LOVEBUG #14 @yvampyr - Tumblr Blog

Jun 27

𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐚 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 ᨳଓ 𝐘. 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐰𝐨𝐧

❀ ᯓ idol!jungwon x supermodel!reader

the premise ✧ amidst the suffocating heat of milan fashion week, maintaining a secret relationship with enhypen's yang jungwon is a dangerous game of stolen glances and strict thirty-foot boundaries. but when a senior global ambassador gets a little too comfortable in your personal space, jungwon's pristine, golden-boy facade completely shatters—leaving behind a fiercely possessive, territorial man determined to remind you exactly who you belong to the second the cameras turn off.

✧ contains ✧ MDNI, EXPLICIT SMUT, secret relationship, high-fashion/milan setting, extreme jealousy & intense possessiveness, public teasing vs private domination, heavy dirty talk, overstimulation, mirror play, sensory deprivation, size difference, sweet & domestic aftercare

wc 𖹭 10k 𖹭 oneshot

The Milanese sun wasn’t just shining; it was burning. Inside the Fondazione Prada courtyard, the afternoon humidity hung like a suffocating shroud, trapping the expensive scent of cedarwood, hot asphalt, and the rapid flashes of three hundred cameras. It was an ecosystem built entirely on the currency of visuals, and the air was so dense it felt almost illegal to breathe.

And then, you stepped onto the white concrete.

You didn't just walk the red carpet; you owned it. Framed against the stark backdrop, your appearance was a masterclass in weaponized softness. The pale, ribbed knit of your crop top looked deceptively innocent, yet it clung to your chest with a predatory tightness, the plunging V-neck resting right over the rapid beating of your pulse. But it was the deliberate expanse of sun-kissed skin below it—the taut stretch of your stomach meeting the dangerously low hem of your vintage denim—that made the press pit draw a sharp, synchronized breath. In your hand, the dark patent leather bag looked slick and wet against the pale canvas of your thighs.

Thirty feet away, standing behind the velvet VIP rope, Yang Jungwon was quietly losing his mind.

He was trapped in the heavy drape of an oversized black wool coat—an outfit meant for autumn, now acting as a personal furnace. Beneath the dark lapels, his ivory shirt was unbuttoned just enough to bare his collarbones to the heat. A single bead of sweat gathered in the hollow of his throat, trembling like a ticking second hand.

His hands were buried in his pockets, knuckles turning white against the lining. He wasn’t looking at the flashing cameras. He wasn’t listening to his manager speaking beside him.

He was staring at the exact inch where your pastel shirt ended, and your bare skin began.

You didn’t look back at him. That was the most devastating part of the choreography. As a top-tier model, your peripheral vision was flawless. You caught the dark silhouette of his coat at the edge of your sight. You felt the specific, heavy weight of his stare landing right on your waistline.

And instead of acknowledging him, you gave the paparazzi everything.

When the Italian photographers started screaming your name, begging you to turn left, you obeyed. But you deliberately angled your body a precise fifteen degrees toward the VIP section.

You didn't give them a standard, boring pose. Dropping your chin slightly, you let your eyelids fall into a lazy, heavy half-gaze. Fueled by the wicked heat of Milan, your free hand lifted.

For the fashion editors, it looked like an effortless, high-end editorial pose. But for the man standing thirty feet away, it was an absolute taunt.

Your thumb hooked casually into the front pocket of your jeans. The pad of your index finger rested directly against your own bare hipbone, pressing just hard enough to create a tiny, pale indentation under the blinding flashbulbs.

You kept your eyes glued to the cameras, parting your lips just a fraction, but the angle of your body was a private broadcast meant only for him.

This is what they get, the slight tilt of your pelvis whispered. This is what you can’t touch.

A devastatingly arrogant smirk played at the corner of your mouth as a French photographer shouted his approval. You knew the exact moment that pose burned itself permanently into Yang Jungwon’s mind.

Across the courtyard, a visible tremor ran through Jungwon’s sharp jawline. The bead of sweat finally broke, racing down his chest into the hidden dark of his shirt. He was forced to stand there and watch three hundred grown men point their lenses at the exact stretch of bare skin his own fingers were currently itching to bruise.

His pupils dilated until the dark marble of his irises was swallowed by pure black.

He didn’t look away. He leaned an inch further over the velvet rope, his chin dropping lower as a feral spike of adrenaline erased his polite idol facade. The pristine, golden-boy image cracked, leaving something dangerously raw and possessive in its wake.

Only when the floor manager called out to clear the carpet did you finally pivot to walk inside. And for one fleeting fraction of a second, right at the entrance, you let your gaze slide sideways.

It brushed past the velvet rope and locked onto his smoking, pitch-black eyes for a single, wicked beat.

Keep performing, his stare promised back through the roaring crowd, a smoldering threat. See what happens when these cameras turn off.

The heat hadn't died with the sun; it had merely shifted into the night.

The private garden of the Palazzo was a velvet-draped maze of amber candlelight, a pulsing bassline, and the clink of expensive crystal. The frantic energy of the afternoon had dissolved into something thick, slow, and thoroughly hedonistic.

You had stripped off the pastel top. In its place was Prada’s midnight archive—a floor-length, translucent slip of black silk-chiffon so impossibly weightless it felt like wearing a shadow. Held up by two microscopic straps, the dress left your entire back bare to the open air, dipping down dangerously low. When you moved, the high side slit parted like dark water, offering the room sweeping glimpses of bare skin.

You were standing by the marble balcony, lazily swirling the ice in your glass, when the air to your right suddenly grew heavier.

It was heralded by a scent: crushed juniper, clean linen, and Tom Ford’s Oud Wood.

"If you keep staring at the terrace like that, they’re going to bill you for structural damage."

The voice was a low, toasted baritone. Smooth and vibrating right at the frequency of the music.

You didn't startle. Turning slowly, you met his eyes.

Jung Jaehyun stood there, completely relaxed in a fine, short-sleeved black cashmere knit and dark trousers. In the sultry amber light, his sleepy, sculpted features looked devastating. He leaned his forearm against the marble railing right next to yours, his broad shoulder brushing the bare skin of your arm.

"I was actually calculating the fastest exit to my car," you replied, your voice dropping into that quiet, smoky register reserved for the hours after midnight. "Though I see you opted for the 'billionaire off-duty' aesthetic tonight."

Jaehyun let out a soft, gravelly chuckle. "When you spend the afternoon in heavy denim, a cashmere t-shirt feels like a blessing," he murmured. His dark, heavy-lidded gaze did a slow appraisal of your silhouette, tracking the sharp, exposed dip of your bare spine before hauling his eyes back to your lips. "Besides... it seems only one of us decided to wear an actual fire hazard to a party."

"It’s silk-chiffon, Jaehyun-ssi."

"It’s an act of war," he countered, his voice dropping into something dangerously amused. "I’m ninety percent sure if the breeze picks up, half of that dress will legally classify as an illusion."

