

You pulse into her again and again, your body racking with the force of the release. Wonyoung doesn't flinch; she takes every drop, her eyes pinned on yours with a terrifying, triumphant intensity as she swallows, making sure you see the bob of her throat.

When you finally pull back, breathless and trembling, she remains on her knees for a moment, wiping a stray drop from the corner of her lip with a thumb. She stands up slowly, smoothing her skirt and adjusting her hair in the cramped mirror of the stall door as if she’s preparing for a press conference. The "It Girl" mask is back on, but her eyes are dark, satisfied, and utterly lethal.

"Clean," she whispers, her voice returning to that cool, untouchable silk as she unlocks the door. "Don't think this means I like you, Y/n. It just means you’re useful."

She slips out of the stall without another word, leaving you in the cooling silence of the bathroom, the scent of her perfume and your shared mess the only evidence of the war you just fought.

The heavy lock of the cubicle clicks open with a sharp, metallic finality that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. You lead the way out, tucking your shirt back into your trousers and adjusting your belt with a practiced, steady hand, while Wonyoung follows a step behind. She’s already transformed, her posture regaining that untouchable, sky-high elegance, though the faint smudge of her eyeliner and the raw, bitten flush of her lips tell a much filthier story.

You push the main heavy door of the restroom open, ready to vanish back into the thumping anonymity of the club, but you stop dead.

Standing right there, leaning against the polished mahogany of the hallway wall with her arms crossed, is An Yujin.

The IVE leader doesn't look like she’s just passing by. Her gaze is sharp, analytical, and currently pinned directly on the two of you as you emerge from the single-occupancy area. Her eyes travel from your slightly disheveled collar to the way Wonyoung is subtly smoothing down the back of her skirt, her fingers trembling just enough for a hawk-eyed leader to notice. The silence in the hallway is suffocating, heavier than any bass drop.

"Wonyoung-ah," Yujin says, her voice low and dangerously calm, devoid of its usual bright, televised energy. "The manager has been looking for you for twenty minutes. We’re supposed to be at the cars."

Wonyoung doesn't flinch, but you feel the sudden spike of tension radiating off her. She steps around you, her chin tilting up in that classic, defiant arc that screams she doesn't owe anyone an explanation.

"I needed to fix my makeup, Yujin-unnie," Wonyoung replies, her voice a cool, brittle silk. "It’s a crowded club. Things get... messy."

Yujin’s gaze shifts to you, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the scent of Wonyoung’s perfume clinging to your skin and the unmistakable, dark satisfaction written across your face. She’s not stupid; she knows the history, she knows the "hatred," and she clearly just put two and two together to get a very scandalous four.

"And you, Y/n-ssi," Yujin says, stepping closer until she’s invading your personal space, her leader-persona flaring into something protective and sharp. "I didn't realize SM and Starship were collaborating on 'makeup tutorials' in the Hannam-dong bathrooms tonight."

You give her a slow, lazy smirk, the kind that confirms everything without saying a single word. You lean back against the doorframe, shoving your hands into your pockets.

"Just a bit of industry networking, Yujin. You know how it is. We had a lot of... unresolved business to settle."

Yujin looks between the two of you, her jaw tightening. She reaches out and grabs Wonyoung’s wrist—not roughly, but with a firm, "we are leaving now" authority.

"Business is over," Yujin snaps, turning Wonyoung toward the exit. She looks back at you over her shoulder, her expression unreadable but lethal. "Keep your 'networking' to your own building, Y/n. If I see a single mark on her neck at the airport tomorrow, I won't be as quiet as this hallway."

As they walk away, you watch Wonyoung glance back at you for a split second—a look that isn't hate, isn't love, but a raw, lingering heat that promises this was only the first round.

[Timeskip]

The jet lag hasn't even fully settled before the notifications start bleeding through your lock screen. You’re lounging on a private terrace in Jeju, the humid salt air of the East China Sea thick around you, but your mind is five thousand miles away in Honolulu. You scroll through your feed, and there she is. Jang Wonyoung is a master of the digital tease, and her latest post is a calculated declaration of war.

She’s wearing a string bikini that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination—a sliver of designer fabric that highlights every curve you had your hands on just forty-eight hours ago. She’s posing against a backdrop of turquoise water, her skin glowing with expensive oil, her long, lean legs stretching out forever. But it’s the caption that hits you like a physical blow: “Finally breathing again. Everything feels so much cleaner here.”

You know exactly what she’s doing. She’s washing the scent of you off her skin in the Pacific, re-establishing her "It Girl" throne while you’re stuck on a domestic holiday. You pull up your messages, your thumb hovering over her name. You haven't spoken since the club, but the memory of her throat moving as she swallowed for you is still vivid enough to make your blood simmer.

You don't send a text. Instead, you take a photo of your own—a low-angle shot of your legs stretched out by your private infinity pool, the corner of a high-end whiskey glass visible in the frame, and a glimpse of the faint, jagged scratches her nails left on your thigh. You don't tag her. You don't need to. You just post it to your story with a single emoji: a drop of water.

Five minutes later, your phone buzzes. It’s a DM. No text, just a 'liked' reaction to your story and a disappearing photo. You open it, and your breath hitches. It’s a mirror selfie from her hotel suite—the bikini is half-undone, hanging precariously off her hips, and she’s pulled her bottom lip down with one finger, showing the faint, purple bruise you left on the inside of it.

"Jeju looks boring, Y/n," the message finally appears underneath. "You look like you're struggling without someone to put you in your place. Too bad the flight from Hawaii is ten hours. I'd almost consider letting you finish what you started if you weren't so... SM."

You lean back, a dark, predatory grin spreading across your face. The "hatred" is still there, sharp and acidic, but it’s become the most addictive thing in your life. You’re halfway across the world from each other, but the tension is tighter than it was in that bathroom stall.

"Ten hours is nothing, Wonyoung," you type back, your fingers flying across the screen. "Enjoy the water while you can. Because when you get back to Seoul, I’m going to make sure you forget what 'clean' feels like. I've still got the video of you on your knees, remember? Maybe I'll watch it while I think of what else those lips can do."

The "seen" receipt pops up instantly. She doesn't reply, but a minute later, a new post hits her main feed—a close-up of her smiling, looking every bit the innocent angel. Only you know the filth hiding behind that smile.

The tension doesn’t stay overseas for long. Two weeks later, the air in the Seoul luxury event space is thick with the scent of lilies and expensive champagne. It’s the grand opening of a new flagship boutique in Gangnam, a high-profile "collaboration" event where the guest list is a who’s who of the industry. You’re there representing the edgy, high-fashion side of SM, decked out in a sharp, structured blazer with nothing underneath, exposing the silver chains against your chest.

Wonyoung is there, of course. She’s the centerpiece, draped in a sheer, floor-length gown that hugs every curve you memorized in Hawaii via your phone screen. She’s surrounded by photographers, her "It Girl" smile perfectly in place, flashing that innocent, doll-like charm that makes the cameras go wild. But the moment your eyes meet across the crowded room, the temperature in the building seems to spike.

She doesn't break character for a second, but as you pass each other near the display cases, her shoulder brushes yours—a hard, intentional bump that sends a jolt of static through your suit.

"Nice tan, Y/n," she murmurs, her voice so low it’s only for you, her lips barely moving as she keeps a smile plastered on for the prying eyes nearby. "Too bad it doesn't hide how desperate you look tonight."

"Funny," you retort, stepping closer until you’re practically backing her into a corner of the display. "I was thinking the same about that dress. It’s a lot of work just to hide the marks I left on your thighs. I bet if I moved that fabric just an inch, everyone would see exactly how 'clean' you really are."

Her breath hitches, a tiny, fractured sound that’s music to your ears. You reach out, ostensibly to point at a piece of jewelry in the glass case behind her, but your hand lingers, your knuckles grazing the side of her waist. You can feel her heart hammering through the thin silk of her gown.

"The after-party is at the Shilla," she whispers, her eyes darting to a nearby manager before settling back on yours with a look of pure, unadulterated venom. "Room 2004. If you’re even a minute late, I’m locking the door and letting someone else remind me why I hate SM guys so much."

"I’ll be there in thirty," you growl, your thumb pressing firmly into her hip bone just hard enough to leave a phantom sensation. "And Wonyoung? Bring that bikini from Hawaii. I want to see how it looks shredded on the floor."

She gives you one last, lingering look of disdain—a look that says she wants to ruin you as much as she wants you to ruin her—before she glides away to join her groupmates. You watch the sway of her hips, the "Neo" in you already calculating the fastest route to the hotel. The war isn't over; it’s just moving to a bigger suite.

The adrenaline of the encounter hasn't faded; it’s just mutated into a heavy, liquid heat. You don't let her pull away. Instead, you drag her toward the expansive marble wet bar in the center of the suite. Your hands are rough, possessive, as you reach for a bottle of vintage Hibiki, the amber liquid glowing under the recessed lighting. You don't bother with glasses. You crack the seal and take a long, burning swallow before pressing the cool glass of the bottle against Wonyoung’s flushed cheek.

"Drink," you command, your voice a low, gravelly vibration. "I want you so blurred you can’t even remember your own stage name."

She snatches the bottle from you, her eyes flashing with a competitive fire. She tilts her head back, her throat working in elegant, rhythmic swallows that make your cock twitch against your thigh. A golden trickle escapes the corner of her mouth, running down the pale column of her neck and disappearing into the valley of her breasts. She slams the bottle down on the marble with a defiant clack, her breath coming out in a sharp, alcoholic hiss.

"Is that all you've got, Y/n? I’ve survived world tours; a little whiskey isn't going to break me."

She lunges for you then, her hands sliding under your discarded blazer to grip the muscles of your back. She’s messy now, the "It Girl" poise dissolving into a frantic, drunken hunger. She starts biting—not kissing, but biting—at your collarbone, her teeth leaving sharp, stinging marks that you know will turn purple by morning. You groan, your hands finding her waist and hoisting her up onto the bar. Her legs instantly wrap around you, her heels digging into your glutes as she pulls you flush against her soaking heat.

You grab a handful of her hair, tilting her head back so you can look at the glazed, predatory look in her eyes. You take another swig of the whiskey and then lean in, pressing your lips to hers and forcing the burning liquid into her mouth. She swallows it with a choked moan, the alcohol-fueled kiss turning into a wet, desperate battle of tongues.

Your hands are everywhere—tearing at the silk of her gown until the bodice hangs precariously, exposing her heavy, rose-tipped breasts. You palm them, your thumbs circling her nipples with a punishing, rhythmic friction that makes her arch her back off the bar, her head tossing as she lets out a high, broken sob of a moan.

"You’re so fucking responsive," you growl, your mouth dropping to her chest to suckle a nipple into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the sensitive bud until she’s clawing at your shoulders. "One drink and you’re already leaking for me. Look at you, Wonyoung. You’re a complete mess for a 'degenerate' from SM."

"I... I hate how much I want you," she gasps, her fingers fumbling with the fly of your trousers, her touch uncoordinated but frantic. "I want you to hurt me... I want to feel every inch of you until I can't breathe."

She finally frees you, her small hand wrapping around your thick, pulsing shaft. She’s pumping you with a desperate, rhythmic intensity, her palm slick with the whiskey that spilled earlier. The friction is electric, the scent of expensive peat and raw sex filling the air. You reach down, your fingers diving into her wetness—she’s a swamp of honeyed heat, her internal muscles already twitching in anticipation of the stretch.

You slide two, then three fingers inside her, pumping them in a hard, rhythmic mimicry of what’s coming. She’s screaming now, her head thumping against the mirrored backsplash of the bar, her eyes rolled back into her head as the alcohol and the pleasure collide in a terrifying, beautiful peak.

"Now," she begs, her voice a shattered, breathless wreck. "Now, Y/n. Fuck me on this bar until the glass breaks."

The amber liquid from the toppled Hibiki bottle pools on the cold marble, mixing with the condensation from the ice bucket as you haul Wonyoung’s hips to the very edge of the bar. She’s completely unraveled now, her designer gown a shredded afterthought bunched around her waist, her long, pale legs shaking as she tries to keep them hooked around your lower back. The alcohol has stripped away the "It Girl" armor, leaving behind something raw, thirsty, and jaggedly beautiful.

You look down at her, your chest heaving, your cock twitching and stone-hard against her soaking entrance. You don’t go in. Not yet. You want to see her break one more time.

"You’re so thirsty, aren't you?" you rasp, your voice dropping into a dark, degrading register. "Even after all that whiskey, you’re still begging for a taste of me."

She looks up at you, her eyes glazed with a mix of intoxication and pure, unadulterated lust. Her tongue flickers over her swollen, bitten lower lip, a silent, desperate invitation. You reach up, your thumb and forefinger pinching her chin to hold her still. You gather a thick, heavy pool of saliva in your mouth and let it drop, a slow, viscous string that lands right on her waiting tongue.

She doesn't flinch. She swallows it with a needy, audible gulp, her eyes fluttering shut as she savors the taste of you.

"More," she whimpers, her voice a shattered wreck of its usual melodic tone. "Give me... give me all of it, Y/n. I want to taste every bit of you while you ruin me."

You don't hold back. You spit again, this time directly onto her chest, the slick moisture trailing down the valley of her breasts. You follow it with your tongue, lapping at the wetness before moving down to her center. You spit onto your palm and rub it over her clit, the added lubrication making the friction electric, a wet, squelching sound filling the silence between your heavy breaths.

"You're a complete slut for me, Wonyoung," you growl, grabbing her thighs and spreading them until she’s completely exposed under the harsh bar lights. "The 'National Center' acting like a dog for a bit of spit."

"I... I am," she sobs, her head thumping back against the mirrored backsplash. "I’m your slut... just fuck me. Please, just put it in!"

You don't give her another second of peace. You line yourself up and drive home, the force of the thrust sending the crystal glassware on the bar rattling. You hit her deep, the marble cold against her back while your heat burns into her. You start a punishing, rhythmic pace—a blurred, violent motion that sounds like a series of wet, heavy slaps against the stone.

She’s screaming now, her fingers clawing at the marble, her nails screeching against the surface as she tries to find purchase. You lean over her, your spit dripping onto her face as you hammer into her, each thrust a territorial claim that erases every other man she’s ever stood next to.

"Whose pussy is this?" you demand, your voice a guttural roar as you feel her walls beginning to seize around you.

"Yours!" she shrieks, her body arching off the bar in a violent, beautiful climax. "It’s yours... Y/n... I’m coming... God, I’m coming!"

The friction becomes white-hot, a blinding explosion of sensation as you finally snap. You groan her name, a dark, primal sound, and erupt deep inside her, the heat of your release pulsing into her in rhythmic, heavy waves. You collapse against her, your heart hammering against hers, the scent of whiskey, spit, and raw, vengeful sex hanging heavy in the air.

The marble is freezing against your skin, but the heat radiating from Wonyoung is a localized sun, burning through the whiskey haze. Your climax hits like a physical blow, a white-hot surge that starts in the base of your spine and roars upward until your vision fractals into static. You drive into her one last time, pinning her wrists to the cold stone as you bury yourself to the hilt. The release is violent—thick, pulsing waves of heat grounding you into her as you let out a guttural, animalistic roar against the crook of her neck. You can feel her internal muscles seizing around you in desperate, rhythmic aftershocks, milking every last drop of your spent aggression into her depth.

For a few heavy, oxygen-deprived seconds, the only sound is the wet, rhythmic slap of your chests colliding and the frantic, jagged hitch of her breath. You stay buried in her, the scent of expensive peat and raw sex heavy in the air.

Then, the silence is broken by a sharp, terrified intake of breath.

Wonyoung’s eyes, previously glazed and rolled back, snap wide open. The haze of the Hibiki evaporates instantly, replaced by a cold, clinical clarity that hits like a bucket of ice water. She looks down at where you’re still joined, her face draining of color until she’s as pale as the lilies in the vase behind her.

"Y/n," she whispers, her voice trembling with a sudden, jagged edge of hysteria. "Get... get out. Get out right now."

You pull back, the slick, wet sound of the separation echoing off the mirrored backsplash. You’re still half-dazed, but the look of pure, unadulterated panic on her face snaps you into focus. She’s already scrambling off the bar, her legs shaking so hard she nearly collapses onto the plush carpet. She’s clutching the remains of her sheer gown to her chest, her eyes darting to the calendar on her phone, which is face-up on the marble.

"What is it?" you rasp, reaching out for her, but she flinches away, her breath coming in shallow, terrified gasps.

"I’m... it’s the fourteenth," she stammers, her fingers flying over the screen, her eyes widening as she confirms the date on her cycle-tracking app. "I’m in my window, Y/n. I’m ovulating. Right now. Today."

The weight of the situation drops into your gut like lead. The high of the victory, the "conquest" of the Starship princess, vanishes. You aren't just two rival idols blowing off steam anymore; you’re a member of NCT 127 and the nation’s "It Girl" staring down a career-ending, life-altering catastrophe. If a single camera had seen you tonight, it would have been a scandal; if this results in what you both fear, it’s an extinction-level event for both your labels.

