#neocity

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⟢ SYNOPSIS—the stranger you slept with last night is your new boss.

⟢ STARRING—ceo!jeno, fem!reader, idol!aespa, manager!kun, worker!seulgi, idol!nctwish

⟢ GENRE—fluff, modern!au, drabble

⟢ CAUTION—profanity, nsfw

⟢ W.C—2.4k words

⤷ MUSIC: love talk — WAYV

house of cards — BTS

meddle about — CHASE ATLANTIC

✉️ (pls read!) - since this story is a little more explicit than the other’s i just wanted to preface that it is strictly a work of fiction inspired by real people. all the events, dialogues, and characterisation’s have been created for storytelling purposes and do not reflect real-life actions or personalities of anyone mentioned in this fic.

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𝐘/𝐍 𝐋/𝐍

you wake up to an unfamiliar ceiling.

soft daylight filters through curtains that definitely aren’t yours, casting a warm glow over sheets that smell expensive—and like someone else. your nose crinkles at the scent, some mix of cologne and sex, clinging to your skin like regret.

your body feels warm. too warm.

when you glance to your right, the reason becomes clear.

there’s a man beside you. silver hair tousled against the pillow, lips parted slightly, one strong arm draped lazily over your waist. his chest rises and falls steadily. peaceful. content. like he didn’t just blow your entire life off track.

your heart sinks.

memories come rushing in all at once—flashes of a bar, laughter, his mouth on your neck, your legs wrapped around his waist, whispered things that made your stomach flutter. and then… nothing. until now.

you sit up, careful not to wake him. what the hell were you thinking? scratch that—you weren’t thinking. you don’t even know his name. you don’t know why you let him talk you into coming back to this hotel. and worst of all? you don’t know why the sex was good enough to make you forget all of that.

you sigh and peel his arm off you, his fingers twitching slightly in his sleep. slipping out of bed, you pad across the room and start scanning the floor for your clothes. your chrome hearts jeans are crumpled by the foot of the bed, your shirt half-tangled in them.

you yank your jeans on, shimmying them up your hips as quietly as possible. but of course, nothing ever goes your way.

a low voice breaks through the silence. rough. groggy. annoyingly sexy.

“what are you doing?”

you freeze, hands still on your waistband. turning your head slowly, you meet his gaze—half-lidded, hazy, but focused entirely on you. his voice alone sends a shiver down your spine and you hate that.

“leaving,” you mutter.

without thinking, you toss your shirt at him like a distraction. he catches it with one hand, confused, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

he stares at it. then at you.

“seriously?” he asks, sitting up against the headboard, the blanket pooling low around his hips. his torso is all smooth skin and sharp lines, abs you definitely remember running your hands over last night. his arms flex as he leans back, muscles moving under skin like sin incarnate.

you snatch your shirt from his hand with a scoff. “don’t act surprised. you knew what this was.”

his jaw clenches. “i thought we had something.”

“we had tequila,” you snap, dragging your shirt over your head. “and a lapse in judgment.”

he raises a brow. “a lapse? princess, if that was a lapse, you need to make more mistakes like that.”

you groan. your head is spinning, not from the hangover, but from the idiocy.

“i have a job interview in less than two hours,” you bite, zipping up your jeans. “i don’t have time for this.”

he shrugs, eyes still glued to you like he owns the air you breathe. “then don’t go . . . stay.”

you pause mid-step, slowly turning to face him.

“what?” you deadpan.

he smirks, the cocky kind that makes your fists twitch. “i said, fuck the interview. stay with me instead.”

your jaw drops.

“are you insane?” you shout. “do you not get that some of us actually have lives? responsibilities? goals?”

“yeah,” he drawls, sliding out of bed, now shirtless and smug. “but your goal last night seemed to be getting me to fuck you senseless. and i’d say we nailed that.”

rage flares in your chest like a lit match. “you arrogant prick—!”

you grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at his head. he dodges it with a laugh.

then the lamp. he catches that one—barely.

“seriously?” he chuckles, clearly enjoying this.

“you’re infuriating!” you scream. “i don’t even know your fucking name!”

he tilts his head, still smirking. “it’s jeno.”

“i don’t care,” you hiss, stalking toward him with arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying not to glance at the way his abs flex with every move. “you could be the boss of the fucking world and i’d still walk out that door.”

“good to know,” he murmurs. “i’ll make sure your résumé gets lost.”

you blink. pause.

“what?”

he grins. “nothing.”

you shake your head furiously. “i’m not risking my future for a random hookup—no matter how good his dick game is.”

“thank you for the review,” he says smugly.

you let out a strangled sound, grab your purse, and stomp toward the door.