A genuine, breathy laugh broke past your lips. You tilted your chin up. "Then I suggest you regulate your breathing. There are three Vogue editors sitting behind us."

"Let them write about it," he said softly.

He shifted his weight. His large hand came to rest flat on the cold stone, effectively trapping your hand right between his massive wrist and the marble. He didn't grab your fingers; he simply occupied the space so thoroughly that to pull your hand away, you'd have to slide your bare skin directly against his knuckles.

"You were lethal this afternoon, by the way," Jaehyun murmured, his tone shifting into a private whisper designed exclusively for the air between your faces. "The press pit looked like a disaster area after you walked off."

"They asked for a Prada girl," you said, your eyelashes casting delicate shadows over your cheekbones. "I merely obliged."

"Is that what it was?" Jaehyun’s thumb twitched against the marble, a single millimeter away from your pinky. His sleepy eyes gleamed with a sharp, knowing amusement. "Because from where I was standing... it looked an awful lot like highly targeted psychological torture."

Your breath hitched. Your heart did a sudden, traitorous thump against your ribs.

He knew.

Of course he knew. A man didn't sit at the top of the industry for years without developing a sixth sense for unspoken tension. He had seen the thumb in the pocket. He had seen the specific, cruel tilt of your hip.

Before you could reply, Jaehyun leaned down just a fraction closer. His warm breath brushed your ear, his voice intensely teasing.

"And speaking of collateral damage..." Jaehyun whispered, his dark eyes sliding right past your shoulder into the unlit perimeter of the VIP tables. "...I believe the ghost of your victim just walked into the garden."

Inside the dark velvet interior of VIP Booth 4, Yang Jungwon was failing spectacularly at pretending he didn't care.

He was sitting so immaculately straight he looked like a luxury statue. His heavy wool coat was folded over his knee; his feline eyes were locked onto the terrace with the unblinking intensity of a predator watching its prey.

Beside him, Sunghoon lazily popped an olive into his mouth, his gaze drifting between Jungwon’s rigid profile and the terrace with pure brotherly enjoyment.

"I'm just saying," Sunghoon mused to the ceiling, casually instigating, "from an editorial perspective? The height difference is crazy. Very cinematic."

Jungwon took a slow, agonizingly measured sip of his sparkling water. He didn’t snap. Instead, his dimples made a brief, painfully tight appearance.

"It’s an optical illusion caused by the lighting, Hyung," Jungwon reasoned, his voice hitting that smooth, polite register he used whenever he was lying through his teeth.

Across the table, Sunoo didn’t even look up from his phone. "Ah, the lighting. That must be why you’ve been staring so hard your water is boiling."

A dangerous twitch hit the muscle beneath Jungwon’s jaw. He poked his tongue hard into the inside of his cheek.

"I am observing the crowd," Jungwon corrected smoothly.

Jay took a slow sip of his whiskey, looking at Jungwon's white-knuckled grip on his folded coat with an amused chuckle. "He's too proud," Jay informed the table. "He’s dying inside, but his outfit is too expensive to let him walk over there and act like a jealous boyfriend."

"She just touched his forearm," Ni-ki reported cheerfully from the corner.

Total system freeze.

Jungwon didn’t blink. For three seconds, his pupils dilated until the dark marble of his irises turned completely black.

With silent grace, he set his glass down. He stood up, draping the heavy coat over his arm with the fluid arrogance of a runway veteran.

"Where are you going, Jungwon-ah?" Jay asked, his eyes crinkling with victorious delight.

Jungwon fixed his glossy, perfectly rehearsed smile back onto his face. "To remind Jaehyun-sunbaenim that black cashmere retains too much heat for a crowded garden. It’s a cardiovascular hazard."

"A cardiovascular hazard," Jake wheezed into the stone. "God bless this group."

The black silk of your dress hadn’t even finished settling around your ankles when the temperature on the terrace dropped to freezing zero.

Standing three feet away, his coat draped immaculately over his forearm, Yang Jungwon looked like the patron saint of high-society etiquette. Beneath his fine navy polo, his chest rose and fell with a slow, controlled rhythm.

Your breath stalled. He actually came. The man who avoided public interactions like a plague had just walked straight into the open lights.

He didn’t look at the exposed dip of your back. He delivered a pristine, textbook bow to the man standing beside you.

"Annyeonghaseyo, Jaehyun-sunbaenim," Jungwon’s voice floated crystal-clear over the bassline. It was his polished leader voice—painfully bright, exquisitely courteous, but carrying an undercurrent of absolute static.

Jaehyun didn't lift his hand from the marble railing. He merely turned his chin, his dark eyes sliding over the younger man with the lazy amusement of a king watching a challenger.

"Jungwon-ssi," Jaehyun rumbled smoothly. "Enjoying the evening?"

"I am, Sunbaenim," Jungwon replied instantly. He straightened his spine, and a sharp dimple bloomed in his left cheek as he tilted his head. "However, I noticed the airflow here is quite bad. Seeing your dense cashmere, I was genuinely concerned about your thermal regulation."

Oh, he was a lethal little liar.

Jaehyun let out a low, incredibly rich sound of genuine laughter. He didn't look offended; he looked thoroughly entertained. When Jaehyun looked back at Jungwon, his own signature dimple carved into his right cheek—an effortless display of senior dominance.

"I appreciate the diligence, Jungwon-ssi," Jaehyun tasted the sheer audacity of the younger man's words. His dark eyes shifted deliberately onto the bare expanse of your back before lifting back to Jungwon. "Though I assure you, my circulation is fine. The heat in this corner is entirely... generated."

Hit. A massive, smoldering strike delivered straight to the younger man's pride.

You glanced at Jungwon, catching the exact fraction of a second his polite facade glitched.

The clean angle of his jaw flexed so hard the bone turned white, and his tongue poked sharply against the inside of his cheek—a localized warning sign of boiling possessiveness.

"Is that so?" Jungwon countered, his voice sweet and terrifyingly calm. "That’s a relief. Because from across the room, I wanted to ensure our fellow global ambassador wasn't depleting her energy before tomorrow's shoot."

For the first time all night, Jungwon’s unblinking gaze left Jaehyun and dropped straight onto yours.

It wasn't a standard colleague's check-in. His feline eyes were a smoking pit of dark matter. It was a stare so intense, so stripped of his usual protocol, that it felt like a heavy rope wrapping around your wrists.

"You must be exhausted, Sunbaenim," Jungwon addressed you directly, using the formal honorific with a sickeningly sweet irony that sent a shiver down your spine. "Standing up for so long in a backless piece. It’s quite taxing on the posture, isn't it?"

Jaehyun leaned his hip back against the marble, crossing his massive arms over his chest, watching the two of you trap each other in the crossfire.

"She was holding up remarkably well, Jungwon-ssi," Jaehyun murmured lazily. "Though I suppose ENHYPEN's leadership prefers to oversee their investments firsthand."