"Fuck," you breathe out, the word feeling heavy and useless. You look at the discarded Hibiki bottle, then back at her. "We... we need to find a pharmacy. Now."

"In Seoul? At 4:00 AM?" she shrieks, her voice cracking as she paces the small space of the suite, her bare feet silent on the carpet. "If I walk into a 24-hour convenience store looking like this, it’s over. If you go, it’s over. Yujin is probably still awake, and if she finds out..."

She stops, her hands flying to her hair, pulling at the tangled waves in a fit of pure, frantic desperation. The hatred is back, but it’s sharper now, edged with the terror of mutual destruction.

"This is your fault," she hisses, pointing a trembling finger at you. "You and your fucking ego, needing to prove you could break me. If my life is ruined because of an SM degenerate, I will kill you, Y/n. I swear to God, I will kill you."

The alcohol in your system turns from a warm hum into a cold, metallic weight. You don't wait for her to finish her threat. You’re already pulling your trousers up, the friction of the fabric against your hypersensitive skin a sharp reminder of the mess you just made. You grab your black hoodie from the floor, tugging it over your head and pulling the drawstrings tight until only your eyes are visible.

"Stay here," you command, your voice dropping into that low, authoritative tone that usually commands the stage at the Tokyo Dome. "Lock the door. Don't answer for anyone—not even Yujin. If she knocks, pretend you’re passed out from the whiskey."

Wonyoung is huddled on the edge of the unmade bed, clutching a silk pillow to her chest, her eyes wide and glassy with a terror that no amount of "It Girl" training could ever mask. She looks small, fragile, and utterly human in a way that makes your gut twist.

"Y/n," she whispers, her voice cracking as you reach the door. "If a Dispatch photographer is lurking in the lobby... if they see you coming out of this elevator..."

"They won't," you lie, the adrenaline finally overriding the Hibiki. "I'm a ghost, Wonyoung. I've been dodging fans since I was fifteen. Just stay quiet."

You slip out into the plush, silent hallway of the Shilla, the gold-leaf accents now looking like a gilded cage. You bypass the main elevators, opting for the service stairs, your boots echoing softly against the concrete as you descend twenty flights in a blurred, heart-pounding rush. Every shadow looks like a long-lens camera; every hum of the ventilation system sounds like a manager’s voice.

You emerge into the cool, pre-dawn air of Jangchung-dong through a side kitchen exit, the smell of industrial trash and wet pavement hitting you like a physical blow. You keep your head down, your hands shoved deep into your pockets as you navigate the back alleys. You find a 24-hour pharmacy three blocks away, its neon green sign flickering like a sick joke in the gray morning mist.

The bell above the door chimed—a cheerful, domestic sound that felt incredibly loud. The pharmacist, a middle-aged man nodding off behind the counter, barely looked up from his newspaper as you approached. You didn't speak; you just walked to the family planning aisle, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it. You grabbed the box—Plan B—along with a bottle of water and a pack of generic masks to further hide your face.

At the register, your hand trembled as you swiped a burner card, the transaction feeling like a drug deal. You didn't look the man in the eye. You just grabbed the bag and vanished back into the shadows of the alleyways.

The walk back to the Shilla felt like an eternity. Every car that passed was a potential scandal; every delivery driver on a scooter was a threat. You slipped back through the service entrance, your lungs burning, and took the stairs back up, the silence of the hotel now feeling oppressive.

When you finally reached Suite 2004, you gave the rhythmic knock you’d used earlier. The lock clicked instantly. Wonyoung practically tackled you as you stepped inside, her hands frantic as she searched your face for a sign of disaster.

"Did anyone see you?" she gasped, her eyes darting to the hallway behind you before she slammed the door and bolted it.

"No," you panted, tossing the pharmacy bag onto the bed. "Take it. Now."

She didn't hesitate. She ripped the box open, her fingers shaking so much she nearly dropped the pill onto the carpet. She swallowed it with a desperate, heavy gulp of water, her eyes closing as she leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the bedpost. The silence that followed was thick with the realization of how close you both just came to the edge of the abyss.

She looked up at you, the "hatred" still there, but it was tempered now by a dark, unbreakable bond of shared trauma. You were two of the most famous people in the country, and for the last hour, you’d been nothing but two terrified kids trying to survive a mistake.

"We can never do this again, Y/n," she whispered, her voice a hollow, haunting echo in the luxury suite. "Never."

"I know," you replied, though the way she was looking at you—with that lingering, electric spark behind the fear—told a different story. "But we survived it."

The stadium is a sea of shifting light, twenty thousand fans screaming as the final notes of the joint SMTOWN and Starship special stage fade into the rafters. The air is thick with confetti and the smell of stage pyrotechnics, but to you, it feels like a vacuum. You stand in the front line, the center of NCT 127, your chest heaving under a custom leather jacket that feels like lead.

To your left, less than three feet away, stands Wonyoung.

She is the picture of manufactured perfection. Her hair is a dark, glossy waterfall; her makeup is flawless, hiding any trace of the frantic, tear-streaked girl who had huddled on a hotel bed six hours ago. She’s waving to the crowd, that signature "It Girl" smile plastered on her face, her eyes sparkling with a practiced, doll-like warmth. She looks like she hasn't a care in the world, like the last twelve hours were spent in a peaceful, dreamless sleep instead of a high-stakes race against her own biology.

You catch her reflection in the massive LED monitors flanking the stage. For a split second, the camera pans past both of you, capturing the two biggest idols in the industry standing side-by-side. The fans erupt, a deafening roar of "ship" screams and camera shutters that sounds like a firing squad. They see a visual explosion; they see a "rivalry" that makes for great fanfiction.

They have no idea.

They don’t know about the Hibiki bottle shattered on the marble. They don’t know about the spit drying on the Shilla’s floor or the way her internal muscles felt when she was sobbing your name. They don't know about the crumpled pharmacy receipt currently sitting in the bottom of a trash can three blocks from the hotel.

Wonyoung turns her head slightly, her gaze catching yours for a fraction of a second. It’s a look that would pass for professional acknowledgement to anyone else, but you see the sharp, jagged edge of the secret behind her pupils. You see the silent, mutual vow of destruction. Her hand, still waving to the fans, brushes against your arm—a brief, accidental contact that feels like a brand.

"Don't trip on the confetti, Y/n-ssi," she murmurs, her voice barely a breath beneath the roar of the music, the polite honorifics a sharp, sarcastic bite. "You look a little... tired."

"I'm fine, Wonyoung-ssi," you reply, your voice a low, steady vibration that only she can hear. "I just didn't expect the 'National Center' to have such a loud voice when she's not holding a microphone."

Her smile doesn't waver, but you see her jaw tighten, the pulse in her neck jumping in a way that reminds you of the way it felt under your mouth. She turns back to the crowd, blowing a kiss to a fan in the front row with a grace that is utterly terrifying.

The "hatred" is still there, pulsing between you like a live wire, but it’s different now. It’s no longer just professional jealousy or a clash of egos. It’s a pact. You are two monsters sharing the same cage, two icons who nearly burned the world down for a few hours of whiskey-soaked friction.

As the house lights come up and the groups begin to file off stage, you let her lead the way. You watch the sway of her hips, the way she carries herself with a royal, untouchable confidence, and you know that the next time you see her—in a dressing room, a hallway, or another darkened suite—the war will start all over again.

Because the only thing more addictive than the fame is the person who knows exactly how fake it all is.

The van is quiet, the hum of the Seoul midnight air through the cracked window the only thing competing with the heavy silence of your groupmates. They’re scrolling through their phones, exhausted from the stage, while you stare at the blurred city lights of the Han River. Your thigh buzzed—a sharp, insistent vibration against the leather seat.

You pull the phone from your pocket, the screen's glow harsh in the dim interior. One new message. No name, just a string of numbers you’ve memorized and refused to save.

"The pill made me nauseous. I threw up twice in the dressing room. If I look pale in the fansite photos tomorrow, you’re dead, Y/n."

You look at the text, a dark, jagged smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth. You can almost see her—sitting in the back of a Starship van, her jaw tight, her eyes burning with that beautiful, toxic mix of resentment and lingering heat. You type back with one hand, your thumb hovering over the 'send' button as you catch a glimpse of the faint, fading scratches on your knuckles in the passing streetlights.

"You always look pale, Wonyoung. It’s part of the 'doll' aesthetic, remember? Drink some water and stop whining. You were the one who told me not to stop."

The "seen" receipt pops up in less than five seconds. The typing bubbles flicker on and off, a digital heartbeat of her indecision. Finally, the reply comes through, short and acidic.

"I hate you. I genuinely, deeply hate you."

You lean your head back against the headrest, closing your eyes as the van pulls into the SM dorm complex. You don't bother replying. You don't have to. You know exactly what she’s doing—touching the bruise on her lip, feeling the ghost of your hands on her waist, and counting the days until the next year-end show.

Time: 05:45 AM Date: Saturday, May 16, 2026 Location: Parking Lot – Bukhansan National Park, Seoul

The morning mist is a thick, grey blanket clinging to the jagged peaks of the mountains. The air is crisp, biting through your The North Face windbreaker as you lean against your black Mazda3, waiting. The park is eerily silent, the usual swarm of weekend hikers still hours away from arriving.

A silver van with heavily tinted windows pulls into the lot, tires crunching on the gravel. It parks in the furthest corner, tucked away behind a row of pines. The sliding door opens, and two figures emerge, unrecognizable to anyone who doesn't know the exact tilt of their heads or the way they carry their shoulders.

They’re dressed in tactical hiking gear—leggings, heavy boots, and oversized caps pulled low. Ryujin is the first to reach you, her short hair tucked into a beanie. She doesn't say a word; she just crashes into you, her arms wrapping around your waist in a grip that nearly knocks the wind out of you.

"You actually showed up," she mumbles against your chest, the scent of her expensive hair serum mixing with the pine needles. "I thought you’d be too busy being a 'normal person' to hang out with us idols."

"Shut up, Ryuddaeng," you chuckle, returning the hug. "I was here twenty minutes early."

Yeji approaches at a more measured pace, though her smile is wide enough to crinkle the corners of her eyes. She looks older, more refined than the girl who used to share a bag of convenience store chips with you after midnight practice, but the warmth in her gaze is identical.

"He looks healthy, doesn't he?" Yeji says, reaching out to pinch your cheek, a habit she’s never quite outgrown. "College life suits you, Y/n. You don't have those dark circles under your eyes anymore."

"I have different dark circles now," you joke, adjusting the straps of your heavy 65-liter trekking pack. "Midterms are their own kind of 'monthly evaluation.'"

"Not today," Ryujin says, stepping back and clapping her hands together. Her eyes are bright, reflecting the first hint of the sun breaking over the ridge. "Today, there are no evaluations. No diet plans. No 'Yeji-unnie, watch your posture.' We’re hiking to the summit of Baegundae, and we’re camping at the hidden plateau. Just three trainees who never got their graduation trip."

You look at the two of them—global superstars who have the world at their feet, yet here they are, looking for a piece of the life they left behind. You feel the old familiar spark in your chest, the one that used to ignite before a performance.

"You sure you girls can keep up?" you tease, adjusting your cap. "I’ve been hitting the gym without a trainer breathing down my neck. I might leave you in the dust."

Yeji lets out a soft, feline laugh, her hand resting on the hilt of her trekking pole. "Careful, Rookie. We’ve been doing 'WANNABE' choreography for years. Our cardio is literally world-class. If anything, we'll be the ones setting up the tent while you're still gasping for air at the halfway mark."

The three of you begin the ascent. The trail is steep, a winding path of stone steps and gnarled roots. As the city of Seoul begins to shrink below you, the conversation shifts. It starts with light gossip about the old JYP trainers, but as the air gets thinner and the forest gets thicker, the mask of the "Idol" begins to slip.

"Sometimes," Ryujin says, her voice echoing off the granite walls as she climbs a particularly difficult section of the trail, "I see a guy in a hoodie at the mall, and for a split second, I think it’s you. I almost call out your name before I remember you're at Yonsei."

"Do you miss it?" you ask, pausing to catch your breath. "The training?"

"I miss us," Yeji says softly, standing on a rock ledge and looking out at the valley. "The three of us against the world. It’s lonely at the top, Y/n. Everyone wants something from us now. Managers, fans, the label... everyone except you."

You reach out, taking Yeji’s hand to help her up a steep incline. Her skin is warm, and for a second, the years of distance vanish. You're just three kids in the woods, running away from a world that moved too fast.

"Well," you say, looking at the summit looming above. "You’ve got me for the next forty-eight hours. No managers. No fans. Just the mountains."

"And the tent," Ryujin adds with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "We only brought one, you know. To save weight. I hope you don't snore as much as you used to."

The incline sharpens as the trail transitions from dirt paths to the jagged granite spines of Bukhansan. The "leisurely hike" facade evaporates within the first forty minutes, replaced by the rhythmic, heavy breathing of three athletes who don’t know how to give less than 100%.

"Are we slowing down, Y/n-ah?" Ryujin calls out from the lead. She’s moving with a relentless, low-center-of-gravity gait, her hiking boots gripping the rock like she’s mid-performance. She looks back over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I thought you said you’d leave us in the dust. My heart rate hasn't even hit 120 yet."

"The pack is 20kg, Ryujin," you grunt, your quads burning as you vault over a fallen cedar trunk. "I’m carrying the tent, the stove, and the water. You’re carrying... what? A bag of trail mix and a dream?"

"I'm carrying the morale," she retorts, skipping up a set of stone stairs carved into the cliffside.

Yeji is right behind you, her movements fluid and economical. She’s the "Control Tower," even on a mountain. She watches your footing, her eyes sharp. "Don't let her bait you, Y/n. She’s been doing three hours of fasted cardio every morning for the 'Born To Be' tour. She’s a machine right now."

"A machine that still can't beat me to the ridge," you say, a surge of that old, competitive trainee adrenaline hitting your nervous system.

You shift the weight of the 65-liter Osprey pack, tightening the chest strap. You remember the nights in the basement of the old JYP building—the "Hell Drills" where the trainers would make you dance the same chorus for four hours straight until someone collapsed. You were always the last one standing.

"First one to the Baegundae helipad gets to choose the sleeping arrangements!" you shout, suddenly breaking into a power-hike, your long strides eating up the vertical distance.

"Hey! That's cheating!" Yeji yells, but you hear her laughter—and then the immediate, heavy thud-thud-thud of her boots as she and Ryujin break into a sprint behind you.

The trail becomes a blur of grey stone and deep green pine. It’s dangerous, technical, and exactly what you all needed. For a moment, you aren't a "failed" trainee and they aren't "ITZY." You’re just three rivals pushing your lungs to the bursting point.

You reach the narrow ridge line, the wind suddenly whipping across the granite, cold and smelling of high altitudes. The "Baegundae" summit marker is visible, a jagged peak crowned with a fluttering Korean flag.

You’re gasping, the cold air searing your throat, but you’re ten meters ahead. You scramble up the final rock face, using the steel cables anchored into the stone. Your boots find purchase, and you haul yourself onto the flat helipad just as a hand reaches out and grabs your ankle.

"Got... you..." Ryujin wheezes, collapsing onto the flat stone beside you. Her face is bright red, her beanie discarded somewhere a mile back. She’s drenched in sweat, her chest heaving, but she’s grinning like a maniac.

Yeji arrives three seconds later, gracefully dropping to her knees, her hands on her thighs as she tries to catch her breath. She looks at the two of you—sprawled out on the granite under the vast, blue Seoul sky—and starts to laugh, a genuine, unedited sound that carries over the valley.

"We... we’re idiots," Yeji gasps, wiping sweat from her forehead. "We have a world tour in three weeks, and we’re out here trying to give ourselves shin splints."

"Worth it," Ryujin says, rolling onto her back and looking at the clouds. "Did you see his face? He thought he had it."

"I did have it," you say, sitting up and unbuckling your pack, the relief on your shoulders feeling like a physical drug. "I touched the marker first. I win."

"Technically, I touched your leg while you were touching the marker," Ryujin counters, sitting up and nudging you with her shoulder. "In trainee rules, that’s a shared victory."

The sun is beginning its slow descent, casting long, golden shadows across the peaks. The city of Seoul below looks like a toy model, the skyscrapers of Gangnam and the Han River shimmering in the haze. Up here, the noise of the industry—the "Dispatch" headlines, the chart rankings, the fan comments—is silent.

"Look at that," Yeji whispers, pointing toward the West. The hidden plateau where you’re supposed to camp is nestled in a dip between two peaks, surrounded by ancient, wind-swept pines. "No one can see us down there. No telephoto lenses, no managers."

"Just us," you say, looking at the two girls. You realize that despite the fame, despite the millions of followers, they look the most beautiful right now—messy hair, no makeup, and exhausted from a climb they didn't have to make.