“hope you enjoyed the one-night experience,” you call out, voice laced with venom. “because next time, i’m taking your damn clothes with me.”

with one final glare, you swing the door open and disappear down the hall—heart racing, fists clenched, and cheeks burning for so many reasons.

֢

you don’t even remember the drive home—just the blur of city streets, your foot heavy on the gas, and your jaw clenched so tightly that it hurt.

once you’re inside your apartment, you toss your keys onto the counter and make a beeline for the bathroom, stripping off your clothes as you go. the hot water stings against your skin, but you welcome the burn. you scrub harder than necessary, trying to wash off the smell of expensive cologne and regret.

you should’ve left last night. you should’ve never gone with him in the first place.

but no.

you stayed.

and now you’re spiraling in the shower over a stranger with silver hair and a stupidly good jawline.

when you’re done, you wrap yourself in a towel and march straight to your closet. you pull out a baby pink miu miu set—cropped blazer, matching mini skirt. it makes you look polished and put-together even if you feel like screaming. you slip on a pair of white ralph lauren heels and swipe on a glowy makeup base.

with your birkin slung over your shoulder, you pull the door shut behind you—hard enough to rattle the frame—and make your way down the stairs, the sharp tap of your heels echoing in the empty hallway.

your car waits outside like it knows you’re running late. you slide into the driver’s seat, throw your bag onto the passenger side, and catch a glimpse of the time on your dash.

9:17.

your stomach knots.

you grip the steering wheel, jaw tight, and pull out of the lot. the roads feel slower than they should be—too many lights, too many people in your way. your fingers drum restlessly on the leather as buildings blur past the windows, none of them the one you’re racing toward.

every second that ticks by feels like it’s pressing into your spine.

you’re still buzzing from this morning. not from the rush, not from adrenaline—from him. from his voice, his hands, the smirk you can’t scrub from your memory no matter how hard you try.

you shake it off. try to focus.

and then you see it.

a glass giant in the middle of the city. sunlight reflects off the building like it’s showing off. the letters neo culture technology stretch bold and proud across the front—professional and untouchable.

your breath catches, just for a second.

you pull into a space near the entrance and kill the engine.

a moment passes.

sighing, you adjust your blazer and smooth down your skirt. you also take a second to check your reflection in the mirror and whisper a string of affirmations under your breath.

get it together. don’t let one random stranger ruin your entire morning.

you step out of the car, head high, heels clicking with purpose.

and you walk straight into chaos.

paparazzi crowd the sidewalk, shouting over each other, camera flashes bursting through the sunlight. at first you think they’re here for someone famous—and you’re right.

four girls walk past you, dressed like they belong on magazine covers. one of them flips her hair, completely unfazed by the crowd. another flashes a peace sign.

“giselle! giselle, over here!” a cameraman shouts.

you can’t help but laugh softly when she sticks her tongue out in response.

but before you can process anything else, the noise shifts. it gets louder.

“the boss is coming!” someone yells.

you glance up just in time to see a man in a perfectly tailored navy-suit, step out of a sleek black car.

it was as though the air had suddenly shifted and the camera’s seemed to click even louder.

even women on the sidewalk turned to stare.

you do too—if only for a second. but your gut tells you to look away.

so you do.

you keep your head high, stride toward the entrance, and walk in behind him, careful to keep your distance.

inside, the lobby is massive—high ceilings, marble floors, glass walls that stretch forever.

you head silently toward the front desk where a woman with a sharp bob and perfect eyeliner is typing something on a screen.

her name tag reads seulgi.

she looks up and greets you with a smile. “hi there! how can i help you today?”

you clear your throat and try to sound put-together, “i’m here for a job interview,”

“name?” she asks sweetly.

“y/n l/n.”

her fingers click quickly across the keyboard before she nods. “you’re in room 127, fifth floor. elevators are to the right.”

you thank her and turn to head toward the elevators.

as you get closer, the doors slide open to reveal a group of six guys. they’re chatting, laughing, and clearly in the middle of some inside joke. one of them—the one with a bag covered in keychains—grins at you as they pass.

“i like your green star thing,” you say with a small smile.

he lights up. “thanks!”

as they walk away, you hear a burst of laughter.

“yo! she called wichu a green star thing!”

your cheeks burn as the elevator doors close behind you. you bury your face in your hands for a second, then laugh it off.

it’s fine. nothing you can’t survive.

a soft ding announces the fifth floor, and you step out into a quiet hallway. your nerves come back full force. your fingers twitch as you walk, nails digging into your palm with every step.

you stop in front of a glass door labeled 127. behind it, you see a large conference room—long table, high-backed chairs, neutral walls.

you swallow hard and push the door open.

inside, a man looks up from his tablet. late twenties, sharp features, polite expression. you vaguely remember the name kun from your email thread, but at this point, you’re not sure if your brain can be trusted.