"We pride ourselves on total accountability," Jungwon smiled back—radiating the cold heat of a boy who would happily buy the building just to bolt the doors shut.

Jaehyun didn’t offer a verbal comeback. The toasted baritone chuckle rumbled in his chest one last time. Slowly, he turned his massive torso toward you.

He didn’t ask for permission. His large hand lifted into the narrow space between your bodies. The pad of his index finger caught the microscopic silk halter strap resting against your bare shoulder blade.

With an agonizing, blatantly proprietary slowness, his thumb smoothed the fragile ribbon down against your skin—a tactile, public claim conducted right in the center of the garden.

"I’ll have my car at your lobby at ten tomorrow," Jaehyun murmured, his lips a breath away from your ear, his voice low enough for Jungwon to intercept every syllable. "Don't oversleep. I hate having my espresso alone."

He gave the black silk one final pat. Then, offering Jungwon a lazy half-nod, Jaehyun melted away into the party.

The silence that fell over the balcony was heavier than a collapsed star.

The pristine software inside Yang Jungwon didn’t just glitch; it underwent a total instinctual override.

His dimples vanished completely. In the span of a single heartbeat, Jungwon abandoned his distance and stepped directly into your personal space.

He didn't stand in front of you. He stepped right behind your shoulder.

Because your dress was completely backless, the sheer heat of his chest hit your naked spine before his clothes even brushed you. You froze against the marble, your breath trapping as the intoxicating scent of his cologne and pure, unadulterated fury wrapped around your senses.

Then, his hand lifted.

His calloused thumb found the exact silk strap resting against your shoulder blade—the precise spot Jaehyun had just touched.

Jungwon slid his thumb deliberately underneath the ribbon, pressing the rough pad of his digit flat and hard against your bare flesh. He pressed down with a heavy, circular friction—literally rubbing the phantom sensation of another man's touch out of your pores until a hot, red mark bloomed on your skin.

A sharp gasp broke past your lips. Your spine arched backward automatically, bringing your lower back into solid, burning contact with the hard plane of his stomach.

"Ten o'clock," Jungwon repeated directly against your ear, his voice a low, vibrating rasp that felt like a hand wrapping around your throat. "He actually thinks he’s getting a second cup."

His hand didn't leave your back. Sliding down the bare curve of your spine, his long fingers splayed wide across your lower back. His thumb hooked over the low hem of the silk at your hipbone, tightening until he hauled your pelvis firmly back against him.

"Suite 410. You have ten minutes to get to the elevators," Jungwon commanded into your skin, his tone stripped of everything polite. "Go upstairs. Take this dress off. Because if I get to that room and find you still wrapped in this silk... I’m going to tear it off your back."

He didn't wait for an answer. Releasing your hip with one last, agonizingly heavy press of his thumb, Yang Jungwon stepped backward into the dark—leaving your bare spine throbbing with the physical brand of his hand.

The silence inside the master bathroom of Suite 410 was aggressive.

Standing under the stark glare of the mirror, you gripped the edges of the marble sink so hard your knuckles turned white.

You had obeyed him.

The great, untouchable runway darling had sprinted through the unlit corridors, swiped her keycard, and shed her skin. The priceless Prada dress lay crumpled on the floor tiles like a discarded thought. In its place, clinging to your skin, was a two-piece sleep set of paper-thin white silk. The delicate camisole offered absolutely no defense; without your undergarments, the hardened peaks of your chest pressed blatantly against the liquid fabric.

You turned your back to the mirror and looked over your shoulder.

There it was.

Sitting right at the curve of your shoulder blade was a perfect, dark-red crescent. The physical indentation of his thumb. It was still radiating heat—a literal brand left behind to ensure your nervous system remembered who you belonged to.

You hadn't locked the front door.

When you crossed the suite's threshold ten minutes ago, your hand had hovered over the deadbolt. Pride demanded you lock it. But some dark, traitorous instinct wanted him to walk through it.

Click.

The heavy, distinct sound of the main door unlocking echoed from the foyer.

He hadn't taken fifteen minutes. He had taken twelve.

You stepped out of the bathroom into the dim, indigo light of the bedroom. The heavy oak door of the foyer sealed shut with the sound of a vault.

"You're three minutes early—"

He stood at the threshold of the bedroom, his heavy coat already tossed onto the bench. He was just in the dark navy polo now, the top three buttons torn open to lay his sweat-flushed collarbones bare. But his face completely paralyzed you.

He didn't look bratty or polite. The dark marble of his irises had been swallowed entirely by a smoking, unblinking black eclipse.

Slowly, his broad shoulders dropped. With a blatant sense of menace, Jungwon rolled his head slowly to the left. You actually heard the sharp pop of his neck in the dead quiet of the room. His eyes snapped onto your waistline like a steel trap.

He started walking.

His polished boots dragged through the thick carpet with the terrifying certainty of a predator. His dark eyes systematically consumed the white silk. He took in the sharp silhouette of your bared nipples pressing against the fabric; he tracked the slip of the silk down to your bare ankles.

When he reached you, the heavy density of his presence hit your senses like a solid wall. You instinctively took half a step backward, until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of the mattress.

He stepped directly into your breathing space, his broad chest stopping half a millimeter away from the thin silk, his height casting a massive shadow over your parted lips.

"Excited?" Jungwon’s voice dropped into a gravelly rasp that vibrated down your ribs. He let out a dark scoff, his hot breath hitting your throat. "Standing there in white silk after spending the afternoon letting three hundred men photograph your waist, and the midnight letting Jung Jaehyun play with your straps."

His hands shot out from the dark.

He gripped the fragile silk of your camisole right at your ribs. His knuckles pressed hard into your warm flesh as he deliberately bunched the fabric in his fists, hauling your torso hard against the immovable, burning plane of his chest.

"Smile again," Jungwon whispered against your trembling lips. "Do that soft, pretty thing with your eyes you did for him downstairs. Let me see how long it takes me to rip this off you."

A fine, uncontrollable tremor started in your chest, vibrating the thin silk against his knuckles.

Jungwon felt it.

His grip stalled. Instead of pulling the silk over your head, his crooked dimple carved into his cheek—a look of such devastating supremacy it felt like a hand wrapping around your windpipe.

"Keep shaking," Jungwon rasped against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your neck just hard enough to send a violent jolt down to your toes. "I want him to see your face tomorrow and wonder why you look so tired. I want him to know you spent the entire night being dismantled by a junior."

The word junior hit the air like a dropped match.

It was meant to be his arrogant checkmate. But as his hot breath fanned your ear, your unyielding pride finally snapped back.

You didn't shrink against the mattress.

Slowly, fighting the frantic thudding of your pulse, your hands lifted. Your fingertips bypassed his collarbones, sliding up the hot column of his throat, slipping past his jaw to bury themselves deep into the dark hair at the base of his skull.

You didn't push him away; you hooked your fingers into his hair and forcefully pulled his head backward, forcing his dilated pupils to look down at you.