"Well, 'Winner,'" Ryujin says, standing up and offering you a hand. "Let's get to the plateau. I’m starving, and I expect the 'Golden Boy' to cook something better than military rations."

The hike down to the hidden plateau is a controlled scramble, the golden hour light turning the granite slopes into sheets of glowing amber. By the time you reach the clearing, the sun has dipped behind the jagged peaks of Wonhyobong, and the temperature drops with a sudden, predatory sharpness. The wind, once a refreshing breeze, now bites through your sweat-soaked base layers.

"Okay, 'Winner,'" Ryujin pants, dropping her smaller pack with a heavy thud onto the needle-strewn earth. She’s shivering slightly, her breath blooming in the air like pale ghosts. "Sun’s going down fast. If we don't get that tent up, we’re going to be three frozen idols by midnight."

"I've got it," you say, unbuckling the Osprey and pulling out the compact, high-altitude MSR tent.

The competitive spirit from the climb morphs into a frantic, rhythmic teamwork. You drive the stakes into the rocky soil while Yeji threads the aluminum poles through the sleeves with a surgical precision. She’s focused, her brow furrowed, her hands moving with the same economy of motion she uses for her stage blocking.

"Step back, Ryuddaeng," Yeji commands as she snaps the rainfly into place. "Y/n, pull the tensioner on the left. Harder."

The tent snaps into its dome shape—a small, orange sanctuary against the encroaching dark. It’s a three-person tent by technical definition, but as the three of you look at the interior, it looks suspiciously small.

"That... is a very intimate three-person tent," Ryujin says, peering inside. She looks at you, a tired, mischievous spark returning to her eyes. "I hope you don't roll around in your sleep, Y/n. Because there’s literally zero buffer zone."

"It’s for warmth," you say, trying to sound professional despite the sudden skip in your heart rate. "Bukhansan at night in May is no joke. Body heat is our best asset."

Time: 08:30 PM Location: The Plateau Campsite

The small camping stove hisses, a blue flame licking the bottom of a titanium pot. The smell of spicy Shin Ramyun and canned tuna—the "Trainee Special"—fills the clearing. You’re all huddled around the stove, wrapped in oversized down jackets.

Yeji is sitting close to you, her shoulder pressed against yours. She’s holding a steaming cup of tea, the steam curling around her cat-like eyes. "This tastes better than the 5-star catering we had in Paris last week," she whispers, taking a slow sip.

"Everything tastes better when you’ve climbed 800 meters for it," you say, stirring the noodles.

"I missed this," Ryujin says suddenly, her voice uncharacteristically soft. She’s looking into the small flame, her knees pulled to her chest. "Just sitting in the dark. No one telling us to check our phones. No one asking for a 'challenge' video. Just... the sound of the wind."

She looks at you, her gaze steady. "Do you ever think about what would have happened if you hadn't hurt your ankle? If we’d all debuted together?"

The question hangs in the air, heavier than the mountain itself.

"Every day," you admit, the honesty feeling raw in the silence. "But then I look at the two of you, and I think... maybe the universe knew I couldn't handle the 'Ice Prince' life as well as you guys do."

"You would have been the best of us," Yeji says firmly, her hand finding yours in the dark, her fingers cold but her grip strong. "But I'm glad you're here. I’m glad someone remembers who 'Hwang Yeji' and 'Shin Ryujin' are without the stage names."

Time: 10:45 PM Location: Inside the Tent

The temperature has plummeted to near freezing. Inside the tent, the three of you have laid out your sleeping bags in a single, continuous layer to maximize warmth. There is no space between you.

You’re in the middle.

On your left, Yeji has curled into a ball, her back against yours, her breathing deep and rhythmic. On your right, Ryujin is lying on her side, facing you. The space is so tight that you can feel the heat radiating from their bodies through the nylon bags.

"You're awake," Ryujin whispers, her face inches from yours. The moonlight filters through the orange rainfly, casting a soft, amber glow over her features. She looks vulnerable, the "Center" persona completely shed.

"Too cold to sleep," you whisper back.

"Come closer then," she says, her hand reaching out from her bag and grabbing the front of your fleece, pulling you an inch toward her. "The 'Winner' has to take responsibility for keeping the 'Morale' warm."

She rests her head on your shoulder, her hair smelling of woodsmoke and the mountain. You feel Yeji stir behind you, shifting in her sleep until her head finds the space between your shoulder blades, her arm instinctively draping over your waist.

You’re sandwiched between two of the most famous women in Asia, huddled together in a small tent on a cold mountain plateau. To the world, they are untouchable icons. To you, they are just the girls who used to steal your hoodies and help you practice your high notes.

"Don't leave again, Y/n," Ryujin murmurs, her voice trailing off as sleep finally claims her. "Don't be a stranger when we get back down."

You lie there in the dark, the weight of their trust and their bodies pressing into you, watching the shadows of the pines dance against the tent walls.

The mountain air outside the thin nylon walls of the MSR tent is a freezing, howling void, making the pocket of warmth inside feel like a singular, fragile universe. Condensation from your collective breath has begun to frost the interior of the rainfly, a soft, crystalline layer that traps the heat of three bodies pressed together without a single millimeter of space to spare.

Time: 02:45 AM Location: Hidden Plateau – Inside the Tent

Deep in the heavy, oxygen-deprived sleep of an athlete, the "Rookie" discipline and the "College Student" boundaries dissolve into pure, primal instinct. You shift in your sleep, your body seeking more warmth from the solid, radiating heat to your left.

Hwang Yeji has always been the one you gravitated toward in the dark practice rooms—the steady, rhythmic anchor of your trainee days. Subconsciously, you roll onto your side, your arm sliding over her waist, pulling her flush against your chest.

She stirs, a soft, feline moan escaping her lips, but she doesn't wake. Instead, she pushes back into you, her hips seeking the cradle of your lap.

The friction is immediate and electric. You’re wearing thin, tech-fleece joggers, and she’s in high-compression Nike leggings—fabrics designed to be a second skin. As you settle into her, your hand slides lower, your palm resting flat against the junction of her thighs.

Your fingers graze the unmistakable, firm swell of her mound. Even through the synthetic fabric, you can feel the dampness—a heavy, localized heat that suggests the "cat-eye" leader isn't just dreaming of the mountain. Your middle finger dips into the center of the fold, the fabric of her leggings clinging to the wetness of her anatomy. It’s a "cameltoe" so pronounced and slick that it feels like the heat is bleeding through the nylon and into your skin.

At the same instant, your own body betrays the "friendship" protocol. The proximity, the scent of her hair, and the way her rounded rear is grinding into your pelvis has triggered a heavy, thumping erection.

Your dick is a rigid, insistent rod of heat pressed directly into the small of her back and the top of her glutes.

Yeji’s breathing hitches. She isn't asleep anymore.

You feel her body go rigid for a heartbeat, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard you can feel it through her spine. But she doesn't pull away. Instead, she tilts her pelvis back, grinding her heat more firmly against your hand, her own fingers reaching back to find your arm, squeezing your bicep with a desperate, silent strength.

She can feel the sheer size and hardness of you through your fleece—a blunt, uncompromising reminder that the "Golden Boy" isn't a boy anymore.

To your right, Ryujin lets out a soft, rhythmic snore, her hand still tangled in the hem of your hoodie, blissfully unaware that the "trip to breathe" has turned into a high-altitude pressure cooker of suppressed years and unspoken "what-ifs."

"Y/n..." Yeji breathes, the sound so faint it’s almost lost to the wind outside. She doesn't turn around. She just stays there, her wetness soaking into your fingertips through her leggings, her body molding itself to the hard, pulsing line of your cock.

In the amber gloom of the tent, the line between "best friends" and "something more" has been crossed, and there’s 800 meters of granite between you and the rest of the world.

The howl of the wind outside the MSR nylon is a jagged, lonely sound, but inside the tent, the air has become a humid, pressurized weight. The "White-Out" of the mountain is mirrored by the sensory blackout in the dark; you can’t see Yeji’s face, but you can feel the lightning-strike of her pulse through her skin.

Time: 03:15 AM Location: Inside the Tent – The Breaking Point

The "accidental" cuddle has evolved into a deliberate, synchronized motion. You’re still behind her, your chest pressed into her shoulder blades, but your hand is no longer just resting. You slide your fingers under the waistband of her Nike leggings, the elastic snapping softly against her skin.

She let out a sharp, hitched breath—half-gasp, half-sob—and her hips arched instinctively back into your groin. Your hand found the raw, slick heat of her center, her lace thong already soaked through from the friction and the mounting tension of the night. You didn't hesitate; you slid two fingers beneath the lace, finding her clit, which was a hard, throbbing pearl of sensitivity.

"Y/n-ah..." she whimpered, her voice a ghost of a sound.

Beside you, Ryujin shifted in her sleep, her arm draped over your torso, her breathing heavy and rhythmic. The risk was astronomical. If she woke up, the "ITZY" sisterhood and your three-way friendship would be shattered in a single orange-tinted second.

Yeji reached back, her hand fumbling in the dark until she found the drawstring of your fleece joggers. Her fingers were shaking, but she was a dancer—she had a clinical, perfect control over her movements even when her mind was a blurred mess. She pulled the fabric down, her palm sliding over the hot, pulsing velvet of your cock.

She let out a soft, shuddering moan against the nylon floor. You were thick, straining against her grip, the veins along your shaft thumping in time with her heart. She wrapped her fingers around you, her thumb tracing the weeping head of your glans, and began a slow, agonizingly precise slide.

It was a silent, desperate choreography.

You were moving your fingers against her, finding the rhythm of her internal twitches, your thumb working her clit until she was a wet, shaking mess against your chest. At the same time, her hand was a blur of motion on your length, her palm slick with your pre-cum as she pumped you with a frantic, silent hunger.

The friction of the tech-fabrics, the smell of woodsmoke and her YSL perfume, and the constant, terrifying presence of Ryujin just inches away pushed you both to a jagged cliff edge.

Yeji’s back arched, her internal muscles clenching around your fingers in a violent, rhythmic milking motion. She buried her face in the hood of your sweatshirt to stifle the scream, her entire body vibrating with a silent, high-voltage orgasm that left her limp and soaked in your arms.

Seconds later, you followed. You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, your body shuddering as you came against the back of her thighs, the heat of it soaking into the fleece of your joggers.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the wind and Ryujin’s soft, oblivious snoring. You stayed locked together, the "Golden Boy" and the "Leader," bound by a secret that 800 meters of granite couldn't hide.

The "release" of the manual friction didn't break the tension; it acted like a catalyst, turning the humid air inside the MSR into a pressurized vacuum. The chemical smell of the rainfly, the scent of her sweat, and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of Ryujin just inches away made the risk feel like a physical weight on your chest.

Yeji turned in your arms, her movements a slow, agonizing crawl. In the dim, amber light of the tent, her cat-eyes were dark, blown out with a hunger that the "National Leader" never showed the cameras. Her face was flushed, a stray lock of her dark hair stuck to her damp forehead.

"We can't... we shouldn't," she breathed, her lips hovering an inch from yours. "If Ryuddaeng wakes up..."

"I know," you whispered, your hand sliding up her thigh, the friction of the Nike leggings sounding like a roar in the silence.

She didn't pull away. Instead, she reached into the small mesh pocket of the tent wall where she’d tucked her "emergency" kit. Her fingers fumbled with a small, square foil packet—a Durex she’d bought at a convenience store in Tokyo months ago, hidden away for a "what if" she never thought would happen.

"Put it on," she commanded, her voice a jagged, desperate rasp.

You stripped your joggers down to your ankles. You were already hard again, the blood thumping in your ears. You rolled the latex down your length, the fit tight and secure, the sound of the foil crinkling like a gunshot in the quiet.

Yeji didn't wait. She peeled her leggings down to her knees, her pale skin glowing like marble in the moonlight. She straddled you, her knees digging into the thin foam sleeping pad. She guided you to her entrance—she was soaked, a slick, hot mess that made the entry effortless.

She lowered herself onto you in one slow, deliberate motion. You bottomed out instantly, your cock buried deep in her tight, twitching walls. Yeji’s head fell back, her jaw clenching so hard the muscles stood out in her neck. She stifled a scream against your shoulder, her fingers digging into your biceps until her nails drew blood.

You started a rhythmic, punishing grind. Because of the space, you couldn't move with full range, so you focused on the friction—your pelvis hitting hers with a muffled thud that was camouflaged by the howling wind outside.

Your mouth found hers, a desperate, silent kiss that tasted of salt and the mountain air. Your hands moved to her waist, your thumbs hooking into her hip bones, pulling her down onto you with every upward thrust.

To your right, Ryujin stirred. She let out a soft groan and rolled onto her side, her back now facing the two of you. Her hand, still searching for warmth in her sleep, brushed against your thigh.

You froze. Yeji’s eyes went wide, her heart hammering against your chest like a trapped bird. You both stayed perfectly still for ten agonizing seconds, the only sound the wind and the blood rushing in your veins.

Ryujin settled back into a deep, rhythmic sleep.

The near-miss pushed you both over the edge. Yeji began to move with a frantic, silent speed, her internal muscles clenching around you in a rhythmic milking motion. She was a dancer; she knew exactly how to move her hips to maximize the friction, her "cameltoe" now a hot, pulsing furnace around your shaft.

"Y/n... ah... now," she breathed into your ear.

You snapped. You drove into her three more times, your body shuddering as you came into the condom, the heat of it radiating through the latex. Yeji followed a second later, her back arching, her entire body vibrating with a silent, high-voltage orgasm that left her limp and sobbing against your chest.

You stayed locked together for a long minute, the "Golden Boy" and the "Leader," bound by a secret that 800 meters of granite couldn't hide.

The heavy, rhythmic silence that follows the climax is broken only by the frantic thumping of two hearts and the distant, lonely whistle of the wind against the tent. You’re still buried deep inside Yeji, your forehead resting against her damp shoulder, both of you paralyzed by the sheer, illicit weight of what just happened.

Then, the sleeping bag to your right rustles.

"You guys are really bad at being quiet."

The voice is low, raspier than usual, and vibrates with a dry, knowing edge. Your blood turns to ice. Yeji freezes, her internal muscles giving one final, involuntary twitch around your cock.

Ryujin isn't facing the wall anymore. She’s propped up on one elbow, her short hair a messy halo in the amber twilight of the tent. Her gaze is steady, tracking the way Yeji is straddling you, the way your joggers are bunched at your ankles, and the unmistakable, lingering scent of sex that has replaced the smell of woodsmoke.

"Ryujin-ah..." Yeji breathes, her voice trembling as she tries to pull her sweatshirt down. "I... we..."

"Don't," Ryujin cuts her off, sitting up fully. She doesn't look angry. She looks... restless. Her eyes fix on the place where you and Yeji are still joined, then flick up to your face. "I've been awake since the 'accidental' cuddling started. Do you have any idea how torturous it is to listen to your two best friends lose their minds while you’re trapped in a sleeping bag three inches away?"

She reaches out, her hand sliding over the nylon of your sleeping bag, her fingers tracing the line of your thigh. "The 'Golden Boy' and the 'Leader.' Always the perfect ones. Always the ones following the rules."

She leans forward, the space in the tent becoming impossibly small. She’s so close you can smell the mint on her breath. She reaches out and grabs the hem of your fleece, her knuckles brushing against your stomach.

"I’m horny too, Y/n-ah," she whispers, her gaze dropping to your lap. "And I’m not spending the rest of this trip being the 'third wheel' to your secret."

She doesn't wait for an invitation. She reaches for the zipper of her own sleeping bag, sliding it down in one smooth, aggressive motion. Underneath, she’s wearing a thin, ribbed tank top—no bra—and a pair of boy-short undies that leave nothing to the imagination. Her skin is flushed, her nipples distinct points against the fabric.

"Yeji-unnie," Ryujin says, looking at the older girl. "You had your turn. Move over."

Yeji looks at her, then at you. The shock in her eyes is slowly being replaced by something darker—a shared, desperate understanding. The "ITZY" bond is deep, but the "00-line" bond is something more primal.

Yeji slides off you with a wet, soft sound, but she doesn't go far. She settles behind you, her front pressing into your back, her arms wrapping around your chest.

Ryujin crawls over, her knees bracketed around yours. She reaches down, her fingers finding the base of your cock, which is already beginning to throb and stiffen again at the sight of her. She looks at the condom—stretched and clouded—and then looks you dead in the eye.

"Get a fresh one, Y/n," she commands, her voice a low, melodic growl. "I want to see if the 'Golden Boy' has enough energy for both of us."

The mountain outside is a freezing void, but inside the MSR, the "Summit of Secrets" has just become a three-way pact.

The interior of the MSR tent is now a stifling, humid microclimate, the air thick with the scent of latex, salt, and the raw, electric musk of the three of you. The "White-Out" outside feels like a distant memory; the only reality that matters is the orange-tinted space where the "Golden Boy" is no longer a spectator to his own life.