“good morning, l/n,” he says, gesturing to the opposite seat. “you can sit there.”

you nod and walk across the room, trying not to wobble in your heels.

the silence stretches just a second too long.

“the interview will begin as soon as the ceo arrives,” kun says, checking his watch. “he should be here in about—”

the sliding door opens with a whisper.

you don’t need to look up. your whole body knows who it is.

but you do anyway . . . and your stomach lurches.

jeno.

silver hair swept back. navy suit hugging his frame like it was made for him—which, honestly, it probably was.

abruptly, he meets your eyes—and smirks.

your jaw tightens.

“sorry i’m late,” he says smoothly, settling into the seat at the head of the table.

your mouth is dry and your hands feel uncontrollably numb.

your one-night stand is the ceo of neo culture technology. the same man who told you to skip your interview and stay in bed with him.

he doesn’t even look at you—at least, not directly. but when your eyes meet for the briefest second, there’s something there. recognition. amusement. heat.

he knows.

and he’s enjoying this.

you look back at the other guy—kun, was it?—and try not to panic.

“shall we begin?” he says, adjusting his blazer.

jeno gives you a look. “yes, let’s begin.”

֢

kun starts asking standard questions—your experience’s, your goals, your interest in the position. you try to focus, answering as best as you can without choking on the panic rising in your throat—but you can still feel jeno watching you.

finally, kun leans back in his chair and glances at jeno. “would you like to ask her anything, sir?”

jeno leans forward slightly, folding his hands together. “do you have any… reservations about joining our team?” he asks.

you hesitate. “i mean . . . i do have one concern.”

kun tilts his head. “which is?”

you glance quickly at jeno. he’s staring straight at you, unblinking.

“i just think…” you start carefully, “…sometimes it’s hard to stay… professional if you’ve had a previous interaction with someone on the team. especially one that’s… complicated.”

there’s a silence.

kun looks confused, but jeno’s lips twitch slightly.

“understood.” kun nods.

jeno clears his throat. “well, i think we can work around that. you’re clearly competent. and we’re severely short on interns right now.”

you open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, his gaze sharp.

“two-hundred dollars an hour,”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“two-hundred an hour, flexible schedule. full access to the executive suite. you’ll be assisting me directly.”

your mouth opens, but no words come out.

jeno leans back in his chair, folding his arms.

“you need the money,” he says quietly. “and we both know you’re more than qualified.”

he tilts his head, that smirk of his still evident on his face. “so, what’s it gonna be?”

you stare at him. at the man who slept with you, and now wants to hire you.

kun watches the two of you curiously, unaware of the firestorm happening beneath the surface.

you pause.

then, finally—reluctantly—you mutter, “fine.”

jeno smiles.

but it’s not a friendly smile.

“great,” he says coolly.

kun grimaces, rising from his seat. “welcome to the team, l/n.”

you plaster on a polite beam as he exits the room, leaving you two alone.

just you. and jeno.

the door slides shut.

and in the sudden silence, jeno speaks again—his voice lower, rougher, real.

“so… still think it was a mistake?”

you don’t answer.

you just grab your bag and stand.

but not before you catch the look on his face.

yippeee,,, some dividers~ apologies for some of my innactivity ,,,~! working on a new header 4 my blog ,,, and focusing on other stuff,,, ^_^; sorry if there isnt alot...,,,!!! im a bit tired and just wanted to get a post out,,, esp since i have alot of drafts,,,

warning: suggestive, not proofread

you were suprised when you barely step your foot to home, his voice lower than the usual since it was already midnight, singing you the happy birthday song.

"mark, you are so sweet baby thank you so much." your eyes teared up a little bit, you tried to keep calm as much as possible.

work was stressful enough today to tense up all of your muscles, your back hurted because of all that sitting in the same position for hours, your neck stiffned, even your nails felt like tons of weight to carry around.

"aww, my baby deserves the best, right?" somehow, he managed to keep the cake on one hand while the other wrapped around you.

"make a wish doll and blow the candles out."

i hope we stay together forever

OK BROTHER NOW GAG ME WITH THAT NECKLACE AND FUCK A BABY INTO ME DADDY PLEASE I'LL BE A GOOD GIRL I SWEAR

imagine him fucking you in doggy while the necklace is on you and he's holding it from behind as he pistons into you and the necklace starts choking you at one point.

And then he'll flip you around and start kissing your neck, sucking on it and leaving bruises. the metallic taste of the necklace that got into his mouth while devouring you wasn't to his liking so he clips it off with the hand behind your neck. The necklace slips down the valley of your tits while he's still painting your skin purple.

His kisses trails further down and he sucks on your tits, bucking his hips upward as his cock frictions against your clit. he's teasing you while also completely taking your essence in through his mouth.