"You talk too much, Yang Jungwon," you breathed out.

Your voice wasn’t a scream; it was a low, ruined whisper that cut through the quiet room.

A microscopic twitch hit his eyelid. The dimple froze.

"For someone so obsessed with efficiency..." you murmured, your thumb tracing his jawbone, applying just enough pressure for him to feel your nail. "...you’ve spent three minutes talking, and zero minutes taking this off me. So tell me, Leader... are you going to keep talking, or are you actually going to do your job?"

Lethal.

The dimple snapped out of existence. The feline software crashed completely, leaving behind something totally unshielded and primitive.

He took a sharp intake of oxygen, his jaw locking so hard the bone looked ready to pierce his skin.

His hands disengaged from your ribs, sliding rapidly around your waist to splay wide across your lower back. His thumbs hooked over the fragile hem of your silk shorts, and with one fluid step forward, his thigh parted your knees.

He maintained complete surface contact as he bore you down onto the mattress. The sheer contrast of the ice-cold hotel sheets against your back, combined with the boiling furnace of his chest pressing you down, dragged a sharp gasp out of your throat.

He was bracketed entirely over you, his broad shoulders casting your face into shadow.

Reaching down between your bodies, his long fingers caught the hem of your camisole. With a slowness that bordered on torture, Jungwon dragged the liquid silk upward. The cool air of the suite hit your bare stomach, followed instantly by the rough, scorching pad of his palm trailing directly behind the rising fabric. He pushed the silk up until it bunched securely beneath the heavy swell of your chest.

He looked down at your bared torso, his breathing entirely ragged.

"I wasn't just talking," Jungwon rasped, his voice a vibrating growl against your lips as his thumb forcefully snapped the fragile white ribbon down over your branded shoulder. "But since you're so impatient..."

He bypassed your mouth entirely.

His entire center of gravity shifted downward. Sliding his broad torso over your thighs, his face dropped until his warm brow hovered an inch above your waistline.

His long thumbs found the waistband of your sleep shorts. With an agonizing, slow drag against your skin, Jungwon pulled the elastic down just two inches. Just enough to expose that soft, fiercely private stretch of your lower abdomen.

His head lowered.

The micro-second his parted lips pressed flat against your bare skin, an involuntary, fractured sound tore out of your throat. It wasn’t a frantic kiss; it was a damp, scorching brand.

He kissed the jumping flutter of your diaphragm, his broad palms anchoring your hips immaculately flat to the mattress. His mouth trailed with maddening thoroughness over your stomach, climbing higher until his hot breath hit your collarbones. He buried his face directly into the sensitive crook of your throat.

For ten agonizing seconds, he simply kept his face buried there, drinking the frantic thudding of your pulse. But as his nose caught the faint trace of Jaehyun's cologne from the terrace, his golden-boy restraint shattered.

"No," Jungwon rasped against your wet skin. His teeth scraped harshly against the tendon of your neck, making your back bow off the bed, a desperate gasp fracturing past your lips. "He doesn't get to touch this."

His open mouth dragged upward to the bare peak of your shoulder, his teeth catching the exact spot his thumb had bruised red upstairs, pressing down hard enough to make your vision blur.

"Tell your team to look at this neck tomorrow," Jungwon commanded into your skin, his voice dropping to a feral register as his thumb dug mercilessly into your hip. "This is my territory. It belongs to me."

He lifted his head, his dark pupils locking onto your wide eyes as his hand slid up to completely cage your jaw.

"And the next time he asks for your morning schedule..." his thumb brutally parted your trembling lower lip, his face hovering a millimeter from yours, "...you tell him I kept you far too exhausted to drink espresso."

For three excruciating seconds, the room hung in absolute tension.

You looked up into the smoldering eclipse of his pupils and made the conscious decision to give him exactly what he wanted.

You didn’t pull your chin away. You leaned into it.

Your right hand, still tangled in his hair, tightened violently. With an aggressive arch of your spine that forced your naked chest against his polo, you hauled his face down.

"Then make me forget his name," you breathed out.

The voice was a scraped-raw, entirely undone plea. You dropped the industry protocol. You looked him dead in the eye and dismantled the hierarchy.

"Show me, Jungwon-ah."

His real name hit his brain like dynamite.

A sharp, completely unhinged sound tore out of his throat. His thumb slipped inside your mouth, pressing flat against your tongue as his free hand shot up, tangling so aggressively into your hair that he locked your skull to the mattress.

"Say it again," Jungwon growled right against your lips, dropping his weight entirely to pin your hips down. "Say my name like that again while I tear this off you."

When his mouth crashed onto yours, it was a dark, wet, devouring collision. He kissed you with an agonizing rhythm, his teeth catching your lower lip, hauling a muffled moan out of your throat that he instantly swallowed.

His hand caught the fragile strap resting right above his red thumbprint on your shoulder. He closed his fist and violently yanked downward.

The sharp, beautiful sound of the silk tearing echoed through the quiet suite.

As the ruined fabric gave way, laying the warm swell of your breasts completely bare to the dark, the visual paralyzed him for a second. Jungwon hovered over you, his chest heaving, his dark eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of your ribs with starved reverence.

And then, his mouth came down.

His lips dropped like a heavy weight directly onto the sensitive peak of your breast. The shocking contrast of his hot, wet mouth closing over your sensitized flesh dragged a sharp jolt straight through your spine. His teeth grazed the peak—deliberate and testing—before his tongue soothed the sting with a slow, heavy lap that made your fingers dig violently into his shoulders.

"Pay attention," Jungwon rasped against your flesh.

His left hand began its systematic exploration. His calloused palm dragged flat over your stomach, hooking into the waistband of your shorts and pushing them down until your lower body was laid completely open to the chilled air.

He gripped the soft curve of your hip, his hand sliding underneath your knee to forcefully haul your leg up over his narrow waist, locking your pelvis immaculately flush against his.

There wasn't a single millimeter of distance left.

When his calloused thumb pressed a heavy, scorching upward line over your lower stomach, your composure finally snapped.

"Jungwon—ugh, please—" a small, fragile whimper broke in your throat.

The sound hit the air, and the mattress caught fire.

Jungwon’s frame violently locked. His head snapped up, his breathing a harsh rattle.

"Don't say please," he growled.

His left hand shot up, catching both of your wrists and slamming them hard into the pillows above your head, his long fingers caging your forearms in a vice.

"You don't get to make a sound like that and ask for mercy," Jungwon rasped right against your mouth. His bared face was a mask of dark obsession. "Do it again. Make that exact sound again while I put myself inside you."

He laid siege to your mouth. His tongue parted your teeth with brute force, sweeping the warm interior, swallowing every breathless whimper you tried to make.

His right hand dropped like a plumb line.

Past the dip of your navel, until his broad palm cupped the heavy, slick heat of your pussy. The boiling temperature of his flesh against that fiercely private skin drew a high, fractured sound out of you.