Ryujin doesn't wait for your permission. She reaches down, her fingers cool against your heat as she pinches the tip of the used condom and slides it off your length with a wet, rhythmic friction. She tosses the latex into a small waste bag with a clinical indifference that only makes your pulse hammer harder.

Then, she leans in.

Her short hair brushes against your thighs as she takes you into her mouth. She isn't gentle; she’s hungry. She uses her tongue to swirl around the crown, cleaning the remnants of the first round with long, firm strokes that make your hips buck off the sleeping pad. She looks up at you while she does it, her gaze defiant and dark, as if she’s claiming her stake in the night.

Beside you, Yeji is watching, her breathing ragged. She reaches out, her hand sliding over Ryujin’s shoulder, her fingers tangling in the shorter girl’s hair as she watches her best friend worship the man they both spent years trying to forget.

Ryujin pulls back with a soft pop, her lips glistening. She reaches for the second Durex packet, ripping it open with her teeth—a move so predatory it sends a shiver down your spine. She rolls the fresh latex down your shaft, her palms smoothing it over your skin until you’re rigid and aching again.

"My turn," she whispers.

She doesn't stay in front of you. She flips around, her back to your chest, and drops onto all fours on the cramped foam padding. Her boy-short undies are already around her ankles. Her rear is high, her back arched into a deep, agonizing curve that highlights the lean, dancer’s muscle of her thighs.

You enter her from behind, a deep, blunt thrust that bottoming out instantly. Ryujin lets out a muffled, guttural growl into the sleeping bag, her fingers clawing at the nylon floor. She’s tighter than you expected, her internal muscles clenching around the condom with a rhythmic, desperate strength.

But you aren't alone with her.

Yeji crawls behind you, her front pressing into your back. She reaches around your waist, her hands finding Ryujin’s breasts from either side, kneading the soft mounds as you drive into the younger girl. Yeji leans down, her mouth finding the sensitive skin of your neck, her teeth grazing your pulse point in time with every thud of your pelvis.

"Faster, Y/n-ah," Ryujin gasps, her head lolling back to rest on your shoulder. "Don't... don't hold back... give it to me like you did her..."

The tent is a blur of moving limbs and hot skin. You’re the center of a high-altitude storm, sandwiched between the "Center" and the "Leader." Every thrust into Ryujin is punctuated by Yeji’s hands on your chest and her whispers in your ear. The friction is a physical roar, the "cameltoe" of Ryujin’s wetness and the heat of Yeji’s body creating a sensory overload that pushes you to the brink.

As you reach the climax, your hands move to Ryujin’s hips, pulling her back onto you for three final, deep surges. You groan into the silence, the heat of the release flooding the condom as Ryujin’s body trembles in a violent, silent peak.

The three of you collapse into a heap of tangled limbs and heavy breathing, the "Summit of Secrets" finally, fully conquered.

Time: 05:30 AM Location: Hidden Plateau – Bukhansan Summit

The sun doesn't rise so much as it bleeds through the "White-Out" mist, turning the world outside the orange nylon into a flat, ethereal silver. Inside the tent, the air is heavy and stagnant, smelling of salt, spent adrenaline, and the faint, lingering scent of Byredo and woodsmoke.

You wake up with Yeji’s head on your chest and Ryujin’s leg draped possessively over your waist. The "Golden Boy" is buried under a tangle of high-performance fleece and the two most famous women in the country. The silence is absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, soft puff of their breathing.

As the light strengthens, Yeji stirs first. She sits up slowly, her dark hair a chaotic silk curtain around her face. She looks down at you, then at Ryujin, and finally at the discarded foil packets near the tent door. There is no shame in her eyes—only a quiet, feline clarity. She reaches out and traces the faint red mark on your collarbone with her thumb.

"The mist is clearing," she whispers, her voice a low rasp. "We have three hours to get down the mountain before the first group of hikers reaches the ridge."

Ryujin opens one eye, a lazy, triumphant smirk tugging at her lips. She doesn't move her leg. "Let them come. I’ve never felt more awake in my life." She sits up, stretching her arms above her head, the movement pulling her tank top taut over her skin. she looks at you, her gaze lingering on your mouth. "You okay, Y/n-ah? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Just processing the technical fouls," you joke, though your voice is thick.

The descent is a different kind of challenge. The competitive fire from the climb has been replaced by a heavy, magnetic tension. Every time you reach back to help Yeji over a rock, her fingers linger on your palm a second too long. Every time Ryujin brushes past you on a narrow ledge, her shoulder leans into yours with a deliberate, grounding weight.

When you finally reach the gravel parking lot, the silver van is waiting, its engine already idling. The "Idol" masks go back on—the bucket hats, the oversized masks, the guarded stances.

"Back to reality," Ryujin mutters, standing by the sliding door. She reaches out and squeezes your hand, her grip bruising. "Don't think this was just a 'mountain' thing, Y/n. We know where you live."

Yeji steps closer, her cat-eyes unreadable behind her dark lenses. She leans in, her breath warm against your ear. "Study hard, Assemblyman. We'll see you for 'extra credit' next weekend."

The van doors hiss shut, and the silver vehicle pulls away, disappearing into the Seoul traffic. You stand in the quiet lot, the weight of your 65-liter pack feeling strangely light. Your muscles ache, your skin still smells of them, and your phone buzzes in your pocket with a single notification from the group chat.

Yeji: Best. Evaluation. Ever.

"The fans wouldn't leave the garage," she says, her voice a mix of exhaustion and that breathless, desperate hunger she only shows you. She walks toward you, her eyes fixed on the silver ring on your left hand—the one that represents your "perfect" life. "And I had to make sure the manager was sufficiently... distracted."

She stops inches away from you, the scent of her Tom Ford perfume mixing with the smoke of your scotch. She reaches up, her fingers tracing the sharp line of your jaw, then moving down to tug at your silk tie.

"The 'People’s Assemblyman' looks tired," she whispers, her thumb brushing against your lower lip. "Did the session go poorly? Or did your wife nag you about the charity gala again?"

You set the glass down on the mahogany table. Your hand finds her waist, pulling her flush against you. The contrast is stark: your stiff, expensive wool suit against her soft, exposed skin. You represent the law; she represents everything you’re willing to do to break it.

"My wife is at her father’s estate in Daegu for the weekend," you mutter, your hand sliding down to the curve of her hip, squeezing just hard enough to make her gasp. "And you know better than to mention her here."

"I like it when you get cold, Y/n-ah," she breathes, her hands sliding under your blazer to find the heat of your chest. She drops to her knees, looking up at you with the same eyes that millions of fans worship on screen, but here, she’s just a girl looking for her next payout—both financial and physical.

She unbuckles your Hermès belt with practiced ease. "The fans think I'm the 'Waterbomb Goddess.' They have no idea I belong to a man who writes the very laws that are supposed to keep me 'pure.'"

She peels your trousers down, and your cock snaps free, thick and pulsing with the suppressed rage of a day spent playing the "perfect citizen." She doesn't hesitate; she takes you into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head with a wet, heavy suction that makes the lights of Seoul blur in your vision.

You reach down, your fingers tangling in her dark hair, forcing her deeper. This is the only place in the world where you don't have to be the Honorable Park Y/n. Here, you're just the man who owns her.

"Faster," you command, your voice a low growl.

Eunbi obeys, her throat opening up to accommodate you, her hand moving to stroke your base. The risk of your position, the sheer weight of your secret, and the sight of Korea’s top soloist kneeling at your feet is a more potent drug than any alcohol.

The muffled, frantic vibration of your Samsung Galaxy Z Fold on the mahogany side table shatters the silence of the suite. The screen glows with a name that makes your blood run cold even in the heat of the moment: Chairman Choi – National Assembly Majority Leader.

You stiffen, your hand tightening instinctively in Eunbi’s hair. She lets out a small, choked sound, her eyes fluttering up to yours, dark and clouded with lust. She doesn't stop, her tongue continuing to swirl around the sensitive rim of your crown, oblivious to the fact that the man on the other end of that phone could end your career with a single leaked transcript.

"Eunbi. Stop," you rasp, your voice thick.

She pulls back slowly, a thin, silver thread of saliva connecting her lip to the head of your cock. She looks at the phone, then back at you, a playful, dangerous smirk tugging at her mouth.

"The Chairman?" she whispers, her hand continuing to stroke your length with a slow, agonizing rhythm. "He’s such a bore. Tell him you’re in a ‘closed-door session.’"

The phone vibrates again. You reach out, your fingers hovering over the glass. If you don't answer, he’ll call your wife’s father. If you do answer and he hears her...

"I have to take this," you mutter, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at you. "Not a sound. If you breathe too loud, I’ll cut your allowance for the next three months. Understand?"

Eunbi’s eyes flash—part fear, part thrill. She nods, then leans forward, her tongue darting out to lick the very tip of you before she settles her cheek against your thigh, looking up at you like a predator waiting for the signal.

You swipe the screen. "Chairman Choi. I apologize for the hour. I was just reviewing the final amendments for the Seoul Redevelopment Act."

Your voice is a masterpiece of political theater—steady, authoritative, and completely devoid of the fact that Korea’s most famous soloist is currently kneeling between your legs.

"Park Y/n," the Chairman’s voice crackles, gravelly and hurried. "We have a problem. The prosecution just executed a search warrant on the Dongdaemun District Office. They’re looking for the ledger on the ‘S-Project.’ Your name isn't on the warrant yet, but we need to move the offshore accounts by sunrise."

Beneath you, Eunbi decides to test your resolve. She leans in, her lips barely brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, her warm breath hitching as she listens to the man who holds your future in his hands.

"I understand, Chairman," you say, your knuckles turning white as you grip the edge of the table. "I’ll contact the trustees in Singapore immediately. We’ll scrub the digital trail before the morning session."

Eunbi’s hand slides up, her fingers wrapping around your base, squeezing firmly as she begins to move her hand in a slow, torturous slide. You feel a surge of heat hit the back of your throat. Your breath hitches—a fraction of a second too long.

"Park? You still there?" the Chairman asks, his tone sharpening. "You sound... out of breath. Are you at the gym this late?"

"Just... the stairs, Chairman," you manage, your teeth gritting as Eunbi’s tongue finds the head of your cock again, light and teasing. "The elevator is out for maintenance at my residence. I’ll call you from a secure line in ten minutes."

"Make it five," the Chairman grunts and hangs up.

The silence that follows is deafening. You drop the phone onto the carpet and look down at Eunbi. She’s looking up at you, her expression one of pure, unadulterated triumph. She knows she almost broke the "National Son-in-Law."

"You're a demon," you growl, reaching down and grabbing her by the waist, hoisting her up until she’s pinned against the floor-to-ceiling window.

"And you're a liar, Y/n-ah," she whispers, her legs wrapping around your waist, the black lace of her bodysuit scratching against your skin. "A very, very good one. Now... show me how you handle a real crisis."

The glass of the Signiel penthouse is cold against her back, but the heat radiating between your bodies is a physical weight. You don't bother with the bed; the adrenaline from the Chairman’s call has turned your blood into liquid fire, and the sight of Eunbi pinned against the skyline of the city you technically rule is too perfect a power trip to move.

You hoist her up, her legs wrapping around your waist with a desperate strength. The sheer La Perla lace of her bodysuit is the only thing between you until you reach down and tear the crotch aside, the delicate fabric giving way with a sharp, satisfying rip. You enter her in one smooth, heavy thrust, bottoming out against her cervix.

She lets out a high, broken cry that fogged the window, her head falling back against the reinforced glass. The contrast is intoxicating: the frozen, silent city 100 floors below and the wet, rhythmic friction of Korea’s most "virtuous" politician burying himself in its most coveted soloist.

You flip her around, pressing her chest against the window so she’s forced to look out at the National Assembly building in the distance—the very place where your face is plastered on campaign posters. From behind, you reach around, your large hands cupping her breasts. They are heavy and warm, spilling over your fingers as you knead the soft flesh, your thumbs rhythmically flicking her hardened nipples.

You lean down, your mouth finding the sensitive curve where her neck meets her shoulder. You bite—not enough to bleed, but enough to leave a signature that her stylists will have to work overtime to hide with Dermacol tomorrow.

"Look at it, Eunbi-ya," you growl into her ear, your hips slamming into her with a primal, unrelenting pace. "That’s my city. And you’re my favorite thing in it."

She groans, her forehead resting against the glass, her breath coming in short, ragged hitches. "Y/n... ah... slower... you're going to... break me..."

The friction is building to a flashpoint. Because it’s raw, you can feel every twitch of her internal muscles, the way she’s clenching around you as she nears her own peak. The sensation of skin-on-skin is a luxury your "perfect" life rarely allows, and the lack of a barrier makes every thrust feel electric.

As you reach the point of no return, your movements become frantic, your breath hitching just like it did on the phone. You’re seconds away from ruining everything—a child with a mistress would be the end of the "S-Project" and your seat in the Assembly.

Eunbi feels the change in your rhythm, the way your body stiffens as you prepare to let go. She reaches back, her hand fumbling for your thigh, squeezing hard to anchor you.

"Y/n... pull out," she gasps, her voice trembling with the force of her own orgasm. "Don't... don't put it inside. Remember the 'S-Project'... pull out..."

You hear her, but the haze of pleasure is thick. At the last possible second, you growl and yank yourself free, the wet sound of the withdrawal echoing in the silent suite. You spill across the small of her back and the glass of the window, the hot, white evidence of your betrayal of the state—and your wife—sliding down her skin in the moonlight.

"They're both asleep," Jihyo says, her voice a low, steady rasp. She’s referring to their high-profile boyfriends—the actor and the athlete the public dotes on—who are currently passed out in a nearby luxury hotel after a "celebratory" dinner they barely invited the girls to. "They didn't even notice we left the suite."

"They never notice," Momo adds, her Japanese accent thickening as she sits on the edge of the mahogany coffee table, right between your knees. She reaches out, her small, dancer-calloused hand resting on your thigh, her fingers digging into the fabric of your Loro Piana trousers. "They want the 'Idols.' They want the trophies on their arms. They don't want us."

The tension has been building for months. Every late-night recording session in the JYPE studios, every "technical" meeting in Los Angeles, every shared glance over a mixing console. You’ve been the one listening to their frustrations—the way their partners treat them like porcelain dolls or PR assets rather than women with their own desires.

"We talked about it on the way here," Jihyo says, stepping closer until she’s standing over you, her hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head back. Her gaze is unwavering, the gaze of a leader who has made a final, irreversible executive decision. "We don't want a 'fling,' Y/n. We don't want to just 'get back' at them."

Momo leans in, her breath smelling of mint and the Dom Pérignon you opened an hour ago. She whispers against your lips, her hand sliding up to the buttons of your shirt. "We want something they’re too afraid to give us. We want a legacy that isn't a comeback or a concept. We want to be full of you. We want to walk back to them tomorrow carrying a secret they can never take away."

The implication is clear, raw, and biologically absolute. They aren't asking for a night of passion; they’re asking for a permanent betrayal.

"Are you sure?" you murmur, your voice a dark vibration as you grip Momo’s waist, pulling her flush against your chest. "There's no 'PR statement' that fixes this if you're right."

"That's the point," Jihyo whispers, her fingers finding the buckle of your Hermès belt and flicking it open with a sharp, decisive clink. "Let them have the headlines. We want the real thing."

Momo doesn't wait for another word. She stands up, letting the La Perla silk slide down her arms until it pools at her feet, revealing the incredible, athletic curves of her body—the sharp lines of her abs and the soft, inviting swell of her hips. Jihyo follows suit, her robe hitting the floor as she climbs onto the sofa beside you, her skin honey-toned and radiant under the amber lights.

The air in the Signiel penthouse vanishes. You reach out, pulling both of them into a deep, three-way kiss that tastes of rebellion and desperation. The "Cold War" of the K-pop industry is over, and the private revolution has begun.

The heavy hum of the HVAC system in the Signiel penthouse is the only sound as the last of the professional pretenses falls away. Momo doesn’t wait for you to move; she’s a woman who communicates through her body, and right now, her body is screaming for a specific kind of ruin.

She reaches for the buttons of your Loro Piana shirt, her fingers trembling with a mix of adrenaline and two years of suppressed hunger. As the cashmere-blend fabric parts, she presses her palms against your bare chest, her skin a searing contrast to the cool air of the room. You stand up, kicking off your Tom Ford loafers, and within seconds, your clothes are a discarded heap on the Persian rug.

Momo is already bare, her dancer’s physique a masterpiece of functional beauty. Her breasts are firm and high, topped with dark, rose-bud nipples that are already pebbled from the chill and the excitement. Below, the sharp, muscular lines of her V-taper lead down to a dense, neatly groomed mound of dark hair that’s already glistening with her body’s natural response to your proximity.

"Tonight," she whispers, her voice a jagged rasp as she sinks to her knees on the plush carpet. "I don't want to be 'TWICE's Main Dancer.' I just want to be yours."