He didn't plunge immediately. He splayed his fingers wide across your pelvis, pressing down with such heavy weight that your hips were physically welded to the mattress. You couldn't squirm away. You were pinned completely open.

Slowly, his thumb slid downward.

It caught the swollen apex. He pressed flat, heavy, and hard against the nerves, dragging his thumb upward with an agonizing friction that sent a blinding spike of electricity up your spine. Your back arched violently.

His middle and index fingers finally dipped South.

They slid past your wet threshold with an agonizingly slow, dragging pressure. You gasped into his mouth, your internal muscles instinctively clamping down around the intrusion. But he just pushed deeper, until his knuckles disappeared into your boiling heat.

He curled his fingers upward.

A sharp, animalistic shriek tore out of your lungs. He hit the deepest, most sensitized part of you. He didn't give your nervous system a second to recover, driving his digits in a heavy, piston-like upward stroke over and over again. The wet, unmistakable sound of your body accommodating his hand echoed through the room.

While his fingers hooked deep inside you, his heavy thumb remained locked over your clitoris, grinding down with a punishing, circular friction.

"Jungwon—ugh, God—please, Jungwon—" your ruined whimpers thrashed against the pillows. You were drowning in the sensation, your pelvis involuntarily jerking upward to meet the brutal tempo of his hand.

The two submerged digits inside you suddenly stopped moving. They locked deep inside your heat like a solid wedge, keeping your internal muscles permanently stretched.

That left his thumb with an absolute monopoly over the external nerve.

He didn't use a light touch. He pressed down with an agonizingly heavy, slow grind. The rough leather of his thumbpad rolled back and forth with an unyielding friction that crossed straight into sensory overload.

A high shriek tore past your lips, your spine snapping into a rigid arch.

"Jungwon—fuck, please—it hurts, it’s too much—" your voice disintegrated into sobbing whimpers. You were crying now, genuine, feverish tears streaming down your temples. Your manicured nails clawed frantically at his fist pinning your wrists.

"Finish it, ugh, God, I can't take it—" you begged, your untouchable runway hubris completely burning to ash.

Jungwon leaned down, his sweat-sheened face hovering a mere millimeter above your ruined features. "See what my hand is doing," he rasped, his jaw flexing. "See what this does to you."

His thumb pressed a fraction deeper, holding the punishing weight perfectly still at the absolute precipice of your release. You let out a choked sob.

"Beg me to let you drop," he commanded into your mouth. "Say 'Please let me come, Jungwon-ah.' Say it!"

Your pride died its final, beautiful death.

"Please—ugh, God, please let me come, Jungwon-ah!" you sobbed blindly into his throat.

The exact micro-second the surrender left your lips, Jungwon’s thumb executed a rapid, devouring vibration while his fingers violently thrust upward.

A massive wave of pure white static swallowed your brain as the climax ripped through your torso. Jungwon caught your final, broken wail with his open mouth, devouring your tears as he held you through the violent aftershocks.

Hovering directly over your trembling frame, his crooked dimple slowly carved its way back into his cheek—sickeningly smug.

Slowly, maintaining a deliberate drag against your twitching walls, Jungwon pulled his fingers out.

The sound was heavy in the quiet room. You let out a weak exhale, trying to flutter your eyes shut, but he didn't let you hide. He lifted his hand into the narrow space between your faces, catching the amber light to let you look at it.

His long fingers were entirely drenched, glistening with the undeniable proof of your ruin.

"Beautiful," Jungwon murmured, his voice replaced by a soft, teasing drawl. He tilted his head to the side. "You completely flooded my hand. And here I thought Prada ambassadors kept their composure."

A hot flush of humiliation hit your cheeks. You let out a tiny gasp, but his hand tightened on your wrists, anchoring you in place.

His glistening hand descended. The wet pads of his fingers pressed directly against your panting lower lip.

"Open," he commanded softly.

The second your teeth parted, Jungwon pushed both drenched digits past your lips, lodging them flat against your tongue. The taste of your own heavy heat hit your tastebuds instantly.

A muffled whimper got trapped in your throat.

"Good girl," Jungwon purred, his free thumb splaying across your jawline as he slowly pumped his fingers in and out of your wet mouth. "Clean it off for me. Make my hand spotless."

When he finally released your wrists, he shifted his weight back. In one violent, sweeping upward tear, he dragged the dark polo over his head and cast it into the shadows.

The visual hit your wide eyes like a flashbang.

Stripped of the dark armor, the indigo light poured over the broad, sculpted expanse of his torso. A fine sheen of sweat coated his chest, heaving with ragged intakes of oxygen. You stared at the hard line of his abs, your sanity completely snapping. Your hand lifted, your slick-coated fingertips reaching out to leave a long, glossy streak across his stomach.

"Jungwon..." your voice broke, a desperate sob escaping your lips as your hips arched up, seeking him blindly. "Please... I need it."

The heavy metallic clink of his belt buckle disengaging echoed through the suite.

He pushed his trousers down, his broad palms immediately catching both of your thighs and hauling them wide over his narrow hips. He aligned himself perfectly against you.

But he didn't thrust.

Instead, with a slowness that crossed into psychological warfare, Jungwon let the broad, scorching head of his dick rest against your drenched entrance. He applied zero forward momentum. Just the heavy, solid pressure grazing your threshold.

A frustrated wail broke past your teeth, your pelvis attempting to buck upward, but his hands clamped down over your hipbones, pinning you immaculately still.

"Ah-ah. Who gave you permission to move?" Jungwon purred. He leaned down, propping his weight on his forearms. "You need what, Sunbaenim? Use your vocabulary. Tell me what you're begging for."

"Put your dick in—fuck, Jungwon please, put it inside me—" you sobbed, thrashing your head.

Jungwon let out a wicked scoff, executing a microscopic, teasing grind against your entrance that made your toes curl.

"So impatient," Jungwon rasped, his voice a filthy vibration. "I haven't even pushed, and your pussy is already trying to pull me in. You're completely drenched for me."

He pressed down one single centimeter. Just enough to breach the slick ring.

The stretch dragged an arching shriek out of your lungs. He froze right there. Half-in, half-out.

"Watch," Jungwon commanded, his thumb sliding up to force your chin down so your wide eyes had to witness the point of entry. "Look at how much you have to stretch just to take the head. Tell me it's too big for you. Say 'You're stretching me out.'"

Your world-class hubris ground itself into fine ash.

You looked up from the point of entry, locking your wet retinas straight into the smoking eclipse of his pupils.

"Put it in," you sobbed out. The voice was a ruined, filthy plea. "Fuck, Jungwon-ah... stretch me out. Put all of your dick inside me. Please... break me."

The word break acted as the final system override.

The smug dimple vanished. A raw, subterranean roar of pure male possession tore out of him.

He didn't give you a second to brace. Releasing your chin, his palms slammed down onto your hipbones, and with one brutal, devastating drive of his hips—he buried the entire, scorching length of himself inside you to the absolute hilt.

The impact was catastrophic.

The heavy, resounding slap of his thighs crashing against your hips knocked the oxygen out of your lungs. Your spine bowed so violently off the sheets that only your shoulders remained grounded, a high, animalistic shriek of his name ripping past your vocal cords.

It filled you completely, an agonizing, breathtaking density that stretched your interior to its limit.

He pulled back almost to the tip, the friction dragging a sobbing whimper out of your throat, before he drove back in with a merciless, bone-rattling velocity.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The suite was reduced entirely to the frantic, wet sound of flesh colliding at blinding frequency. Every single downward drive was delivered with such unyielding force that your body was shunted backward, your fingers digging desperately into the sweat-soaked muscle of his shoulders.

"Jungwon—fuck, God! Jungwon, please—too deep—ahhh!"

You were moaning like a madwoman, a continuous cascade of unhinged pleasure. Your pussy was actively clenching, frantically milking the scorching length of him with every stroke, driving him feral.

His hands abandoned your hips, sliding underneath your thighs to forcefully hook your legs high over his broad shoulders, opening you completely. His dark hair was drenched, falling wildly over his eyes as he slammed into you with relentless hunger.

"Taking all of it—fuck, you feel so tight—whose pussy is this?!" he growled, a ragged, hyper-ventilating rasp. "WHOSE IS INSIDE YOU?!"

"Yours! Ugh, God, yours, Jungwon-ah! Only yours!" you screamed blindly, your vision whiting out.

The absolute honesty of your scream broke his final restraint. Leaning down to crush his chest against yours, Jungwon caught your open mouth in a devouring collision—swallowing your loudest shrieks whole as his hips locked into a frantic, blinding rhythm, driving both of your bodies straight over the edge.

But he wasn't finished.

Instead of collapsing, his iron grip suddenly shifted away from your thighs. His broad palms slid up to wrap around your waistline, his fingers digging into your soft flesh.

"Turn over," Jungwon rasped.

In one fluid sweep, he dismantled your forward-facing surrender. He hauled you over until your bare knees hit the mattress and your chest was pressed flat against the pillows. You were completely inverted. Upended. Your hips elevated high into the chilled air, your face buried sideways into the linen.

Total sensory deprivation.

The suite fell into a heavy quiet. You couldn't see him. Every microscopic sound sent a blinding spike of panic down your spine. Your muscles were frantically jumping, bracing for the blunt drive of his hips.

Nothing came.

"Jungwon...?" you whispered blindly into the pillow, your voice trembling. "What are you doing? Please—"

"Shh," the low purr drifted down from above your shoulder.

His long index finger traced the bare curve of your spine, sliding slow and heavy all the way down into the deep cleft where your thighs parted, dragging a single line of your own wetness up your back. You shuddered violently.

You heard the soft thud of his knees shifting as his center of gravity dropped completely.

The exact micro-second the wet, impossibly soft flat of his tongue struck the epicenter of your biology from behind—

GASP.

A fractured shriek tore out of your lungs. Because of the inverted angle, the devouring upward lap of his tongue hit your clitoris with double the intensity. Your spine bowed downward, your hips bucking backward in a frantic attempt to escape the over-stimulation, but his massive palms shot out—gripping your thighs and locking your pelvis immaculately flush against his mouth.

He ate you alive.

It was a dark, wet, starved consumption. He buried his face entirely into your slick heat, his tongue executing a rapid flick that caught the raw nerve again and again. Every time your hips tried to thrash away, his thumbs dug brutally into your thighs, forcing your pussy to completely flood his mouth.

"Jungwon—ugh, God, Jungwon-ah!" you sobbed blindly into the silk, your nails clawing at the headboard. "Stop—please, I can't see you, fuck, please!"

He spoke directly against your drenched flesh, his teeth lightly grazing the sensitive skin. "You don't need to see me," Jungwon rasped, his voice physically rattling your pubic bone. "You just need to feel what I'm doing to you. Tell me who's tasting your pussy."

"You are—ugh, God, you are, Jungwon-ah!" you wailed out as his tongue executed a brutal, devouring swirl.

"Beg for it properly," he growled. "Don't tell me to stop. Beg me to keep going. Scream it so loud the hallway hears you!"

"Please—ugh, God, fuck, please keep going! Please don't stop!" you sobbed, your entire body locking into a rigid paralysis as the blinding wave of the climax ripped through your torso.

The micro-second your internal walls clamped down, violently shuddering, Jungwon’s mouth clamped down over the slick apex—devouring your climax whole, drinking every drop of your heat as he let you sob his name into the dark until your arms gave out beneath you.

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. He grabbed your waist, hauled your shaking body up from the mattress, and steered you toward the master bathroom. He was radiating a heat so intense your skin felt scorched against his palms.

He pressed your chest against the ice-cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. The freezing surface sent a violent shiver down your spine. Your palms pressed flat against the vanity, sliding down the glass as you tried to steady yourself.

His left hand wound brutally through your hair, hauling your head backward to force your chin up.

"Open your eyes," he hissed.

The woman in the glass looked like a stranger. Your hair was a tangled disaster, your lips swollen and parted, your eyes wide and weeping, locked onto the sight of Jungwon’s dark, predatory face looming over your shoulder.

"This is what you become when the lights are off," he growled into your ear, his breath hot and smelling of pure desire. "You're not the untouchable darling anymore. You belong to me."

His right hand left your hip, sliding upward over your stomach until he reached your breast. He grabbed the heavy weight of you with his damp palm, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

The reflection was devastating. You watched his hand violently kneading the pale swell of your breast. His thumb hooked onto the peak, rolling the nipple with a punishing friction that sent white-hot lightning bolts directly into your core.

A broken keening sound ripped out of your throat.

"You have no idea how beautiful you are like this," Jungwon purred against your ear. He pinched the nipple, twisting it with a sharp flick of his wrist.

You shrieked, your face contorting in beautiful ruin. He reached down, his fingers abandoning your breasts to violently lock onto your hips, and without a second of hesitation—he shoved himself forward.

Deep.

The impact knocked the breath out of you. You watched in the mirror as his hips crashed into yours, the sensation of his thick length slamming into your core from behind dragging a jagged scream out of your lungs.

"Keep your eyes on the mirror," Jungwon gritted out, his jaw locked as he hammered into you with a feral, unrelenting pace.

Every time he thrust, your shoulders jerked upward, your body helplessly folding against the cold glass. You were a wreck—sobbing, gasping, your reflection showing every jagged inch of your surrender while Jungwon stared at you, his face a mask of cold, unblinking triumph.

His hands gripped your hips so hard the imprints of his fingers were left on your skin, his rhythm quickening into a blinding blur that made the glass vibrate. "Watch me ruin you until you can't remember your own name."

Your reflection was a masterpiece of total surrender—the glass fogging up with the frantic steam of your combined heat.