She takes you into her mouth with a sudden, rhythmic intensity, her tongue swirling around the crown of your cock, which is already straining, thick and engorged. The sensation is electric—the wet, velvet heat of her throat clashing with the cool air. Jihyo sits back on the edge of the B&B Italia sofa, her legs crossed, her eyes dark as she watches the woman she’s shared a stage with for a decade surrender to you.

You reach into your bedside drawer and pull out a gold-foiled Trojan Magnum. The irony isn't lost on you—they want a legacy, but the risk of a scandal this size requires a calculated approach, at least for the first round. You roll the latex over your length, the fit snug and restrictive, enhancing the throbbing pressure in your veins.

You lift Momo up, her legs immediately wrapping around your waist with the effortless strength of a world-class athlete. You carry her to the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of Seoul blurred by the rain behind her. You guide your head to her entrance—her slit is a deep, swollen crimson, dripping with a thick, syrupy cream that coats the latex the moment you make contact.

With a single, bruising thrust, you bury yourself inside her.

Momo lets out a choked, high-pitched cry that she stifles against your shoulder, her internal walls clamping down on you with a rhythmic, pulsing desperation. She is incredibly tight, her pussy gripping the ribbed latex with a strength that threatens to end the encounter prematurely.

"Deep... give it to me deep, Y/n," she gasps, her head thrashed back, exposing the elegant line of her throat.

You begin a relentless, driving pace, your hips slamming against her firm, athletic ass with a wet, slapping sound that echoes in the quiet penthouse. Every thrust sends you deeper into her furnace, your balls tight against her perineum as you fill her completely. You can feel the friction building, the heat of her clitoris rubbing against your pubic bone with every upwards surge.

Momo is a blur of motion beneath you, her hips bucking to meet every one of your lunges, her toes curling into the carpet. Her pussy is a Vice, the wet, folded skin of her labia stretching and snapping back around your shaft as you pump into her.

"I’m close... Y/n, I’m so close," she whimpers, her internal muscles beginning to quiver and spasm.

The climax hits her like a physical blow. Her eyes roll back as her pussy explodes into a violent series of rhythmic winces, the walls of her vagina milking you with a desperate, crushing intensity. The sensation of her coming—the flood of her own salt and the frantic heat—is the final trigger.

You let out a guttural roar, your body jolting as you erupt inside the condom, the latex ballooning with the force of your release. You hold her there, pinned against the glass eighty stories above the city, both of you shaking as the aftershocks of the betrayal wash over you.

You pull back, the condom slick and heavy, and Momo slumps against you, her breath coming in jagged hitches. Jihyo stands up, her shadow falling over both of you as she drops her robe.

"My turn," the leader says, her voice a calm, lethal command.

The shift in atmosphere is instantaneous—from the frantic, athletic desperation of the floor to a heavy, ceremonial weight as you transition to the Vispring master bed.

The cleanup is clinical and brief. You peel the spent latex from your length, the heavy scent of Momo’s musk filling the air. She remains on the rug for a heartbeat, her chest heaving, before she grabs a silk Hermès hand towel to wipe the sheen of sweat and friction from her inner thighs. She looks up at you, her eyes hooded, the "Main Dancer" completely conquered.

But Jihyo is the leader for a reason.

She doesn’t wait for an invitation. She climbs onto the vast, charcoal-grey linens, her movements deliberate and regal. As she settles onto her knees, the dim light from the Cartier lamp on the nightstand catches the magnificent swell of her breasts. They are heavy, natural, and olive-toned, the dark, wide circles of her areolae straining against the cool air. You reach out, your large hands easily cupping the weight of them, marveling at the soft, pillowy fullness that contradicts her iron-willed reputation.

"Momo was the warm-up, Y/n," Jihyo whispers, her voice a steady, low vibration. "I want you to leave something behind that I’ll feel for a week."

She doesn't want the traditional route yet. She turns around, presenting her backside to you. Her ass is a masterpiece of power—firm, round, and heart-shaped. She reaches back, her fingers spreading her own cheeks to reveal the tight, puckered rosebud of her anus, a stark, dark contrast to the honeyed skin of her thighs.

"I've been thinking about this since the world tour began," she gasps, her head dropping onto the Frette pillows.

You reach for the nightstand, grabbing a small bottle of Kiehl’s silk groom—a makeshift lubricant that smells of lavender and luxury. You coat your fingers, the slickness glistening under the amber lights. You begin to work her, your thumb circling the tight ring of her muscle, feeling the initial resistance. Jihyo lets out a long, shuddering moan, her breasts swaying with the tremors of her body as you slide one, then two fingers into her heat.

She is incredibly tight, her sphincter clenching around your digits with a rhythmic, pulsing curiosity. You spend minutes prepping her, stretching the delicate, folded skin of her star until she’s soft and yielding, her internal walls vibrating against your knuckles.

"Now," she commands, her voice muffled by the pillow. "No rubber. I want to feel the heat of you against my spine."

You kneel behind her, your cock throbbing with a renewed, agonizing pressure. You've held back through the Momo round, but the sight of Jihyo—the "God" of TWICE—offering herself up this way is testing your resolve. You guide the crown of your head to her tight opening.

The entry is slow, a grueling inch-by-inch invasion. Her muscle stretches to its absolute limit, the dark skin of her anus turning a pale, taut pink as it accommodates your girth. Jihyo’s fingers dig into the mattress, her knuckles white as she takes the fullness of you.

"Oh, God... Y/n..." she chokes out, her back arching, her heavy breasts swinging as she adjusts to the invasive, stretching pressure.

Once you are buried deep, the sensation is unlike anything else. The dry, searing heat of her rectum is a crushing Vice, far tighter and more demanding than the wet furnace of Momo’s pussy. You begin a slow, torturous grind, your balls slapping against the underside of her clit as you pull back to the head and slam home again.

You aren't going to cum yet. You want her to feel every agonizing inch of the betrayal. You reach around her waist, your hands finding those heavy, bouncing breasts again, kneading the soft flesh as you drive into her from behind.

The air in the Signiel master suite is thick with the scent of sex and high-stakes rebellion. Jihyo is arched over the charcoal linens, her body a taut bow of muscle and surrender as you drive into the tight, searing heat of her backside.

You reach around her waist, your large hands finally claiming the full, heavy weight of her breasts. They are magnificent—warm, pendulous, and incredibly soft compared to the rigid tension of her glutes. You knead the golden-toned flesh, your thumbs rolling over her dark, swollen nipples until they are hard as pebbles. Jihyo lets out a fractured, melodic sob of pleasure, her head thrashing against the Frette pillowcase as the dual sensation of your cock stretching her and your hands molding her tits pushes her toward a sensory blackout.

"Momo..." Jihyo gasps, her voice a broken command. "Help me... I can’t... it’s too much..."

Momo doesn't hesitate. She crawls across the mattress like a predator, her damp hair falling over her face as she positions herself in front of her leader. While you continue the slow, grueling friction in Jihyo’s ass, Momo takes over the frontline. She captures one of Jihyo’s heavy breasts in her hand, squeezing it upward to meet your own grip, before she leans in to swirl her tongue around the other nipple.

The sight is a high-fashion fever dream: TWICE’s Main Dancer and their Leader, stripped of their global fame, tangled together in a mess of limbs and shared ecstasy. Momo’s small, nimble fingers reach down, finding Jihyo’s clitoris—which is already engorged and pulsing—and begins a rapid, flicking motion that mirrors the rhythm of your thrusts.

"Yes... right there... unnie..." Momo whispers, her Japanese accent thick and syrupy.

You increase the pace, your balls slapping rhythmically against Jihyo’s perineum with a wet, heavy thud. The friction in her anus is astronomical; the tight, pleated skin of her star is stretched to a translucent pink, gripping your shaft with a dry, crushing intensity that feels like a velvet vice. You can feel every ridge of her internal anatomy, the pressure building in your gut like a tidal wave.

"I’m going to... I’m going to break," Jihyo cries out, her fingers clawing at the headboard.

Momo looks up at you, her eyes dark and reflecting the amber light of the Cartier lamp. She reaches back with her free hand, her fingers tracing the base of your cock where it disappears into Jihyo’s heat, adding her own slick friction to the mix. The combined heat of both women—Momo’s wet, nimble touch and Jihyo’s internal, pulsing constriction—is a lethal combination.

You aren't just a producer tonight; you’re the architect of their greatest secret. You pull back until only the head remains inside the tight ring of her muscle, then slam home with a force that makes the entire B&B Italia bedframe groan.

Jihyo’s back snaps into a rigid arch, her heavy tits swinging as she lets out a high-pitched, jagged scream of release. Her internal walls begin to wince and spasm around you in a violent, rhythmic contraction, her pussy dripping a frantic, honeyed cream onto the sheets below.

The rhythmic, wet slapping of your hips against Jihyo’s plush backside is the only sound in the Signiel suite, a carnal metronome marking the seconds of their betrayal. You reach out, your fingers tangling in Jihyo’s damp hair, pulling her head back so her ear is inches from your lips. The heat radiating off her skin is a fever, the scent of her sweat mixing with the Kiehl's silk groom into a heady, intoxicating musk.

"Look at her, Jihyo," you growl, your voice a dark, vibrating command that rumbles through her spine.

Jihyo’s eyes, clouded with a haze of pleasure and sheer exhaustion, flutter open to see Momo. The main dancer is kneeling on the charcoal Frette linens, her own chest heaving, her small hands still kneading Jihyo’s heavy, swaying breasts. The sight of her sister-in-arms—the girl she’s built a billion-dollar empire with—completely undone and helping you ruin her, is a psychological breaking point.

"Look at what the 'Nation's Leader' is doing," you whisper, your thrusts slowing into a deep, agonizingly slow grind that stretches the tight, dark ring of her anus to its absolute limit. "Does your 'perfect' boyfriend know you can take all of me like this? Does he know you’re currently being filled by the man who actually knows what you’re worth?"

Jihyo lets out a fractured, sobbing moan, her fingers clawing into the mattress. "He... he doesn't know anything... he doesn't look at me... not like this..."

"He looks at a brand," you counter, your hand sliding down from her hair to grip her throat, not enough to choke, but enough to claim. "He looks at a CF contract. But I'm the one who's going to be inside you when you walk onto that stage tomorrow. Every time you dance, every time you smile for the cameras, you're going to feel the ache I’m leaving in you."

You shift your gaze to Momo. She’s watching you with a predatory hunger, her tongue darting out to lick a stray drop of sweat from Jihyo’s shoulder.

"And you, Momo," you murmur. "You’re the best dancer in the world. But right now, you’re just a girl in a penthouse helping me plant a secret that will haunt both of your 'perfect' little lives. Is this what you wanted? To be more than just a trophy?"

Momo leans in, her lips brushing yours, her Japanese accent thick with a raw, jagged edge. "I want to be... yours. I want him to look at me and see his 'pretty girl,' while I’m thinking about how you tasted. I want to carry you... inside... while he thinks he’s in control."

You pull back until you're nearly out of Jihyo’s tight, puckered heat, the friction of the withdrawal causing her to whimper in protest. You hold yourself there, the head of your cock teasing the very edge of her entrance, the pressure in your balls a white-hot, agonizing weight.

"This isn't a game, Jihyo," you say, your voice cold and absolute. "Once I finish inside you... without the rubber... there is no 'PR' fix. You're carrying the legacy of the man who actually owns you. Are you ready to live that lie?"

Jihyo turns her head, her face flushed, her eyes burning with a terrifying, beautiful resolve. She reaches back, her hand guiding your hips, her voice a lethal, final command.

"Don't talk anymore, Y/n," she breathes, her internal muscles pulsing around you in a desperate, rhythmic plea. "Just... make it real. Finish it. Mark us."

The air in the Signiel suite has reached a stifling, humid equilibrium, smelling of spent adrenaline and the heavy, floral musk of two women who have completely abandoned their public personas.

You are at the absolute precipice. The friction of Jihyo’s tight, puckered heat against your shaft has become a searing, white-hot pull. Every slow, agonizingly deep thrust into her backside feels like you’re sliding into a velvet furnace. From your side, the sensation is an overwhelming, crushing pressure; her sphincter is a rhythmic, pulsing ring of muscle that grips you with a territorial desperation, milking the very base of your cock.

Jihyo’s side is a symphony of sensory overload. She feels the invasive, blunt fullness of you stretching her beyond her limits, a dull, thrumming ache that vibrates all the way to her tailbone. Every time you bottom out, hitting the very back of her internal walls, a sharp jolt of electricity shoots through her, making her heavy, Cartier-adorned breasts sway violently. She can feel the raw, dry heat of the friction—the way you’re claiming a part of her that her "perfect" boyfriend doesn't even have the courage to touch.

"Now... Y/n... please..." she sobs, her voice breaking against the Frette pillow.

You don't pull out. You drive in one last time, burying yourself to the hilt, your balls tight and aching against her perineum. The snap is instantaneous. You let out a muffled, guttural roar as you erupt deep inside her, the sensation of your cum hitting her internal walls like a rhythmic, scalding tide. You feel the frantic, wet pulses of her climax as she clamps down on you, her internal muscles wincing and spasming in a desperate attempt to hold every drop of the betrayal.

For Jihyo, the sensation is a terrifying, beautiful invasion. She feels the sudden, hot flood of you filling her, a heavy warmth that settles deep in her gut. It’s a physical mark, a secret weight that she knows will linger long after the sun rises over the Lotte World Tower.

But you aren't done.

You pull back with a wet, heavy sound, the tight ring of her muscle snapping shut as you leave her shivering and undone on the charcoal linens. You turn immediately to Momo, who is already on her back, her legs spread wide in an invitation that is purely primal.

There is no cleanup. There is no rubber.

You move between her dancer-toned thighs, the scent of Jihyo still thick on your skin. You guide your head to Momo’s entrance—her slit is a swollen, deep crimson, dripping with a thick, syrupy cream that has been building for the last hour. As you slide in, the transition from the dry, crushing heat of Jihyo to the soaking, velvet furnace of Momo is enough to make your vision blur.

Momo lets out a high-pitched, melodic gasp, her heels digging into your lower back as she pulls you deeper. "Yes... fill me... everything..."

The friction is incredible. Her internal walls are a series of rhythmic ridges that ripple against your shaft, her clitoris mashed against your pubic bone with every frantic, upward surge. You can feel her heart hammering against your chest, her small hands clawing at your shoulders as you begin a fast, punishing pace.

From Momo's side, it’s a total sensory takeover. She feels the raw, unprotected heat of you, the way you're stretching her labia until they’re taut and translucent. She can taste Jihyo on your skin as you kiss her, a communal secret that binds the three of you together. The sensation of you filling her—raw and real—is the "legacy" she’s been begging for.

The pressure builds one last time. You feel her internal muscles begin to quiver, a frantic, wet pulsing that signals her final surrender. You growl her name, your body jolting as you erupt again, pouring the remainder of your release deep into her womb. Momo’s back arches off the bed, her eyes rolling back as she takes the full, hot weight of you, her pussy exploding in a violent, rhythmic series of contractions that milk you dry.

The silence in the penthouse is heavy, charged with the ionizing scent of sex and the hum of the city waking up eighty floors below. You lie there, centered between the two most powerful women in the industry, your breath finally evening out.

Jihyo is propped up on one elbow, her heavy breasts swaying slightly with her movement, the dark, swollen circles of her nipples still sensitive to the cool air. Her hair is a chaotic halo against the charcoal Frette linens. She isn't looking at the skyline or the clock; her gaze is locked onto the junction of Momo’s thighs.

Momo is draped across the pillows, her dancer’s legs still spread wide in a dazed, post-orgasmic sprawl. Because you didn't pull back, the laws of gravity and the sheer volume of your release are taking over. A thick, pearly ribbon of your warmth is beginning to overflow from Momo’s reddened, pulsing slit, glistening against the honey-toned skin of her inner thigh.

It’s a visual of absolute, unprotected surrender.

"You gave her so much," Jihyo whispers, her voice a low, envious rasp.

She reaches out, her fingers trembling as she traces the path of the leak on Momo’s skin. The sight of your seed—raw, unfiltered, and marking her sister-in-arms—triggers something primal in the "God" of TWICE. The jealousy isn't about emotion; it’s about the territory. She wants to be just as marked, just as "ruined" before the sun fully clears the horizon.

"I’m not letting her carry more of you than I do," Jihyo breathes, her eyes darkening as she crawls over you.

She doesn't wait for you to harden again. She leans down, her tongue darting out to taste the overflow from Momo’s pussy, a communal, carnal act that collapses the last of their idol dignity. Momo lets out a soft, high-pitched whimper, her hand reaching up to tangle in Jihyo’s hair, pulling her leader closer as they share the taste of your climax.

Jihyo then sits back, her knees framing your waist. She grabs your cock, which is already beginning to throb and regain its steel under her touch. She isn't interested in the back door anymore; she wants the "legacy" round.