"Say it," he gritted out, his hips slamming into you with a final, devastating velocity that made your head snap back against his shoulder. "Tell the mirror whose dick is inside you before I make you shatter!"

"I'M YOURS! UGH, GOD, JUNGWON-AH, I'M YOURS!" you wailed into the glass, your hands clawing desperately at the mirror, as he finally lost his last shred of control and drove his release into the very center of your soul.

The heavy, pulsating aftershocks of your climax were still actively rippling through your body, your forehead resting against the cool, fogged-up glass of the vanity mirror as you desperately tried to remember how to breathe.

You were entirely shattered. Your legs were trembling so violently they could barely hold your weight, kept upright only by the brutal, unyielding grip of Jungwon’s hands on your hips.

He hadn't pulled out.

Even after delivering his own release deep into your core, the sheer, heavy thickness of his dick remained buried inside you to the hilt. The heat radiating from his sweat-slicked chest against your bare back was a molten furnace.

You let out a shaky, pathetic little exhale, your eyelids fluttering open to stare blindly into the mirror.

Through the hazy steam of your combined body heat, your eyes locked onto the reflection standing behind you.

Yang Jungwon didn’t look exhausted. He didn't look like a boy who had just emptied himself. His dark hair was a messy, damp halo around his face, and as your tear-blurred retinas met his pitch-black eyes in the glass, his expression shifted.

The corner of his mouth ticked upward.

It wasn’t a gentle smile. It was a slow, sickeningly smug, incredibly wicked smirk. That signature, devastating dimple carved its way into his left cheek—a feature adored by millions of fans for its boyish sweetness. But right now, looking at it in the dim, indigo-lit bathroom, there was absolutely nothing sweet about it. It was pure, unadulterated evil. It was the face of a twenty-two-year-old brat who knew he held absolute, godlike power over you.

"Why do you look like you're finished, Sunbaenim?" Jungwon purred.

His voice was a dark, filthy rasp that sent a fresh shiver straight down your spine. He tilted his head, his dark eyes sparkling with malicious amusement in the mirror.

"Did you think a twenty-two-year-old was done after one round?"

Your breath hitched. Oh, God.

Before your brain could even process the threat, Jungwon’s hips snapped forward. He didn't pull all the way back; he executed a short, brutal, agonizingly deep grind, forcing the broad head of his dick to scrape directly against your most sensitive internal wall.

A sharp, broken squeak slipped past your lips, your hips involuntarily jerking backward to take him deeper.

"Look at you," Jungwon laughed—a dark, breathy sound that vibrated against the back of your neck. "Your pussy is still twitching around my dick. You're squeezing me so fucking tight."

He started to move again.

It wasn't the frantic, blinding pace from the bed. It was a slow, agonizing, deliberate roll of his hips. He pulled out just enough to let the cold air kiss your swollen entrance, before sliding the entire, thick length back inside you with a wet, heavy slosh that echoed obscenely off the marble tiles.

"Jungwon—ahhh, wait, please—" you whimpered, your fingers slipping helplessly against the fogged glass. You were too sensitive. The over-stimulation was instant, making your knees buckle.

But Jungwon wasn't interested in mercy. He was in a purely teasing, deeply sadistic mood.

His left hand remained locked on your hip like a vice, but his right hand abandoned your waist. You watched in the mirror as his large, calloused hand slid around to the front of your stomach. The visual was incredibly debasing—his dark, rough skin trailing down the pale, sweat-slicked canvas of your stomach, moving lower and lower until his fingers disappeared between your thighs.

The second his hand met the drenched, swollen heat of your pussy, you let out a godless moan.

He didn't just touch you. He slipped two fingers into the slick wetness framing his own dick, feeling how tightly your entrance was stretched around him, before his thumb deliberately traveled upward.

He found the swollen, hyper-sensitized little pearl of your clitoris.

"Look at the mirror," Jungwon commanded, his voice dropping into a register so filthy it made your stomach drop. "Open your eyes and look at what I'm doing to you."

You forced your heavy eyes to focus on the glass. The sight of your own completely ruined face, paired with the visual of his thumb pressing directly against your clit while his dick slid in and out of you from behind, snapped your sanity completely in half.

He started to rub.

It wasn't gentle. He used a firm, rapid, agonizingly wet friction, pressing the calloused pad of his thumb against the raw nerve while he simultaneously buried his hips deep inside you.

"FUCK!" you shrieked, your head snapping back to rest perfectly in the crook of his neck. Your spine arched so violently your stomach pushed forward against his working hand.

"That's it," Jungwon growled, his breathing turning ragged as he picked up his pace, slamming into you while his thumb relentlessly worked your clit. "Look at the great Prada muse. Look at how beautifully you take my dick. You look like a completely used little slut for me right now, don't you?"

The dirty talk hit you like a physical strike. Your world-class elegance was entirely gone, replaced by a desperate, sobbing mess of pure instinct.

"Yes—ugh, God, yes!" you wailed, your internal walls convulsing wildly around his length.

"Say it," he demanded, his smirk turning into a feral snarl as he pinched the hood of your clitoris, sending a blinding bolt of white-hot electricity straight to your brain. He thrust deeper, bottoming out so hard you felt the impact in your ribs. "Tell me what you are. Tell me whose dick is completely stretching out your pussy right now!"

"Yours! It's your dick, Jungwon-ah!" you sobbed out, your face a mask of absolute ecstasy in the mirror. "I'm yours—fuck, I'm your slut—"

"Good girl," he praised, his voice a filthy, vibrating growl right against your ear. "Look at how much you love it. Look at how your pussy eats my dick every time I pull back. You're so fucking wet for me it's dripping down my fingers."

His thumb sped up, executing a rapid, merciless vibration directly on the raw nerve, perfectly syncing with the brutal, slapping rhythm of his hips. It was total sensory overload. The feeling of being stretched so fully from behind while your clit was being aggressively tortured in the front pushed your brain into a state of pure, absolute delirium.

"Jungwon—I can't—I'm going to—ugh, fuck, I'm coming! I'm coming!" you screamed blindly at the mirror, your nails clawing desperately at his forearm.

"Come for my dick then!" Jungwon roared back, his boyish facade entirely dead, replaced by a completely unhinged apex predator.

He slammed into you with a blinding, savage velocity, his thumb pressing down with crushing force on your clit right as you tipped over the edge. You shattered. A massive, world-ending climax ripped through your entire body, your screams echoing off the cold marble as your pussy clamped down around his dick with violent, milking spasms.

Jungwon let out a guttural, scraped-raw groan, his eyes rolling back as he drove his hips forward one final, devastating time, completely losing himself inside your absolute ruin.

Forty-five minutes later, the marble bathroom had been thoroughly cleansed of its sins. The steaming cascade of the shower had washed away the primal instincts and the feral madness that had completely possessed the two of you, leaving behind a heavy, remarkably warm, and intensely domestic quiet.

The godless, merciless predator from the vanity mirror was entirely gone.

You were sitting up against the headboard of the freshly made bed, dressed in a simple, soft champagne-silk nightgown that draped loosely over your exhausted frame. The air in the suite no longer smelled of sweat, heavy friction, and Tom Ford’s Oud Wood; instead, it was replaced by the soft, comforting scent of clean linen and expensive hotel body wash.

The bathroom door clicked open. Jungwon padded out into the dim bedroom, completely shirtless and wearing nothing but a pair of dark, low-slung cotton boxers. His damp, dark hair fell softly over his forehead in fluffy, unstyled waves. Looking at the broad, immaculately sculpted expanse of his bare chest now, he didn't look like the terrifying, hyper-calculating Leader of ENHYPEN, and he definitely didn't look like the man who had just systematically dismantled your sanity.

He looked like a devastatingly exhausted, twenty-two-year-old boy who was about to be terribly, terribly clingy.

Jungwon didn't just climb onto the mattress. He crawled straight toward you, bypassed the duvet entirely, and dropped his entire, dead weight directly onto your lap. Wrapping his muscular arms tightly around your waist, he pressed his bare, warm chest flush against yours and buried his damp face straight into the crook of your neck. He clung to you like a giant, oversized koala that violently refused to be detached from its tree.

A soft, genuine laugh bubbled up from your chest. You let your body sink back into the pillows, your hands automatically lifting to thread your fingers gently through his damp hair.

"You're heavy, Yang Jungwon," you teased softly.

"Don't care," he mumbled into your skin, his bare shoulders shifting as he tightened his octopus-grip around your waist. He nuzzled his nose stubbornly against your jawline with a soft huff. "I hate everything right now."

You paused the soothing motion of your fingers, tilting your chin down to look at the top of his head. "Hate what, hm?"

Jungwon let out a long, dramatic sigh. He turned his face just enough to rest his chin directly on your chest, looking up at you with wide, round, incredibly sulky cat eyes. His dimple made an appearance, but it wasn't the wicked, arrogant slash from the bathroom. It was the soft, devastatingly sweet dimple of a boy who was legitimately pouting.

"I hate this secret," he complained, his voice dropping into a soft, whining register. "I hate that we have to act like we don't know each other outside."

You smiled fondly, gently brushing a damp strand of hair out of his eyes. "You were the one who lectured the manager about maintaining a strict thirty-foot radius this afternoon, remember?"

"That was before I had to stand behind a velvet rope and watch you show off your stomach to three hundred Italian photographers," he grumbled, his eyebrows furrowing adorably. "And that was before Jaehyun-sunbaenim decided he had the right to stand in your breathing space and touch your dress. If the world knew you were mine, no man would even dare to breathe near your shoulder. I swear."

Your heart did a strange, incredibly warm flutter against your ribs. The sheer contrast of it all—the transition from the dominant, territorial king who commanded you in the dark, to this sulking, shirtless, jealous puppy resting on your lap—made you entirely, hopelessly weak for him.

"He was just being polite, Jungwon-ah," you murmured, trying to soothe him.

"He was flirting," Jungwon argued instantly, entirely unconvinced. He released his grip on your waist with one hand just to point an accusing finger at the thin silk strap of your nightgown. "Everyone in this industry knows you're the untouchable Prada darling. But because we're a secret, these guys actually think they have a chance. They think you're single. I hate seeing the way they look at you. I really, really hate it."

His dark eyes stared up at you with such pure, unshielded honesty that your remaining model ego completely melted into the sheets. It wasn't just blind, irrational jealousy; it was the sheer weight of his love for you, a fierce protective instinct crashing headfirst into the reality of your careers.

You brought both of your hands down, warmly cupping his slightly flushed cheeks and stroking his sharp cheekbones with your thumbs.

"You're acting like a giant baby right now," you whispered, a teasing, affectionate smile playing on your lips.

"I am your baby," he replied instantly, possessing absolutely zero shame. He shifted his weight up just enough to press a soft peck to your lips, then your nose, and finally your forehead in rapid succession. "Your baby. Your man. Your leader. All of it."

A bright, breathy laugh escaped you. You wrapped your arms around his bare neck, pulling his face back down until your noses bumped gently. His breathing was warm and incredibly grounding.

"Listen to me," you whispered, holding his adoring gaze. "They can photograph me all they want. They can see me on the covers of Vogue, on billboards, and on the runways. But when the after-party ends and the cameras finally turn off..." You paused, tracing his jawline with infinite tenderness. "...who gets to see me wearing a simple silk nightgown? Who do I let into my hotel suite to... do all those things to me?"

A brilliant, incredibly shy blush crept up Jungwon’s neck and dusted his cheeks—a physical reaction that wildly contradicted the absolute filth he had whispered to you just an hour ago.

"Me," he squeaked softly, a wide, genuine smile finally breaking across his face, carving both of his sweet dimples incredibly deep into his cheeks.

"Exactly. Only you, Yang Jungwon," you nodded, pressing a slow, sweet, and deeply affectionate kiss to his lips. There was no frantic hunger this time, just the absolute, undeniable safety of belonging to each other. "So let them look. Because at the end of the day, I come home to you."

Jungwon closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss as if your words were the only oxygen left in the room. When he pulled back, his eyes curved into two perfect, happy crescents.

He immediately buried his face back into the warm crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply as he tangled his bare legs with yours, locking you down in a full-body embrace. The heat radiating from his bare skin against your silk nightgown was the most comforting sensation in the world.

"Good," he mumbled, his voice returning to that adorable, satisfied purr. "Tomorrow morning at the Prada breakfast, I'm lending you my jacket. Let all the European photographers figure out exactly where the smell of Oud Wood on your clothes came from."

"Jungwon, oh my God—don't cause a PR nightmare," you laughed, lightly slapping his broad, bare back, even as you hugged him just as tightly.

"Don't care," he mumbled sleepily against your collarbone, his eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion finally caught up to him. "Just cuddle me until morning. And don't move too far."

A/N: Hi everyone! 🤍 To be completely honest, I am SO nervous right now HAHA 😭 This is my very first time writing smut, so I really stepped out of my comfort zone for this one! I just couldn't get the idea of a ridiculously jealous, high-tension Prada!Jungwon out of my head, and I really wanted to capture that perfect duality: the merciless, dominant man behind closed doors, and the whiny, super clingy boyfriend right after.

Please go easy on me! I hope I managed to deliver the heavy tension and the Milan Fashion Week vibe properly. Let me know your thoughts in the comments or tags—reading your feedback seriously means the world to me and calms my nerves down a lot! 🥺

yvampyr

there’s only so many ways you can write a smut scene but this was very creative 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

ive been struggling to read all year so i always try to rb the ones i do finish reading 🫂 this was supa yummy and some parts with such specific phrases made me laugh ++++ bonus points given for the smut being so steamy and hot. thank u for the meal 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

#holy shit this was genuinely amazing #i love wonnie 🖤🫠 they’re so cute #staff picks!

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