She guides the head of your shaft to her own entrance—which is dripping with a thick, clear honey from her previous climax. She lowers herself slowly, her internal muscles stretching to accommodate your girth without a buffer. The sensation of her wet, velvet heat sliding over you, combined with the sight of Momo watching from the pillows, is a lethal sensory spike.

"Fill me again, Y/n," Jihyo commands, her hands bracing against your shoulders as she begins to ride you with a desperate, rhythmic violence. "I want to feel you hitting my womb. I want to be the one who wakes up with the most of you inside."

From your side, the sensation is a total immersion in her heat. Every downward thrust feels like you're being swallowed by a furnace. You reach up, grabbing those heavy, bouncing breasts, your thumbs rolling over her nipples as she sets a pace that threatens to break the B&B Italia frame.

You shift from your back, pulling Jihyo with you into a lotus position. She straddles you, her powerful dancer’s thighs locked around your waist, her weight settling fully onto your lap as she sinks onto your steel-hard length.

The sensation of her insides is astronomical. Without the barrier of a condom, every ridge of her vaginal canal is a distinct, rhythmic pulse against your shaft. As she begins to bounce, the head of your cock hooks upward, rhythmically slamming into her G-spot—that firm, sensitive shelf that makes her entire pelvic floor wince and quiver.

"Oh, God... Y/n... right there..." she gasps, her head falling back, her spine arching into a beautiful, strained curve.

You reach out, your large hands cupping the heavy, pendulous weight of her breasts. They are warm, olive-toned, and impossibly soft. You lean in, taking one of her dark, swollen nipples into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the pebbled areola before sucking the entire mound deep into your throat.

It is addictive—the taste of her skin, the scent of her sweat, and the wet, heavy slapping of her pussy against your thighs. Fucking the "Nation's Leader" while tasting her milk-heavy breasts is a sensory overload that makes your brain go white. Every time you suckle, she clenches her internal walls in a sympathetic reflex, her pussy milking you with a desperate, crushing intensity.

"I’m... I’m going to... ah!" she screams, her nails digging into your shoulders as you hit that G-spot again and again.

You’ve had enough of her setting the pace. You grip her hips, your fingers sinking into the plush flesh of her glutes, and move her back onto the Frette linens. You flip her into a wide-legged missionary, pinning her ankles next to her ears. This is the "Legacy" position—the deepest, most invasive angle possible.

You begin a relentless, driving pace, your balls tight and aching as they slap against her perineum. You are hitting her cervix now, a deep, blunt pressure that makes her vision blur. Jihyo is a mess of vocal surrender, her voice echoing off the Lotte Tower glass. Her pussy is a furnace, the wet, folded skin of her labia stretching and snapping around you, dripping a thick, translucent honey onto the charcoal sheets.

The pressure in your gut reaches a terminal velocity. You can feel the seismic shift in her body—her internal walls beginning to spasm in a violent, rhythmic series of winces.

"Now! Give it to me now!" she pleads, her legs locking around your lower back.

You dive in, burying yourself to the absolute hilt, and capture her mouth in a deep, tongue-tangling kiss. You want to taste her scream as you ruin her.

The eruption is volcanic. You feel the first spurt hit the back of her womb like a physical blow—a hot, thick jet of white-hot seed that makes her eyes roll back. Then the second, and the third, each one more forceful than the last as you pour everything you have into her. You are pulsing inside her, your cock jumping with the force of the release, while Jihyo’s pussy explodes in a crushing, multi-layered climax that milies every last drop out of you.

You hold the kiss, the taste of her and the heat of the betrayal filling your senses. Inside her, you can feel the slow, heavy overflow—your warmth mixing with her cream and beginning to leak out of her overstretched entrance, soaking into the Vispring mattress.

The iPhone 17 Pro on the nightstand vibrates with a frantic persistence, the bright screen illuminating the wreckage of the Vispring mattress. The "Manager-oppa" text is a cold bucket of water over the fever of the last six hours.

"Five minutes," Jihyo whispers, her voice a wrecked, airy rasp. She stays pinned under you for a heartbeat longer, her internal muscles giving one final, involuntary squeeze against your softening length, reluctant to let the "legacy" go.

You pull out with a wet, heavy sound. The sight is absolute—Jihyo’s entrance is blown wide, a deep crimson ring that is overflowing with a thick, opaque cream. It’s a mess of her own slick and the massive volume of your unprotected release, pooling onto the charcoal Frette linens.

"Shower. Now," you command, your voice regained but dark.

You scoop Jihyo up, her heavy breasts bouncing against your chest, and gesture for Momo to follow. The master ensuite is a temple of Carrara marble and brushed gold. You kick the walk-in rainfall shower to life, the water hitting the stone at a steaming 40°C.

The three of you step under the spray. It’s a surreal, cinematic blur. You grab a bottle of Aesop body wash, the scent of bergamot and rind cutting through the heavy musk of the room. You soap them down, your hands sliding over Momo’s lean, dancer’s abs and Jihyo’s plush, aching curves.

As the hot water washes the visible evidence—the streaks on their thighs, the salt on their skin—down the drain, the reality sets in. You reach down, helping Jihyo clean the exterior of her labia, but you both know the truth: you can't wash away what's already deep inside.

"You're going to feel me with every step of the choreography today," you murmur, pulling them both into a final, wet embrace under the downpour.

"I want to feel it," Momo says, her eyes hooded as she leans her forehead against your shoulder. "I want the ache to remind me that I’m not just a puppet on a stage."

Jihyo looks at her reflection in the steam-fogged mirror, adjusting her posture back into the "Nation's Leader." She looks the same—immaculate, powerful, untouchable—but her eyes have a new, radioactive glow. She leans in, giving you one last, lingering kiss that tastes of mint toothpaste and cold-blooded betrayal.

"We have a music show pre-recording at 8 AM," Jihyo whispers against your lips. "And every time the camera zooms in, I'll be thinking about the way you hit my womb. You've ruined us, Y/n. And we loved every second of it."

Ten minutes later, you stand at the floor-to-ceiling window of the Signiel penthouse. You watch as a black Kia Carnival van pulls away from the Lotte World Tower, disappearing into the grey, morning traffic of Seoul.

As she drops into a deep squat, her knees wide, the fur coat slides halfway off her shoulders. The movement forces her chest forward, her breasts bouncing slightly with the beat, the cleavage so deep it feels like a trap. She’s not just dancing; she’s using her years of athletic training to manipulate every curve of her body for your eyes only.

"Is it working, Y/n?" she breathes, her face flushed as she crawls across the rug toward the edge of the sofa where you’re sitting.

She reaches the edge, pulling herself up until she’s kneeling between your legs. The scent of her perfume—peaches and warm skin—is overwhelming. She reaches up, grabbing your hands and placing them firmly on her waist, right where the fur meets the silk.

"You're not saying much," she whispers, her gaze dropping to your lips. She starts to grind her hips against your knees, a slow, agonizingly rhythmic motion that mimics the bass of the song. "Do you think the fans will like the way I move... or is this too much?"

The "just friends" boundary is currently a pile of ash on the floor. Her heart is pounding against your knuckles, and the sheer physical power in her legs as she straddles you tells you exactly how much stamina she’s been holding back.

Momo notices the way your breath hitches as your hands settle on her waist. A small, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of her lips—the look of a woman who knows exactly what her body is capable of doing to a man.

"You're so stiff, Y/n," she whispers, her voice a velvety contrast to the heavy bass of the track. "Just relax. I’m the one doing the work."

She stands up slowly, looming over you as you sit trapped on the edge of the sofa. With a dramatic, fluid shrug, she lets the heavy pink fur coat slide down her arms. It hits the floor with a soft thud, leaving her exposed in nothing but that dangerously thin cherry-print teddy. Without the fur, you can see the full extent of her athletic frame—the sharp definition of her shoulders, the dip of her waist, and the way her breasts strain against the tiny buttons of the pink fabric, threatening to pop free with every breath.

She doesn't give you time to process the view. She steps forward, hooking a leg over yours and sinking down until she’s straddling your lap. The "Dance Machine" doesn't do anything halfway; she uses her core strength to press her heat firmly against you, her thighs—thick and toned from years of practice—locking around your hips like a vice.

"I need to see if the fabric holds up under... pressure," she murmurs.

She reaches back, grabbing your wrists and pinning them to the back of the sofa, forcing your chest out as she begins to grind. It’s not a clumsy movement; it’s the controlled, rhythmic hip-work of an elite performer. She rotates her pelvis in slow, agonizing circles, her eyes never leaving yours. Every time she sinks down, the thin silk of the teddy bunched up between you, you feel the sheer power in her lower body.

Momo leans forward, her chest brushing against your shirt, the soft weight of her breasts pressing into you. She releases your wrists only to reach down and unfasten the top two buttons of the teddy. The fabric gapes open, revealing the pale, heaving curves of her bust.

"The choreography is usually more... restrained," she pants, her face flushed a deep pink as she picks up the tempo. "But since it's just you... I can show you the unedited version."

She begins to bounce, a sharp, athletic rhythm that uses every bit of her leg strength. The bouncing makes her chest move violently, the sheer volume of her breasts nearly spilling out of the unbuttoned silk. She’s breathless now, her damp hair clinging to her neck, but she doesn't stop. She’s using that world-class stamina to drive you into the cushions, her movements becoming more frantic and demanding as she realizes just how much she’s affecting you.

"Do you... like the view... from down here?" she gasps, her head falling back as she hits a particularly deep, grinding rhythm.

The music hits the bridge—a deep, distorted synth line that seems to vibrate through the very floorboards. Momo’s eyes darken, her professional "performer" focus shifting into something far more carnal. She’s done playing the role of the graceful dancer; she’s ready for the contact to be real.

"I’m tired of the barriers, Y/n," she rasps, her voice breaking.

Without breaking the rhythm of her hips, she reaches down. Her hands, calloused slightly from years of floorwork and gym sessions, are surprisingly fast. She fumbles with your belt for only a second before the buckle hisses open. She’s efficient, her core strength allowing her to lift her weight just enough to yank your jeans and boxers down in one aggressive motion, pinning them around your ankles.

When your heat finally snaps free, the air in the room feels freezing for a split second before she slams her weight back down.

She doesn't go for the kill yet. Instead, she keeps the cherry-print teddy on, the thin, damp silk acting as a friction-point. She straddles you again, but this time, there’s no gap. She guides you so that you’re pinned directly against the crotch of the silk fabric.

Then, she begins to hump you.

It’s a revelation of pure, unadulterated power. Momo isn’t just moving; she’s using her entire lower body—the explosive strength of her glutes and the incredible flexibility of her hips—to drive herself against you. The thin fabric of the teddy is already soaked with her own heat, and the friction of the silk sliding against your bare skin is a torture that has you gripping the sofa cushions until your knuckles turn white.

"Feel that?" she gasps, her fingers digging into your shoulders, her nails drawing thin red lines. "That’s... years of training... just for this."

She arches her back, her chest thrust forward so that her heavy breasts, now almost entirely free of the unbuttoned top, bounce with every frantic thrust. She’s dry-humping you with a frantic, rhythmic intensity, her internal "metronome" pushing the pace faster than any human should be able to sustain.

The wet silk of the teddy drags against your tip with every upward surge of her hips, the texture of the fabric intensifying every nerve ending. She’s making a low, guttural sound in the back of her throat, a predatory growl that matches the bass of the song.

"You're... so hard... against me," she moans, her eyes fluttering shut as she concentrates on the friction. She begins to grind in a figure-eight motion, a technique so precise and demanding that it could only come from a world-class dancer. "Does it feel... like a performance... now?"

Every time she slams down, the weight of her breasts hits your chest, the soft impact a stark contrast to the aggressive, muscular grinding of her pelvis. She’s pushing you to the absolute limit of your control, using the damp fabric to tease you until you’re begging for the final release.

The music swells into the final, booming chorus, the bass so heavy it feels like it’s thumping inside your own chest. Momo is no longer just dancing; she is a force of nature. She keeps the damp, cherry-print silk between you, using it as a deliberate, torturous barrier that heightens every sensation.

"Stay... right there," she commands, her voice a breathless wreck. She leans her weight forward, her sweaty forehead pressing against yours, her scent—peaches and pure adrenaline—filling your lungs.

She shifts her grip to the back of the sofa, using the extra leverage to lift her hips higher and slam back down with a violence that makes the furniture creak. The wet fabric of the teddy is hot and slick, acting like a saturated sponge that drags across your length with every frantic, rhythmic surge. The friction is unreal; the silk catches against your skin, pulling and teasing as she executes a series of rapid-fire, muscular grinds that only someone with her leg strength could possibly maintain.

"I'm... almost... there," she gasps, her eyes rolling back as she hits a frantic, jagged pace. Her breasts are completely free now, swinging wildly and slapping against your chest with every impact, the soft, heavy weight of them a stark contrast to the aggressive power of her thighs locking around you.

You can feel the tension in her entire body, every muscle in her core and legs corded like steel. She’s pushing you past the point of no return, her hips moving in a blur of motion that matches the frantic tempo of the bridge.

"Y/n... now!"

As the song hits its final, crashing beat, Momo lets out a loud, uninhibited cry, her body arching into a bow as she delivers one last, bone-shaking grind. The sensation of her clenching against you through the thin, soaked silk is the final trigger. You snap, a white-hot release pulsing out of you, the heat of it trapped between your skin and the damp fabric of her teddy.

Momo collapses against you, her head falling into the crook of your neck, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. She’s trembling from the effort, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The room is silent now, save for the rain on the glass and the sound of your shared, heavy breathing.

After a long minute, she pulls back just an inch, a messy, triumphant smile on her face as she looks at your ruined state.

"So," she whispers, her voice a rasp of pure satisfaction as she traces a finger over your jaw. "I'd say the 'solo' is ready for the world... but I think I’ll keep the encore for ourselves."

The silence following the music is heavy and thick, broken only by the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. Momo is a dead weight against you, her body still humming with the residual tremors of that climax. The damp silk of her cherry-print teddy is plastered to her skin and yours, cooling slightly in the air of the apartment.

She lets out a long, shuddering sigh, her cheek resting against your chest. "I'm... literally a puddle," she murmurs, her voice muffled by your skin. "I don't think I can move my legs for a week."

But as she settles deeper into you, the friction of her damp weight shifting across your lap sparks a sudden, defiant surge of heat. Despite the exhaustion, the proximity of her—the scent of her hair and the soft, heavy press of her breasts against your ribs—sends a fresh jolt of adrenaline straight to your core.

You feel yourself hardening again, pushing upward against the wet fabric of her teddy.

Momo freezes. She doesn't pull away; instead, she slowly lifts her head, her bangs messy and sticking to her forehead. A slow, predatory smirk spreads across her face as she feels the undeniable evidence of your recovery pressing firmly against her.

"Oh?" she whispers, her eyes darkening with a fresh, mischievous glint. "The 'Main Dancer' isn't the only one with stamina, I see."

She shifts her hips experimentally, a slow, deliberate tilt that makes you hiss through your teeth. The wet silk is still there, but now it’s acting as a lubricant, sliding even more easily over your length. She reaches down, her fingers brushing the hem of the teddy where it’s bunched up between your thighs.

"You're greedy, Y/n," she breathes, leaning in until her lips are a fraction of an inch from yours. Her breath is hot, smelling faintly of the lollipop she had earlier. "But I guess it would be unprofessional of me to leave the audience wanting more."

She hooks her thumbs into the leg openings of the silk, and this time, she doesn't just hump against the fabric. She pulls it aside with a sharp, decisive tug, finally clearing the last barrier.

"Round two," she rasps, her eyes locking onto yours as she guides you home. "And this time, I’m not letting you go until the sun comes up."

Momo’s breath hitches as she feels you, hot and insistent, finally freed from the wet silk of the teddy. She’s hovering just over you, her knees braced against the sofa cushions, her inner thighs trembling slightly—not from weakness, but from the raw anticipation of the contact.

"Finally," she whispers, her voice dropping into that deep, husky register that usually only comes out after a twelve-hour rehearsal. She reaches down, her fingers trembling as she guides you. "No more dancing around it."

She begins to lower herself, a slow, agonizingly controlled descent. Because of her core strength, she can move by the millimeter, letting you feel every bit of the friction as she takes you in.

"Momo... god," you rasp, your hands flying to her hips to steady her. The feeling of her skin—slick with sweat and heat—hitting yours without a single thread in between is overwhelming. "You're... you're so warm."

"Tell me about it," she gasps, her eyes fluttering shut as she sinks down another inch. She’s stretching around you, her dancer’s body accommodating you with a terrifyingly perfect fit. "I've been thinking about this... since the first time we 'just hung out' in this room."

She settles fully, a long, shaky moan vibrating through her chest and into yours as she finally bottoms out. She stays still for a moment, her forehead resting against your shoulder, her heavy breasts crushed against your chest.

"You okay?" you murmur, your voice thick.

"I'm perfect," she breathes, pulling back to look at you, her face flushed and glowing. She starts to move, a slow, rolling grind of her pelvis that makes use of every bit of her hip flexibility. "But I think... I'm going to need you to hold on tight. I don't plan on being gentle for the encore."

"Then don't be," you growl, your grip tightening on her waist. "Show me what the 'Dance Machine' can really do."

Momo lets out a dark, breathless laugh and picks up the pace, her rhythm becoming a jagged, powerful pulse that echoes the heavy rain still lashing against the windows.

Momo’s response to your touch is immediate and visceral. As you follow her lead, your hands slide from her waist to her shoulder blades, pulling her even tighter against you. You lean in, your tongue trailing a hot, wet path along the cord of her neck, tasting the salt and the lingering floral scent of her skin.

She lets out a sharp, jagged gasp, her head falling back to give you better access. "Yes... right there," she breathes, her voice a broken whisper.

As you lick and nip at the sensitive skin of her throat, Momo’s rhythm changes. She stops the slow grinds and begins to use her sheer athletic power to drive the pace. Her thighs clamp around your hips, her muscles corded and strong as she begins a series of deep, vertical pulses. Because of her flexibility, she’s able to tilt her pelvis back, ensuring that every downward surge is as deep as possible.

"You're... such a good listener, Y/n," she moans, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling your head back so she can look into your eyes. Her face is a mask of pure, concentrated pleasure. "Does it feel better... without the silk?"

"Infinitely better," you rasp, your breath hitching as she hits a particularly intense spot.

"Good," she pants, her movements becoming a blur of motion. She’s using her core to control the friction, her heavy breasts bouncing rhythmically against your chest. "Because I'm not... stopping... until you can't even remember your own name."

She increases the speed, her dancer’s stamina finally on full display. She’s relentless, a powerhouse of muscle and heat, riding you with a frantic, unyielding energy that turns the quiet apartment into a private, high-stakes arena. Every time you try to match her, she pushes harder, asserting her control until the world narrows down to just the sound of the rain, the thud of her heart, and the raw, physical connection between you.

Momo’s breath hitches into a high-pitched, staccato series of whimpers as she approaches the edge. Her movements lose their rhythmic precision, becoming frantic and desperate. Her internal muscles clamp down on you with the strength of an athlete, her entire lower body vibrating with the effort of holding on.

"Y/n... wait... I'm—!"

She doesn't get the rest of the sentence out. Her back arches into a violent, graceful curve as her climax hits, a powerful, full-body convulsion that pulls a guttural cry from her throat. The sheer force of her release causes her to squirt, a hot, sudden deluge of moisture that soaks the sofa cushions and slicks your stomach. She collapses forward, her heart thudding like a trapped bird against your chest, her skin radiating a feverish heat.

You don't let the momentum die. While she’s still in the hazy, sensitive afterglow, you grab her waist and flip her. In one fluid motion, she’s pinned against the cushions, her messy hair fanning out against the fabric, and you’re looming over her.

She looks up at you, her eyes hooded and dazed. The cherry-print teddy is a wreck—soaked, unbuttoned, and pushed aside—but it’s still clinging to her curves.

"The show isn't over yet, Momo," you growl, your voice thick with the need she just stoked.

You reach down, grabbing her hands and pulling them toward your length. At the same time, you use your palms to push her heavy breasts together, forcing the deep cleavage to swallow you whole. The damp, silk fabric of the teddy acts as a slick, friction-filled sleeve as you slide between them.

"I need you to work for it," you mutter, looking down at the way your cock is buried in the soft, pale weight of her bust. "Use your hands. Keep the teddy on... I want to feel the silk and your skin at the same time."

Momo lets out a shaky, half-delirious laugh, her competitive spirit flickering back to life. She wraps her fingers around you, her grip firm and practiced, and begins to move her hands in a rapid, pumping motion that matches the rhythm of her tits squeezing against you.

"You're... so demanding," she pants, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. She leans her head up, watching the way you slide through the valley of her chest. "But I told you... I’d give you the 'unedited' version. Does this... feel like enough of a titjob for you?"

She picks up the pace, her thumb tracing over your tip with every upward stroke of her hand, while the soaked silk of the cherry teddy drags across your underside. The combination of the friction, the view of her heaving chest, and the slick heat of her palms is a sensory overload that has you seeing stars.

Momo’s competitive streak is in full overdrive now. Even with her legs still shaking from her own climax, she watches the way your jaw tightens, her eyes tracking every twitch of your muscles. She loves the control; she loves knowing that the most famous "Dance Machine" in the world has you completely at her mercy on a Tuesday night in your living room.

"You look like you're about to break, Y/n," she whispers, her voice a low, teasing vibration.

She doesn't stop the handjob, but she shifts her body, sliding downward until she’s kneeling between your legs. The cherry-print teddy is damp and ruined, clinging to her midriff, while her heavy breasts—still slick from the friction of the titjob—sway enticingly above you.

She leans in, her lips ghosting over your tip for a heartbeat before she takes you in all at once.

The transition is flawless. While one hand stays wrapped around your base, pumping with a rhythmic, athletic precision, her mouth creates a vacuum of heat that nearly sends you over the edge instantly. She uses her tongue with the same dexterity she uses on stage, swirling and teasing, while the hand stays in perfect sync.

"Momo... slow down," you groan, your hands tangling in her messy hair as you try to maintain some semblance of control.

She doesn't listen. She looks up at you through her lashes, her eyes wide and mischievous, before she goes even deeper, her throat working to accommodate you. The sound of her wet, frantic sucking mixed with the rhythmic slap of her hand against your skin fills the quiet apartment.

You're done. The "performance" has reached its absolute limit.

"I'm going—!"

You barely have time to warn her before you snap. You pull back just enough to clear her mouth, and a heavy, hot release pulses out of you. It splatters across the soaked, pink silk of her teddy, the white contrast stark against the red cherry print. It covers her chest and the curve of her neck, a messy, final "standing ovation" for the night’s work.

Momo doesn't pull away. She watches the mess settle on her skin with a look of pure, primal satisfaction. She reaches up, wiping a stray drop from her collarbone with her thumb and slowly licking it off, her eyes never leaving yours.

"So," she pants, her breath hot against your thigh as she collapses back onto the floor, her chest heaving under the weight of her damp, ruined outfit. "Was that... effective enough for a debut?"

You lean back against the sofa, your heart finally slowing down as the adrenaline begins to fade into a heavy, blissful exhaustion. "Momo... that wasn't a debut. That was a career-defining performance."

Jennie smirks at your words, her eyes lighting up with excitement and lust. Without hesitation, she takes your hand and leads you deeper into the room, weaving past the room. Throughout the walk from the room to your eventual destination, you tried to process the sights in front of your eyes, from the famous female celebrities submitting to men pleasuring them, as well as celebrities just playing with themselves on couches.

Jennie guides you to a relatively quieter area of the club, where sofas are partitioned with walls and curtains, pushing you down to sit on the sofa. She then didn’t hesitate to close the curtain before she untied her robe and let it fall, letting you see and enjoy the sight of her in a matching red bra and lace panties. Before you can think it through, she straddled your lap, her panty-clad pussy grinding against the hardening bulge in your pants. Leaning in close, her breasts press against your chest as she captures your lips in a searing kiss. Her tongue demands entrance to your mouth, tangling with yours in a filthy dance. She tastes like whiskey and desire, her breath coming in short, eager gasps. As she kisses you, her hands work to remove your shirt, popping the buttons one by one until your toned torso is bared to her hungry touch. She runs her fingers over your abs, marveling at the definition, before trailing lower to palm your hard cock through your pants.

Breaking the kiss, she sits back on your lap and grins at you, her chest heaving. In one swift motion, she reaches behind herself and unhooks her bra, tossing it aside, letting her full, perfect tits bounce freely, nipples already hard from arousal. She then takes your hand and places it on her breasts, encouraging you to squeeze and play with her breasts and erect nipples, which you did, letting your fingers brush the erect nipples, playing with the areolas, stimulating her breasts in ways the two of you enjoy. At the same time, she starts to rut against you more urgently, the damp patch on her thong growing with each grind of her hips.

“Fuck I want you so bad,” She pants, her voice rough with lust. “I want to feel this big cock inside me. I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk straight.” 

As she pours out the words inside her, she reaches down to rub her clit through her thong, her fingers moving in quick circles. Her other hand grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to press harder against her breasts, silently demanding more. The room is filled with the sound of moans, the slap of flesh on flesh, and the rhythmic thumping of music, but in this moment, it fades away. There is only Jennie, straddling your lap, desperate for your touch, aching for your cock.

“If that’s what you say… and what you want, prepare my cock then.” You said, your voice hoarse and rough in lust, the same way she is, or even worse than she is.

Jennie grins wickedly at your command, her eyes sparking with lust and anticipation. Without hesitation, she reaches down and unbuttons your pants, her fingers brushing against your skin as she lowers your zipper. She then got off your lap and kneeled down in front of you, tugging down your pants and boxers, yanking them down your legs until your hard cock sprang free, slapping against her face. She wraps her hand around your shaft, stroking it slowly as she admires your size and girth.

“Mmm, fuck yeah,” She purrs, her thumb rubbing over the sensitive head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that’s already leaking out, “Such a big, thick cock. I can’t wait to feel it stretching me open.” She then hovered her mouth over your cock and opened her mouth, letting a glob of saliva drop onto your cock. “But first… lemme get a taste of this first.” She then lowered her mouth onto your cock and started sucking your cock. She hollowed her mouth aggressively, letting your cock into her mouth inch by inch. She maintained the tight hollow of her cheeks, letting you feel the same tightness all the way through her mouth before your cock reached her throat. She repeated this motion to prepare your cock more with her saliva, before she removed your cock from her mouth. She then got up and lowered her lace panties, before she hovered her legs over your thighs, straddling you.

She then moved down to grip your cock, before shifting her hips and positioning your tip at her entrance, allowing you to feel the heat radiating off her pussy, the wetness of her arousal coating your tip. With a roll of her hips, she starts to sink down, her tight walls stretching around your girth. She bites her lip, a low moan escaping her as she takes more of you inside, inch by hard inch. She doesn’t stop until she’s fully seated on your lap, your cock buried to the hilt inside her. She grinds down, taking a moment to adjust to the size, allowing you to feel her muscles fluttering around your cock.

“Fuck, you’re so deep,” she pants, her nails digging into your shoulders, “I can feel you in my fucking womb.” She starts to move, rolling her hips in a slow grind. The wet, obscene sound of skin on skin fills the air as she picks up speed, riding you with increasing enthusiasm.

“This is what I wanted,” she gasps, bouncing on your lap, her tits jiggling with each movement, “To be filled up by a big, hard cock. To be fucked stupid by a sexy man like you.” She then leans in, her lips brushing your ear as she whispers. “I want you to fuck me hard, right here where anyone can see. I want you to make me scream on your cock until I forget where I am. Think you can do that for me, handsome?”

You trace your fingers all over Jennie’s back, hands on her shoulder blades, brushing it as she continues riding you. “We have time darling,” You said, before moving your right hand down her back and spanking her ass cheeks, before sliding the right hand between her thighs. Your fingers found her clit, and you didn’t hesitate to rub a finger on her clit. One finger turned into two as you helped motivate her movements on your cock. “Just ride for me now Jen…”

Jennie shudders as your fingers find her clit, circling the sensitive nub. Her hips buck reflexively, taking your cock even deeper inside her. She grinds down hard, her walls clenching around you like a velvet vice.

“Oh fuck yes, just like that,” she moans, her head falling back as pleasure courses through her. She starts to ride you in earnest, bouncing on your lap with wild abandon. Her tits jiggle hypnotically with each movement, drawing your eyes to their supple bounce. The sight, combined with the feeling of her tight cunt gripping your cock, is almost too much to bear. 

To aid her increasing pace on your cock, you move your left hand from her back all the way down to her hips, gripping them tightly, letting Jennie have a sense of control, but also safety. As your hand rests on her hips, she rides you harder, faster, her nails digging into your shoulders as she chases her pleasure. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling fill the air, mixing with the pulsing beat of the music and the distant moans of people in the grand lounge outside.

“Yes, fuck, your cock feels so good,” Jennie pants, her face flushed and eyes glazed with lust, “I love feeling you so deep inside me, filling me up completely.”

She leans in, capturing your lips in a sloppy, desperate kiss. Her tongue pushes into your mouth, tangling with yours as she rides you with wild enthusiasm. Your fingers continue to circle her clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in time with the roll of her hips. You can feel her getting closer, her muscles starting to flutter and tense around your cock.

“Don’t stop,” she gasps between kisses, her voice rough and ragged with pleasure. “Keep touching me just like that. I’m gonna cum on your big, fat cock. Gonna soak you with my juices.”

She grinds down particularly hard, her clit throbbing against your fingers as her orgasm builds. The room spins around you, filled with the sound and scents of raw, unbridled lust.

“I can feel you close to cumming Jen…” You move your left hand from her hips up towards her breasts, slapping her left breasts before then pinching her nipples, pinching and releasing them according to her pace, as well as matching the pace your right hand rubs her clit. “Cum whenever you want to.”

Jennie gasps sharply as you slap her sensitive nipples, the sudden jolt of pain and pleasure making her walls clench around your cock like a vice. She throws her head back, a high, keening moan tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashes over her.

“Yes, fuck, I’m cumming! I’m cumming so hard on your cock!” she screams, her voice echoing through the room. Her body convulses, her nails digging into your shoulders hard enough to leave marks as she rides out her intense climax. Waves of electricity surge through her trembling body as her pussy spasms and flutters around your shaft, gripping you like a silken fist. Her juices gush out around your cock, dripping down onto your lap and the mattress below. The strength of her orgasm momentarily pushes your cock out of her pussy, before you tilt your hips upwards and thrust back inside her pussy, allowing you to feel more of her juices raining out of her pussy. Jennie’s eyes roll back, her tongue lolling out as she surrenders to the mind-blowing ecstasy consuming her.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” she babbles, incoherent with pleasure as her orgasm seems to go on and on, her cunt milking your cock for all its worth. You can feel your own release building, your balls tightening as her slick walls massage your shaft. The hot, clenching pressure is incredible, threatening to pull you over the edge right alongside her.

“W-Wait.. Fuck fuck fuck…” Just as you’re on the razor’s edge, ready to explode inside her, Jennie collapses against your chest, her body going limp as the final aftershocks of her climax roll through her. She pants heavily, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat as she comes down from her high. 

You instinctively reached up to hold her body by wrapping your arms underneath hers, pulling her into a hug. You soothed her back, caressing them with your fingers in an attempt to bring her down from her intense orgasm. As you continue this act, you feel her heartbeat slowing down, as well as her breath getting more regulated and calmer.

“You haven’t finished yet?” Jennie asked, to which you shook your head as a reply. “Okay… how do you wanna finish?” Jennie offers, lifting herself slightly to get your cock out of her pussy. It is only now that she’s able to lightly see the mess she made on you, as well as the furnitures, as well as noticing how hard your cock has gotten from the act of fucking her.

“Wanna fuck your ass now…” You say, moving a hand onto her ass cheeks and slapping them, before gliding a finger on her asshole and lightly rubbing her asshole. “Lube it up for me, and lube my cock as well. Impress me.”

Jennie looks up at you with a dazed, lust-filled expression as she recovers from her intense orgasm. At your words, a wicked grin spreads across her face, her eyes glinting with renewed desire.

“Mmm, you want to fuck my ass now, huh? I thought you’d never ask,” she purrs, her voice low and seductive. “I love a man who knows what he wants.”

She then climbs off your lap, before turning around to bend over and present her ass to you, reaching back to spread her cheeks apart, letting you have a glimpse of her tight, puckered hole. She then walked over to a table and opened a drawer, reaching for a bottle of lube before she closed the drawer and returned to sitting in front of you. She opened the bottle of lube and squirted a generous amount onto her fingers, before starting to work the slick liquid around her asshole, circling and pressing against the tight puckered hole, producing soft, lewd sounds filling the air.

At the same time, she uses her free hand to grab the bottle of lube and coat your cock generously, using her free hand to stroke your cock back to full hardness. Her hand glides smoothly over your shaft, the lube allowing her to pump you with speed and ease.

“Look at this big, thick cock, so hard and ready to stretch my ass,” she murmurs, admiring your girth as she strokes you. “I can’t wait to feel you pushing inside me, claiming my ass.” 

Once your cock is well-lubed and throbbing with renewed desire, Jennie moves to stand up and bend over the couch in the free area, prompting you to stand behind her. Jennie then reaches behind to grab your cock and line it up with her lubed ass, before looking back at you over her shoulder, biting her lip with anticipation. “Fuck my ass hard, just like you fucked my pussy. I want you to make me scream even louder, to make everyone in this room know that you’ve claimed my ass as yours.” She demands, pushing her hips back to take your tip inside her ass.

“Uuuughhh” You groan, thrusting forward to slide your tip into her asshole. Simultaneously, Jennie lets out a sharp gasp as you thrust your hips forward, letting you drive your hard, lube-slicked cock deep into her tight asshole. The head pushes past her resistant rim, sinking into the clutching heat of her asshole. Her body tenses briefly at the sudden invasion, before relaxing her anus, which allows you to slide in further, inch by thick inch.

“Oh fuck, yes! So big, so deep,” she moans loudly as you bottom out inside her, your hips pressed against her ass. Without giving her time to adjust, you start to move, pulling your hips back until just the tip remains inside, before slamming forward again. You set a hard, fast rhythm, fucking into her tight ass with deep, powerful strokes. Jennie cries out with each thrust, her voice rising in pitch as you pound her. The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the room, mingling with her wanton moans and your grunts of exertion. Her tits bounce and sway beneath her as you take her roughly from behind, hands moving up her body and reaching over down to her tits, groping and rubbing her nipples as your thrusts continue.

“That’s it, just like that! Fuck my ass harder!” Jennie screams, pushing her hips back to meet your thrusts. Her pussy clenches around nothing, aching and empty as you use her tight asshole so thoroughly. You reach down with one hand, finding her clit and rubbing it hard. You use the other hand to tighten the grip on her breasts, holding her steady as you rut into her like an animal in heat. The combined stimulation has Jennie seeing stars, her body shaking and quivering as she surrenders to the intense pleasure.

“Don’t stop, fuck me through another orgasm! Make me cum on your cock while you’re buried in my ass!” She begs, her voice raw and desperate. You can feel her tightening around you, her body coiling like a spring ready to snap. The room spins around you, filled with the filthy sounds of your coupling and the distant moans of the orgy. All you can focus on is the hot, silken grip of Jennie’s ass around your pistoning cock, and the need to bring her to a shattering climax, also knowing the fact that in two more thrusts, you’ll explode yourself, but decided to hide that fact from her.

Feeling your cock throb and pulse inside her tight ass, Jennie lets out a scream of ecstasy as you explode, flooding her insides with your hot, thick seed. Her pussy clenches hard, the walls fluttering wildly as a hands-free orgasm rips through her trembling body.

“YES, FUCK! CUMMING! CUMMING ON YOUR COCK!” She shrieks, her voice echoing off the walls. Her asshole clamps down around you like a vice as you empty your balls deep inside her, wave after wave of thick cum painting her inner walls white. You grip her hips hard, your fingers digging into her soft flesh as you grind into her, pushing your cock as deep as possible while you pump her full of your cum. Your other hand rubs her clit furiously, ensuring her climax is as intense and prolonged as your own. Jennie’s body shakes and jerks beneath you, her muscles seizing up as the overwhelming pleasure consumes her. Her eyes roll back, tongue lolling out as she surrenders completely to the mind-blowing sensation of being filled and used so thoroughly. You can feel your cum, hot and thick, sloshing inside her as you continue to grind into her, working your cum deeper into her trembling body. Her asshole milks your spurting cock, rippling and clenching around you, coaxing out every last drop.

Lisa tilted her head, hat dipping low. “Hmm… am I?” Her hand trailed down, absentmindedly tugging at the tie of her bikini bottoms before letting it go again. She stood, brushing sand from her thighs, and offered you a hand. “Come on. The sun's almost gone. Let’s head back before the mosquitoes decide we’re dinner.”

The walk to the villa was quiet, save for waves crashing and Lisa’s humming. She walked ahead of you, hat bobbing slightly, crop top swaying. Every time she glanced back, there was that sly curve of her lips—like she knew exactly how much she was driving you crazy.

The villa’s glass doors slid shut behind you, muting the sound of the sea. Lisa tossed her hat aside and padded barefoot across the wooden floor, heading straight to the fridge. She grabbed two cold cocktails, condensation dripping as she handed you one.

She sat close—too close—legs brushing yours as she sipped, eyes locked on you over the rim of her glass. Finally, she smirked. “You really can’t hide it, you know.”

“Hide what?” you asked, feigning ignorance.

“The way you’ve been looking at me all day. Like you want to eat me alive.” She set her drink down, leaning so close you could feel her breath tickle your ear. “Do you?”

Your throat tightened. “Lisa…”

She pulled back just enough to search your face, her grin widening at your hesitation. “That’s what I thought.”

Lisa swung one leg over your lap, settling onto you with deliberate slowness. The thin fabric of her bikini bottoms pressed against you through your shorts. She rested her hands on your shoulders, eyes sparkling with playful challenge.

“You had your chance to deny it,” she whispered, brushing her lips over yours without closing the distance. “Now I want to see how badly you really want me.”

Her mouth finally captured yours, soft at first, then hungrier, teeth grazing your bottom lip. You kissed back eagerly, hands moving instinctively to her waist. She guided them higher, sliding your palms under her crop tee. Your fingers grazed warm skin, then the curve of her breasts—bare. No bra.

Lisa gasped into your mouth when you cupped her fully, nails digging lightly into your shoulders. “Mmh, that’s better,” she purred, rocking her hips slowly, grinding against you until your breath hitched.

You trailed kisses down her jaw, to her neck, then lower, tugging her shirt upward. She lifted her arms and let you peel it off, tossing it aside. Her chest rose and fell quickly, nipples already hard from the teasing breeze of the open window. You leaned down, sucking one into your mouth, tonguing the sensitive peak.

Lisa threw her head back with a soft moan, rolling her hips harder against you. “Fuck… don’t stop.”

Your hands roamed her back, then slid down to cup her ass through the bikini fabric, squeezing as she ground down. The friction made her whimper, nails raking through your hair as she held you closer to her chest.

But then, just when you thought she’d let it go further, Lisa pulled back with a wicked grin, lips swollen and glistening. “Not yet.” She climbed off your lap, standing tall and breathless, her skin flushed. “I want more than this. Come with me.”

She led you by the hand into the villa’s master bedroom, where floor-to-ceiling windows framed the ocean beyond. The sky was streaked with pinks and oranges, waves crashing gently below.

Lisa stopped at the edge of the bed, turning to face you. Her fingers hooked into the strings of her bikini bottoms, slowly tugging until the knot unraveled. The fabric slipped down her legs and pooled at her feet. She stood there completely naked now, skin glowing in the dim light.

“Your turn,” she murmured, eyes flicking to your clothes.

You stripped quickly, each layer leaving you more exposed under her watchful gaze. Lisa bit her lip when you finally stood bare before her. She stepped close, dragging her nails lightly down your chest, then pushed you onto the bed.

Climbing over you, she straddled your waist again, lowering herself with agonizing slowness until you sank into her warmth. Both of you gasped, the sudden tight heat stealing your breath. Lisa set the pace, rocking gently at first, her hands planted on your chest.

“God, you feel so good,” she moaned, tossing her hair back. She rode you deep, slow and deliberate, grinding her hips in circles that made you groan.

Your hands gripped her thighs, guiding her rhythm, but Lisa smirked, slapping one hand away. “No. I’m in control.” She leaned forward, bracing on your shoulders, hips snapping faster now.

The sound of her skin slapping against yours mixed with the creaking bed and her soft, broken moans. You couldn’t resist any longer—you grabbed her waist and flipped her onto her back, pressing deep inside her as her eyes widened.

“Fuck—yes!” she cried, legs wrapping around your hips. You thrust harder, faster, each movement making her back arch, breasts bouncing with every impact. Her nails raked across your shoulders, leaving burning trails.

You shifted, pulling her hips up slightly and plunging deeper, hitting a spot that made her scream out. “Right there, don’t stop, please!”

Her walls clenched around you, her moans rising with each thrust. She was close, trembling beneath you, gasping your name between desperate whimpers. You buried your face in her neck, driving harder, faster, until she broke with a loud cry, body shuddering violently as her climax hit.

Her release pushed you over the edge. With one final deep thrust, you spilled inside her, groaning against her skin. Both of you collapsed together, breathless and sweaty, hearts racing.

For a long moment, only the sound of waves and heavy breathing filled the room. Lisa’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her skin glistening under the fading sunset. She smiled lazily, brushing damp strands of hair from her face.

“See?” she whispered, tracing patterns on your chest with her fingertip. “I told you I’d make you melt.”

You chuckled weakly, kissing her temple. “You win.”

She shifted closer, curling against your side, her leg draped over yours. The ocean breeze cooled your heated skin as you held each other, the world outside fading to night.

Lisa sighed contently. “This vacation… just got a whole lot better.”

You looked down at her, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “I think it’s just the beginning.”

Her lips curled into that same teasing smile, softer now. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”

“Mr Lee, meet Huh Yunjin of Le Sserafim, our new spokesperson.” You rolled your eyes, seeing your former classmate, who now happens to become one of Korea’s most famous celebrities. Unlike the public, the two of you know each other beyond that, knowing who your true selves are, due to the amount of time the two of you spent together as teenagers, despite those times being a reluctant situation.

“Oh. Mr Lee huh? Been a while.” Yunjin said, whilst you just rolled your eyes and sipped the champagne on your left hand. “So cold? Not surprised.” Yunjin snickered, whilst you gave her a side eye. “Gentleman,  I believe I asked you to sign someone who is a good public figure and CAN be managed.” You said to the executive, earning a groan from Yunjin. “Oh what do you mean by that? You know how… obedient I am.’ Yunjin said with some innuendos, guiding you back in time to some of the … activities the two of you did in the past, before she added, ‘Besides, how do you know it’s my issue when you’re so emotionally constipated and pretentious.” “Excuse me, what’s that supposed to mean?” You ask her in anger, whilst the executives and assistants sensing the argument and decide to back away from the two of you.

“Oh you know exactly what I mean, Mr. fucker.” Yunjin said, trying and successfully riling you up. “Please, you think that’ll make me angry? Says the woman who thinks confidence is a trait and once it drops she cries.” You said, and for one second you saw her expression shift to one of sadness and fear, the one you saw the last time you met her, the last time you held her, before her expression shifts back to a fearless and blank one. “Fuck you, the person who thinks silence is powerful. Guess what, it’s not always the case.” She says, smirking at you before she leaves your area, moving away and around the gala.

“Wow, you could’ve told me, us, this.” Minjeong states in surprise, her mouth and eyes still wide open after hearing and seeing the full-blown argument you and Yunjin got yourselves into. “How much is the termination penalty?” You ask. “3 billion won. We’re only paying her 1 billion.” You shouted ‘Fuck’ a bit too loud, earning the glares of everyone, before you apologized and avoided people, walking towards the windows whilst your assistant briefs you on more things, including the design schedule between the company and Yunjin, as well as the photoshoot schedules.

“Yah saekki-ya, why are you shouting ‘Fuck’ before?” You roll your eyes, hearing the sound of your younger, and poorly tempered sister, Lee Wonhee. “Yunjin has been selected as our new spokesperson.” You said, before she replied. “WHAT THE FUCK? THAT BITCH?!?!” Wonhee shouted, forcing you to shut her mouth with your hands. This time, everyone’s eyes went to the two of you again, including Yunjin’s who stared at you with a weird look of disappointment and shock. “Keep it down fucker, but yes. The board made the call, and you know who’s chairman.” “Of course…” Wonhee replied, now already calming down from her… bad temper.

As you were about to join the second round of ‘greeting the guests’, you saw Yunjin leaving the event discreetly, heading for the elevator. You immediately put down the champagne glass you had in hand and walked towards the elevator. You rushed into the closing elevator and were greeted by the disgusted face of Yunjin, staring at you as the elevator started going down from the 61st floor to the ground floor.

“Did you tell your sister about… us?” Yunjin asked, curiosity looming all over her face. “Uh yeah… How’d you figure it out?” “I know her, Lee.” She said, still looking around the elevator. “So we’ll do this huh?” You ask her, and all she does is roll her eyes. Without further delays, she pressed the button to the 40th floor, abruptly stopping the elevator as it passed the 40th floor. She left the elevator and you followed her down the hall, the walk all too familiar for you as you arrive at the front door to your office, electronically locked, only accessible by keycard, fingerprint or a numerical passcode.

You watch as she walked to the keypad, pressing your birthday on the keypad, which is #09092001. You saw the surprise in her face when the passcode she entered was wrong. “You changed it?” Yunjin asked you, before you nodded. “What is it?” She asked, and you only replied with “Figure it out yourself.” Yunjin rolled her eyes at you and stared at the keypad again for a moment, before she inputted the keypad with the numbers 10082001, receiving a ding from the door, and the door opening. “Lee Y/n? Why was that the keypad?” Yunjin asked as she opened the door, before you followed her into your office and then locked the door behind you.

“Wonhee set it up. Before we… before that happened. I didn’t know it was that. I haven’t visited this office in a while, and whenever I do, I use the card.” You tried to reason with her, trying hard to explain that it meant nothing besides a childish joke by your sister, but the two of you knew that it was much more than that. “Okay. If it’s nothing… then it is nothing.” She said as she walked over to the glass-to-ceiling window, her hair tidied to one side, exposing her neck. You walk closer to her, before she interrupts. “Can’t resist?” “You know me.”

You said before turning her around and lifting her onto the vanity. You wrap her legs around you and kiss her passionately, moving your hands onto her cheeks. You felt her tightening her legs around you as her arms moved around your neck, rubbing it gently up and down your neck. You rest your other hand on her waist, caressing the large area between her stomach, waist, hips and thighs.

“I don’t have much time.” Yunjin told you, her hands desperate and rushing down to your pants, moving quickly to unbuckle and lower your pants. “Do you have condoms?” Yunjin asked. “No.” “FUCK!” “Asshole. Keep the voice down.” You warned her. “Fine. no fucking. Just… pull out.” Yunjin told you, making you desperately disappointed. “The fuck? Why?” “No condoms= no creampie. I’d let you fill me up, but I only do that to people I love, and you lost that privilege.” She said, causing a stir deep inside you. “Fine.”

Yunjin hopped off the table and kneeled down, lowering your pants and boxers to your knee-level. You let her breath near your cock which is getting harder after each second, before she starts licking the tip of your cock. Her actions get more enthusiastic as she moves onto your whole cock, licking your cock up and down before grabbing the courage to shove it down her throat. “FUCK! How is that tighter?” You groan in pleasure as she starts moving fast, hollowing her cheeks more after each time she sucked you off, before she tried a new thing to deepthroat you, letting your cock touch and stay at the edge of her throat for a few seconds. Ultimately, she tapped out, forcing you to pull out of her mouth roughly. “You okay?” You ask her in concern. “Yeah. Stand. I need you to thighfuck me.” She said, before standing up and turning around.

You place your cock between her ass and squeeze her ass together. “Jin, lube.” She stared at you lustfully, before spitting onto her hand. She then used that hand to stroke your cock hard and fast, getting you hard and slick. “Your turn.” She says. You move your hand near her mouth, watching her spit onto your hands then lowering her panties. You move your hand onto her pussy, rubbing your hands on her clit, before you eventually insert two fingers into her, simultaneously thrusting into her pussy.

You grip her hips tightly, holding her steady as your thrusts get even faster, whilst her thighs squeezed you tighter. “I still fucking hate you, you know that right?” Yunjin said, prompting you to bite her neck in an attempt to silence her. “I know, just shut the fuck up.” After adding those words, you support them by fingering her even faster, hands moving more erratically inside her, hitting various spots inside her. “F-Fuck you…’ Yunjin moaned, her head falling forward due to the intense stimulation you gave her, ‘You’re doing that thing again to make me cum.”

“Don’t cum yet, wait for me.” You said, fucking her even faster, hands already moving upwards onto her dress. You reach for her breasts, cupping it through the dress gently, feeling her warm boobs, covered by the silk in between. “I wish I can beg you to rip it off me, but it’ll cause a fucking scandal.” Yunjin moaned, tilting her head backwards onto your shoulder, leaving room for you to leave butterfly kisses all over her neck. “I’m close.” You whisper, hands now all over her, cock very hard and throbbing between her thighs. “Good… cos I’ll only let you cum once you feel my juices squirting onto your cock… Capische?” You nod at her words, motivating her to cum faster and harder through your hand movements in and on her body.

“F-Fuck… that’s it baby… FUCK YES LEE Y/N FUCKK!!!” Yunjin’s moans echo through the room as her orgasm peaks, her juices squirting out of her pussy, the strength of her orgasm forcing you out of her pussy, leaving no choice but to stimulate her by rubbing her clit and tits. Her juices, which has been spraying all over your cock for the past few seconds, brought you the extra mile you needed to cum. As your orgasm arrives, you feel both of Yunjin’s hands on you. One was around your neck, using it to stabilize herself, and the other was around your cock, hands stroking your tip aggressively fast to the point that once your orgasm arrived, you spurt your cum all over her hands and fingers. “Mmmhh yeah that’s it Y/n… Cum on these hands…” Yunjin’s moans repeat throughout your orgasm as spurt after spurt of your cum went out and went onto her hands.